A Journey of Black and Red #100-133
Author: Mecanimus
Date: 2021-03-31T18:00:00+00:00

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 message-spell capable caster 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 small fry in the grand scheme of things. Worst come 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—Parada! Parada!—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 estuvo!”

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 soldareda?”

“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.

“I 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 freeze me to my very soul.

His left hand is buried deep in the soldadera’s ribcage. 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 claw 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 titter 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. My mind knows 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 decorate their skins 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 standing 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 here and there 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 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.

105. Trapped

Tonight, my sire sits on a new throne in the stone workshop as I come in from my bedroom, servant in tow. The unceasing noise of his servants clearing rubble must have bothered him, because he gestures and the sounds… stop.

I do not let myself react. Casters have long realized that sound is carried by air, and interfering with said air will silence even the most dire of thunderstorms. I was led to understand that such an undertaking requires fine-tuned control. I knew that he could call on immense power, and it also appears that he knows how to use a scalpel just as well as a hammer.

“You may rise, Ariane.”

Nirari’s voice is as smooth as caramel. It belongs in a boudoir somewhere, drinking tea and whispering amusing witticisms. I am not surprised that my foolish mortal self would fall for him.

I stand back up from my respectful bow while Violet remains prostrate. I was thankfully given a hastily made white linen dress of strange make which leaves my arms and shoulders free while wrapping around my neck. I look like an exotic dancer posing as a Roman Vestal.

Ah, I should not be so judgmental. They worked in a hurry and I would rather wear this than the grisly remains of my previous bloodstained dress. I did not realize yesterday that I was one thin thread away from revealing entirely too much breast. A dreadful proposal in the present company.

“I did not expect to see you so soon. Fate has a way to set us on a collision course when we least expect it. Don’t you agree, little warrior princess?”

“So it would seem,” I politely reply.

“I considered visiting you and having you join our cause. It is a grand one, a task that has been in the works for a millennium. The work of an epoch soon to be completed.”

“Why did you not, then?”

“Because our foe tends to go after my servants and tools as soon as I turn my back,” he explains with obvious annoyance, “Only my financial assets remain untouched and only because she, too, relies on the Rosenthal to manage her wealth.”

“She?” I ask immediately as would be expected from someone who does not know of Semiramis.

I am in luck, because my sire is so absorbed in his own speech that the deception is taken as an invitation to continue.

“My mother. The greatest witch who ever lived and an extraordinary woman. She made me what I am. She made all of us.”

He returns his attention to me.

“You remind me of her sometimes. It takes a certain mentality to never give up, to constantly search for ways to succeed regardless of the circumstances. Of course, she was more… hungry. The world then had even less sympathy for weakness than it does now.”

He pauses as he mulls over some distant memory. As long as he speaks about himself, he does not ask me too many questions and that suits me just fine. I dare not think of what would happen if he knew that I had already met the one of whom he speaks.

“I think I loved her, once.”

“What changed?” I ask.

That was a mistake.

Master… no, my sire deploys his aura and he crushes me like an insect. I am slammed into the ground as if by a wall of cold and disdain. It does not even feel like aggression. He is just disciplining a wayward child.

The world turns blank under the tremendous pressure. My mind slows. My eyes take in a small spot of ground on the distance, every bump, every shift in color of the grey stone, simply because I cannot turn my head. A strange sense of pressure forces my jaws shut. Nothing exists, only this small expanse of rock, Violet’s heartbeats and the biting cold.

As soon as it came, the punishment stops. The abyssal pressure disappears, and I wonder in disbelief why the room has not frozen over.

“A daring line of questioning, Ariane.”

I nod because I do not trust my voice at the moment.

“What should matter to you is why I oppose her. You must have guessed.”

I know she wants to be a goddess and he wants to eat her before she succeeds, yet the knowledge is trite because it only scratches the surface. Their animosity stems from an irrepressible gap between them, the same that exists between him and I.

We are too alike.

I do not know how much of my drive is his and how much I inherited from my human self. I believe that I would have been happy making a family, creating successful companies and leading projects until the day I died without having to take on the world. My lack of arrogance was most likely wisdom. I knew the scope of what I could conquer with the limited time I had. Those considerations are gone now along with my mortality. We Devourers are not creatures of power, but of conquest. There is always another bigger prey.

“She is your last great rival.”

“Correct,” the ancient king answers, pleased, “only she still stands in the way of complete dominion. When I consume her, I will become a living god and achieve true immortality. No coalition, no Order, not even the endless tides of mankind’s armies will be an obstacle. Even the sun’s deadly embrace will fail to destroy me.”

His gaze grows distant. His expression turns thoughtful and what terrifies me is that the dream he speaks of comes with no animation, no gesture nor smile. He recites the words like an automaton, as if they had lost any meaning to him and he was just going through the motion. This terrifies me more than his aura ever could.

“Imagine a world at peace, guided by a benevolent hand towards a unified goal rather than mired in petty squabbles as it is now. So many resources are wasted on meaningless pursuits while we could achieve so much as a unified people under my benevolent rule. Mortals, mages, vampires, all working towards common purposes for the benefit of all, for who better than one who has lived so long can envision so much? Who has a better long-term goal than he who will live to see it? It will be our golden age and you, too, can be a part of it.”

“You will not be satisfied,” I almost spit, caution thrown to the winds.

My sire shows no anger despite my challenge.

“Of course not, and neither will the mortals. We are designed to expand and fill the world with our progeny, yes? Luckily, I have a way to circumvent this difficulty. Are you perhaps familiar with the latest advances in magic?”

The information clicks in my mind.

“The other realms.”

“Quite so. If there is one, then there are more. It will take some time to find them. I do not mind. Time is what I have.”

Conquest without an end. Endless wars. Unending subjugations. Until he tickles something too powerful and our entire civilization is wiped out from an uncaring universe.

That is not the worst. The worst is that even if Nashoba and Amaretta’s prophecies prove correct and I manage to stop both him and Semiramis…

What will prevent me from doing the same?

As he said, we are alike.

My silence affords me a minute grin from the seated king.

I do not lower my guard. He may be pleasant now, yet the steel below the surface is ever present and I would be a fool to think him in high spirits.

“Enough banter. I have not yet decided what to do with you, little princess. Until I do, you will make yourself useful. I have a task for you.”

I perk up. Thinking that far in the future is a waste of time when I am not even sure I will survive the night. Yet another problem for future Ariane, may luck favor her.

“Did you notice a corridor with a large pool of dried blood on your way here?” he asks.

“I have.”

Even in this relatively cold temperature, the stain has started flaking and giving off a heavy, rancid stench.

“You will clear it to its end then return to me. You do not have my permission to feed until you do so.”

“I understand.”

Frustration wells up until I force myself to calm down. I expended a lot of vitality putting myself back together. I should be fine for another day or two.

Maybe.

I remember that restraining the blood supply is a common, if risky, method of control. Constant Thirst is not conducive to deep thought and planning.

Nirari dismisses me with a casual gesture and I leave from the door behind me, Violet in tow. We arrive at the four-way corridor. The stone workshop is at our back, my ‘bedroom’ and the way out to my left and my destination forward. Tan men and women attack stones with bars and pickaxes, sometimes casting a hesitant glance in my direction as if unsure of the proper protocol. When I do not react, they go back to their labor with renewed energy.

The corridor beckons.

I stop at the edge of the pool of blood and turn to Violet by my back. I know that she communicates via hand gestures, but I do not know their code. We will have to work the old-fashioned way.

“I will ask you a few questions. Nod for yes, shake your head for no. Do you understand?”

The servant fidgets nervously, face suddenly paler. She quickly relents when my expression turns cold.

“Did someone die here?”

Nod.

“Was that person one of your numbers?”

Nod.

“Did you see how it happened?”

Shake.

“Do you know what killed him?”

Hesitant nod. I need to be more specific.

“Was he killed by a trap?”

Nod.

“Was this trap magical in nature?”

Frantic nod. I suspected that it might be the case given the obvious camouflage, but I was not quite certain. I still cannot pierce the veil of illusion marking whatever the corridor truly contains, a sign of professional work as most mirages unravel once their presence is made obvious.

Hmm.

I suppose that time has finally come for some real-life application of my studies.

“Violet, do you know of the tool room? The one with smithing equipment?”

Nod.

“I want you to get me a rune engraver, a long bar, and a few plates, if you find any.”

Her charcoal eyes gaze at me for a full second before she answers and in them I see something I had not expected: relief. I remember that she was tasked to help me. Perhaps she expected me to use her as live bait? That would be wasteful and slovenly.

I consider her a bit more as her retreating back turns into the corridor. She and her companions have very angular traits from a race I do not recognize. They are not cattle. Does this mean that my sire has a domain somewhere from whence he pulled them, or did he ‘borrow’ a contingent from a Dvor lord? My understanding is that both he and his mother spend a significant amount of energy and resources destroying each other’s fiefs. It might just be that some have started to survive. I fear the implication.

I turn back to the empty alley and pick a few pebbles that I throw forward. After five or so, I have thoroughly explored the boundaries of the illusion. The false image of normalcy starts six or seven paces away, just after the limit of the bloodstain. It curves outward slightly due to the enchantments being placed on the wall. This will make my attempt easier.

Violet returns in short order with everything I asked, including a half-torn iron plate covered in fuzzy red rust.

“Block your ears,” I tell the woman. She obeys without hesitation.

I grit my teeth and apply the carver against the plate. Soon, the abominable shriek of tortured metal covers even the clangs of the excavation. I finish tracing and inspect the results.

Loth taught me how to disrupt spells when we worked on his shield breaker spheres. My construct is quite complex and shows the Dvergur runes for disrupt, reveal, and unmake. The reveal sigil takes the central position for an illusion-specific countermeasure.

I prick my right wrist and trace the drawing with black blood, muttering in the sharp, gravelly tongue of my old friend. They soon shine blue and eager.

I fling the thing until it lands at the point I identified as a nexus.

At first nothing happens. Then the air shimmers and the color of the stones beneath shift from marble-white to obsidian-black. Rather quickly, a crackling circle of white bolts form in the air. It expands outward like a popping bubble.

The spell breaks with a clear chime and the spectacle before us changes entirely. Gone are the naked rock and sterile appearance. Complex glyph patterns now adorn the walls, centered around metal panes set in the very stone. Above, the strange yellow lines that provide illumination radiate with renewed ardor.

A few glyphs fizzle where the threshold used to be and reveal behind them a long metal pane with a horizontal slit.

Tacky.

“It appears that you were wrong, Violet, this is a mechanical trap,” I conclude.

The enticing scent of stark terror soon teases my nostril and I turn when I hear a light thump. The devoted servant is on her knees, forehead stuck to the ground.

“Rise. There will be no punishment this time.”

She springs back up like a puppet on strings, face filled with gratitude. I have no time for this. I need to escape quickly, or they will find ways to control me through pact or coercion. She is an enemy, albeit not a serious one, and I do not want to spend the effort to create bonds. She and her companions are clearly indoctrinated like the most dedicated Eneru subjects. I will treat her decently since I would not benefit from gratuitous cruelty, but I will kill her if she gets in the way.

Sensing my disdain, the woman lowers her head and I return my attention to the now unveiled corridor to come to an immediate and definitive conclusion: whoever did this was completely bonkers. Mad as a hare. And dangerous! It must have taken a hundred hours of work for a competent mage to design, create and install this deathtrap.

Even Jonathan would be impressed by the depths of paranoia involved in this project. I feel like whistling in appreciation.

Unfortunately, I will have to solve this Gordian knot and, who knows, perhaps I can escape that way and leave a few traps active?

I immediately start to inspect the defenses and I am once more grateful for the inhuman sight which allows me to decipher the defenses without getting closer. The first trap, the one that already claimed a victim, is a mechanism springing blades horizontally from both walls with a magical trigger based on perceived movement. I think it has a way to rearm itself too. There are also pressure-activated fire spells on the ground in case someone gets cute and decides to crawl across. The disarming mechanism on those is trapped too.

And this is just the first layer of defenses. There are two others, plus some contraption where the corridor angles connected to the metal pane of the blade trap. Oh well, at least this is interesting.

“You might want to move back and to the side, Violet.”

I turn to see her point to the side with some confusion.

“Move back and to the side,” I order. This time, she obeys without hesitation. Note to self, my sire does not cultivate the art of ‘insistent suggestions’ among his followers.

“Spiderwalk.”

I cast the spell in English as I need very little power. Nirari did not react to me using Likaean during the fight. Perhaps he did not recognize the tongue? In any case, I would rather not force my luck.

I crawl up the wall. If I were in my armor I could simply walk on the surface. Sadly, doing so in that dress would mean that my eyes would be covered instead of my unmentionables.

Once I am above one of the panels, I use the rune engraver to disarm the trap preventing access to the inner mechanism, then repeat the same thing on the other side. After I am done, I drop and take care of the fire spell on the ground.

Now for the mechanical one.

I see no obvious gap in the pane. Sometimes, when there is no point of ingress, you just have to make one.

I lean against the wall and raise my gauntlet.

“Stone breaker.”

This spell is specifically designed to break hard material in a small surface. I added it to my repertoire for out of reach metal locks and other annoying things I want to demolish from afar. It shares the ‘disrupt’ glyph with the reveal spell which is convenient since there are only so many runes that can fit in a gauntlet frame. The other three are opposition, shatter, and diamond.

A narrow purple ray emerges from my hand to hit the distant panel. The contraption rings like a broken bell.

A hidden panel in the far wall slides open and a giant quarrel that would belong on a Roman artillery piece emerges from its recess.

A ballista trap! How quaint!

The tip expands with a dreadful ‘clang’ mid flight. Instead of a standard head, the projectile has four blades in a cross pattern.

Fishing for volume, are we?

I grab the thing with ease as it passes by, only moving forward a bit on account of its tremendous weight. Whoever designed the bolt sacrificed power in the hope of achieving surprise. A human with excellent reflexes could dodge this.

I twirl the spear-like object and think. Only the mechanical trap is left. Now how would I go about getting rid of that one? I could use the bolt and the metal bar I requested to block the blade after triggering it, thus preventing it from rearming.

Or I could go the ‘Ariane’ way.

That sounds like more fun and would let me inspect the thing for future references. I dig my talons at the edge between stone and metal, plant my feet on the wall, channel as much Natalis essence as I can and pull.

The groan of forcefully deformed metal reverberates in the corridor and the sounds of excavation stop again. I grunt with the effort of pulling the panel open. It resists for a while, then something gives in and the whole thing comes loose.

I place the trap on the ground to inspect it, keeping well clear of the path of the blade.

The contraption is quite long. The cutting edge runs its length, kept in a state of tension by a lock triggered by a spell. A system of pulleys with a powerful enchantment reloads the trap after each use. I destroy the locking mechanism and the blade snaps out. Enchanted too! Someone was not taking any chances.

I dispose of the second trap the same way and realize that I am, in fact, having fun. Disarming traps is like solving a puzzle with the added stake of something unpleasant happening if you make a mistake. How exciting! The only thing missing is a little snack at the end.

I may be more Thirsty than I originally thought.

Oh well.

I turn to Violet who has been staring at me with some measure of amazement for a while now. She looks tasty. She is also forbidden, so I tear one of the blades off and go to the next trap.

This one is designed to let off a massive amount of electricity into its victim, and is coupled with a pit with some spikes at the bottom, including one made out of silver. This one is a one time only, so I trigger the electrical part from afar, then walk closer and jam a metal bar in the opening mechanism of the pit.

I think that someone who would only see the mechanical trap could consider crawling under, which would have triggered the flame spell, or rush through with some very powerful armor or a werewolf body and the second trap would have done them in no matter how sturdy they are. Well planned indeed.

The third one is interesting as well. I find small openings which could throw darts. I also notice not one, but two decoys meant to have someone come closer with an unknown trigger hidden behind a layer of chipped paint. I try to activate it with movement, by throwing a spell through it and even by dropping my metal bar in the middle of the construct.

Nothing.

On a hunch, I draw a decoy rune of blood on a stone and toss it. The corridor flashes at the presence of flesh and a strange whistle fills the air.

“Hmm?”

A disgusting, green cloud of acidic liquid is spat from the small holes, leaving behind an acrid stench.

The strange liquid eats into the stone.

Ah, if someone had managed to pass the first two hurdles through careful analysis, a close inspection of the decoys may have turned them to meaty soup. Charming. Whoever designed this is delightfully twisted. I want to take them by the collar and throw them through their own creation to see what remains at the end. After I had a little bite, of course.

Thirsty.

Casting takes comparatively little energy. The damage dealt by Malakim’s claws must have been more severe than I first assumed. Oh well. I can feed soon. I hope.

After another thorough inspection, I finally manage to reach the end of the corridor where the hidden crossbow remains concealed and look around the corner to find…

Another corridor filled with traps with a heavy bronze door at its end.

And, as my nose had informed me, a body in the distance. This one has remained here long enough to be ripe; it reeks atrociously. Violet, who had foolishly followed me without waiting for my go-ahead, pinches her nose under the horrible assault.

This man apparently triggered the first layer of trap if the metal bar skewering his chest is any indication. He wears a full robe in purple with a golden filigree, which either makes him a cultist or a clownish villain in some traveling circus. It is hard to tell, sometimes.

In any case, I am not working under these conditions. I quickly inscribe a few runes of air and flow on yet another stone, add a pinch of blood and voila, an improvised fan. The air progressively clears as I inspect this new intellectual delicacy. Alas, this one will be much easier to deal with.

It is designed to trap people in.

Our dear departed friend fell prey to it. Come to think of it, his body is past the first layer, therefore he must have been running for his life for inertia to carry his corpse that far. Truly, cultist cultisti lupus.

I find no hidden crossbow facing that side of the corridor and start working, well aware of Violet’s regular breath as she watches me work. Her heartbeat thumps in my ears and her scent soon dispels memories of the earlier fetid smell.

I do not have to report immediately. I could explore a bit, and, if I find an exit, drain the little spying waif dry before running away. Nashoba’s earrings still adorn my ears and I have ways to hide my tracks.

Tempting.

In fact, I believe I shall do just that.

With renewed energy, I methodically dismantle the first layer of traps consisting of some overlapping fire spells and reach the corpse. He holds no focus that I can see, but I am not wading through corpse juice to find out more. I engrave a drying spell on the ground next to him to suck in water away. Bodies smell much less when they are mummified.

Setting it on fire would be a stupid idea in an enclosed space.

Finally I arrive at the last layer, giddy with excitement. I want to eat Violet and leave, but I must wait. I need to be sure.

It is only a matter of seconds to trigger the two remaining traps as those do not have a way to rearm themselves, then I am at the heavy brass door.

I bend forward to inspect it for one last trap on this side and am sent flying backwards.

Ah?

My back and head smash against the wall and I struggle against the hand now clamped on my throat. The pressure increases and I stop struggling.

My vision clears to reveal the bloodshot eyes of Malakim. His black hair falls over his face and he sneers with hatred.

“Going somewhere, sister?”

He wears a dark leather armor with an assortment of weapons and phials secured around. His throat is covered by a grey scarf.

“Merely checking the door for anomalies,” I lie.

Malakim sighs, then turns to Violet.

“Fuck off.”

She runs away as fast as her legs can carry her. Once she is gone, Melakim returns his full attention to me.

“Is that so? I find it hard to believe. Or perhaps this is my natural distrust at work. Has it occurred to you that I may want you to die?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” I croak, trying to relax his grip. My struggles are in vain. He is as unyielding as a steel wall.

“Because I do. You, the latecomer. You, who were turned after our dear sire already found his pawn and you who grew up without his glacial claws on your neck.”

“I assure you that it was not a sinecure.”

Malakim releases me and I jump on my feet then away from him. He turns to match me with the door at his back.

Escape plans cancelled. For now.

“Ah, yes,” the man says in a mocking voice, “the terrible burden of freedom. I am aware of the difficulties of being thrown out into the wilds as a fledgling, believe me. Just keep in mind that I would crawl through a mile of silvery glass for the privilege of suffering what you suffered.”

“You are aiming your anger at the wrong person.”

“You do not understand, ‘princess’, I do not have to aim my anger at anyone, there is more than enough to go around. But since I am on a leash, I will drop you now and we will play nice, like the civilized assholes we pretend to be. And any time you look at me I want you to remember that I hate you, that I do not need a reason to hate you, and that I will gladly end your life.”

“If this is about the spell…”

His eyes narrow with suspicion.

“What spell?”

He… he forgot?!

“The one I used to mangle your arm.”

It actually takes a few seconds for his face to show any hint of recollection, whereupon he proceeds to laugh. The sound would be warm if it were not so bitter.

He keeps at it as if I had told a good jest.

“That is cute. You think my arm matters. You brainless, ignorant, stupid bitch. I am looking forward to your escape attempt. I hope you make it fun.”

“I do not—” I start defending myself, but he interrupts me by choking me again.

“Or! Or, you could stay here and become our sire’s plaything. He no longer has much of a sexual appetite, but I am sure that you could resurrect it. He does enjoy breaking new toys.”

I need to get out.

“So, try and leave and make it smart enough, daring enough that he gives you to me. I never had the opportunity to share everything he taught and now I have a sister. Please. The days are dull.”

“Let me go.”

“But of course!” he replies and he finally releases my throat. I massage it out of habit as he picks up the trap blade I had liberated and snaps it in half.

That stupid strength.

Still, I am curious, and the Thirst removes many of my inhibitions and survival mechanisms.

“Can’t you regain your freedom, at all?”

Instead of exploding, Malakim merely tilts his head in consideration.

“You do not know. Of course, you do not know, ‘princess’. There was no one to ever tell you otherwise. There is no regaining my freedom. I was a slave of my village, then I was a slave of the Holy League’s army, then I was a slave of our dear sire. There has not been a time when I was free and, until I die, there won’t.”

“Why? How can you be so sure?” I object. No matter how binding the oath, vampires can break it if they are willing to pay the price. I would die rather than do some things and this is an outcome I have already accepted. Why can he not just greet the dawn?

In answer, Malakim removes his scarf and I get a better look at his collar. I first got a glimpse of it during our fight but I had, at the time, been focused on more pressing matters. More specifically, killing him. Now, I am left to wonder how distracted I had been.

The fabric is of a strange material like the skin of a snake, with pearlescent scales interspersed here and there. The yellow light above does not reflect on it. Instead, it shines from inside with an otherworldly light as delicate as it is precious. I feel a sense of wonder taking it in, as well as one, more subdued, of horror when I see the outlines of several runes. Such potential, such ethereal grace and Nirari turned it into shackles in one sacrilegious decision.

I am appalled.

“There are some who die without ever being free, and I have been alive longer than most,” Malakim says, this time almost subdued.

I cannot hide the disbelief in my voice.

“Is this…”

“Yes. Dragon skin. He made a collar out of dragon skin. I cannot disobey, I cannot kill myself. Freedom will only come after the great task is done. This, he promised.”

“When he catches his mother?”

“Indeed. We are looking for her, ‘princess’, and when we find her, he will take her essence as his own. Then there will be no stopping him anymore. Death will no longer have sway. And when it is done, I can finally…. let go. It is only a matter of time before the rat runs out of places to hide.”

I would not be so sure.

I peer at the dragon skin. I want to touch it, course my finger over the mesmerizing fabric but I cannot. Malakim notices my gaze for which I am grateful. I would not want him to try and see if I already knew of Semiramis from before. That would lead to unpleasant circumstances.

“Greedy, are we? Sorry little sister, this one is already in use and I was told that there are no more dragons to be had.”

He then takes a few steps back and bows politely, extending a hand to the bronze gate.

“I tire of this discussion and the air here is quite rank. Should we have a look around and see if there is anyone to talk to? Remember, no feeding.”

I hiss. How DARE HE. I NEED IT.

The man raises both hands in a disarming gesture.

“He said I could feed after clearing the corridor!”

“Absolutely not, my Thirsty little sister. He said you would not have his leave until then. You still need his approval.”

I want to object to the semantics, but I realize that to get justice I would need to return to Nirari. To go further with Malakim means that, perhaps, there will be an opportunity to escape. There will be none if I return.

I could DRAIN THE FOE’S PUPPET first and then go with Mala— No! No. He is playing with me. I must take the risk. I must escape as soon as I can. The longer I stay and the easier it will be for them to bind me. So, I fake my best smile and move forward.

The bronze gate is not even locked. I still inspect it for anomalies and find a few reinforcement runes as well as a spent alarm rune. With nothing dangerous around, I step into a large square room.

The first thing I notice is that the smell is not much better, and the stench this time comes from a bisected mana hound. The massive purple beast was cleaved in two by some metal blade of sorts, both sides and the innards spread over a paved floor. Two doors lead away. The first one is to my left and must have been a way out at some point. A desk stands next to it as well as racks still covered in coats, and a few crates. It has been collapsed, rocks and gravel spilling into the room.

The farther door is more promising. Made of heavy bronze like the others, it is still locked.

I stare around as I move forward. This room doubled as a warehouse and armory at some point. I spot a rack of rifles, still clean, but no silver bullets.

Clearly whoever made this base was a mage with a high sense of security if the traps are any indication. It was not enough and at least one mana hound escaped containment, possibly causing some sort of quarantine measure that sealed the entrance. In any case, if the inhabitants of the base have not left through another way, they should still have a strong presence. There should be at least a few mages and a few soldiers if the traps and weapons are any indication. I cannot exactly use this to my advantage. They will not make a difference against Malakim.

I cross the floor, monster in tow, and am again grateful not to have to breathe. The two bodies must have stayed there for at least a week in a damp environment. Small mercy, there are no flies around so no maggots.

Malakim is like a sword of Damocles hanging above my neck as I kneel to inspect the next gate. I close my eyes and focus on other senses. There is something on the other side, the familiar taste of warning of an alarm spell.

A few years back I would have been unable to unravel it. Now, I place my gauntlet-covered hand against the cold, smooth metal and pluck the spell apart string by string until, with a snap, it collapses on itself with no one the wiser.

I try the handle. Locked. A quick spell takes care of the unprotected keyhole and the heavy gate swings open silently, surfing on well-oiled hinges.

We are in a dormitory. It is the middle of the night now and a dozen mortals sleep soundly in lined up cots separated by curtains hung on wooden poles. Chests and wardrobes line the wall. The left-side corner has been isolated, and the smell of soap and excrements emanates from it. No one has woken up yet.

Malakim overtakes me, bumping against my shoulder and eliciting a hiss that he ignores. He stops above the first cot and looks on with a serene expression. This is the first time since I have met him that he seems at peace. He lifts a finger and inspects the talon with patient interest while, below him, a man slumbers.

“That’s the best way to leave, I think. You sleep, then you die, comfortably drifting from one state to another. No pain and no awareness,” he whispers in a voice that only a vampire could pick up.

He stabs the man between the eyes and just above the nose. There is slight noise of broken bone and a sort of suction. His victim gasps very lightly, but the noise is not enough to cover the sighs and light snores of the others.

I look with pain at the wasted blood dripping on the ground, turning it red. So THIRSTY. Maybe I can… Just one… But no, he is waiting for it. He is waiting for me to disobey.

Malakim draws the curtain to reveal another victim. The first was bald and severe, lying on his back like a Gisant. This one is young with curly blond hair. He sleeps on his side curled in fetal position. Malakim places his gore-covered finger against the man’s temple. He inspects me thoughtfully, aware that I am the unwilling witness of this farce. I despise him for this show. He is making a mockery of what we are by toying with a sleeping prey, spreading the scent of blood and wasted vitality while I am here, starving, only maintaining my facade because this might be my only chance to escape.

“Then there is the surprise death that catches you when you least expect it. Still not a bad way to go,” my horrid brother adds.

The pain of a needle wakes the man long enough to draw a panicked breath in. Before he can even register the body of his friend, Malakim stabs down. Another gasp, another rattle, another source of vitality spoiled for his sordid amusement.

A new curtain is drawn on his next victim. This time, the man is older with a bushy brown beard. His snores are the loudest.

“The thing that scares us the most is to know you are dying, feel it in your soul, and be powerless to stop it. Very few experiences prepare us to face that fear, don’t you think?”

He removes a thin stiletto from a sheath on his chest and stabs the bearded one in the neck. The man wakes up with widened eyes made all the more frantic by the abominable pain he must be feeling.

Malakim just severed his spine.

The maimed man gasps like a beached fish and tries to call for help, but no sounds come out. His lungs are no longer his own. He dies like this, tears staining his cheeks.

Curtain.

A very young man barely out of childhood with very dark close-cropped hair.

So Thirsty.

“And then there is a pain that transcends all others. All those who considered death coming reflected on what they would leave behind, what kind of legacy they left for their loved ones. Like you, who carved out a small kingdom in these barbaric lands and rules over it like a small-time landlady. I love to destroy their pitiful achievements and send them to oblivion with the knowledge that everything they struggled for is lost.”

The boy struggles frantically, held up in the air by two hands. His feet kick pointlessly against Malakim’s armor in a stupid little dance. His eyes focus on me.

Such a waste.

Malakim blocked his mouth and nose with one imperious hand as he lifted him. Not a single whine escapes the youth’s tortured throat as there simply is no air to do so. Clearly, brother dear has experience in such matters.

The boy’s skin turns purple and his eyes, bloodshot. Before he dies, he has the time to see me, the corpses of his friends and to understand. Malakim gives him enough time to come to the realization that all those people he lived with were going to die. That is not the worst. The worst is that half of those people are still blissfully asleep and there is nothing he can do to save them.

After one last twitch and the sound of emptying bowels, Malakim puts the corpse back on his bed with far more care than he had given when the boy was alive. Beside me, a man with the appearance of a soldier shows signs of waking up.

“Kill him, but do not feed,” Malakim orders.

The CUR. I OBEY THE SIRE, but he has no right to—

“Ah!”

The bastard stabbed me, just a flesh wound on my arm. He cleans the black blood on his armor as a supreme gesture of insult.

“Kill him, but do not feed.”

One day I will kill him. And Nirari, and Semiramis, and Anatole, and Moor. They will all die. But not tonight. Tonight, I must survive and tally the offenses against me to be paid at a later date. This is fine. I have suffered indignations in the past and I will suffer them in the future as well, what matters is to live long enough to see them repaid.

With interest. PATIENT HUNTER will triumph here.

I take a page from his book and stab the man in the brain with a claw before he can react. I can do no better without a blade and I am, once again, weaponless. Cracking neckbones as I usually do would be too noisy.

I do not even know why I care. All this blood. If I cause enough chaos then perhaps… No, he will know.

“Out of all the ways I demonstrated, you chose the most expedient, as expected of my survival expert of a sister.”

I care not for his sick game. I just want to FEED.

“We will have ample time to teach you how to enjoy things the proper way.”

This idiot hovers at the edge of turning rogue. He is probably held back by his stupid almighty artefact. Dragon skin. By the Watcher.

“We should finish and move on,” I reply with gritted teeth.

“Oh? Eager, are we? Very well then.”

He takes three knives from their harness and tosses them casually in one gesture. They hit three throats.

Nice trick.

He takes another five and moves his arms twice, killing the rest. Half a dozen men choke on their blood.

“Shall we?”

We leave the room now filled with the scents of blood, piss, and shit. Only a few gurgles still break the silence as I unlock the next door.

Malakim once again pushes me into a room as large as the first one. This one was split in two. On our left, a workshop takes up most of the space. Heavy tables are covered in stone tablets and fragments in the process of being reassembled. A trail of dust leads to a small passage.

On the right, two large beds host the remains of an orgy. Five scantily clad women sleep in the arms of a muscular man with a chest like a barrel and an older mage with a scar on his cheek.

“Typical cults,” Malakim idly comments, “the leader uses girls to reward his lieutenants and more valuable members. He will be in a separate room with the choicest morsels.”

“What are they doing here?” I wonder.

“Grandma left many toys and entrances in those rat warrens of hers so it is no surprise that some were found.”

He affects a frown.

“But of course, you are correct. We should ask them. Just to be sure.”

Malakim struts to the closest bed, grins like a teenager doing a prank and upends it. The tangle of limbs crashes to the ground with swears and shrieks. The muscle man is the first to jump on his feet, fists swinging. Malakim leans into his attack and smacks the man’s head back with an open palm. He barely uses enough strength to push his opponent.

The mage notices me as he frantically puts on his glove. His eyes narrow with rage.

“Bolt!”

I dodge the transparent projectile with a hiss. Seriously? Why me? You have a perfectly valid target and you go for the unarmed woman in a skimpy Roman dress? Prick.

Malakim chuckles as the burly man steps to the side and grabs a large truncheon. My brother takes hold of the bed, eliciting cries from the women still crawling on the ground, and lifts it.

The little group grows silent as he tosses the piece of furniture into the workshop, where it crashes with a loud bang of broken wood.

“What the hell?” the muscleman mutters.

The mage pales. He understands. He looks and smells scrumptious. Alive and afraid.

“Dios mio…” one of the women swears. Another stands up and does her best to readjust her shift so that they cover her heavy breasts. She is a bit older than the others, with a frame that leans on heavy and a long shock of brown hair that reaches her lower back.

“I do not know who you are but please listen to me. You are interfering with a divine project that will redesign mankind as we know it. We can bring you hope too! We have a wonderful message to share if you would only listen…”

“Ah, one of the recruiters. She leads the women to lure in new recruits.”

“I know how cults operate, Malakim, I do not need your lessons.”

“My god,” the mage interrupts, shivering, “it cannot be…”

“Oh, very well,” Malakim answers before turning to the one who had interrupted him, “let me guess, you need to decipher the secrets in the universe held in those steles behind me, then your glorious leader will lead all of you to paradise?”

The woman’s careful control slips, showing the worry underneath.

“Hmm, yes! Absolutely, paradise on earth and eternal life. An end to hunger and disease! Would that not be wonderful?”

“Please no…” the mage whispers on the side.

“Ah, a variation on the old classic. Good enough.”

The stocky woman shows an expression of surprise as her head falls off her shoulders. Malakim mechanically butchers everyone except the mage in only a few swings. Screams die on silenced lips. The familiar smell of death now mingles with that of stale sex.

Again, the waste makes me want to kill him.

I barely listen to the panicked mumblings of the spellcaster as he speaks of research and insights into the tablet’s language. All things we do not need as Semiramis works in a coded version of Akkad. My brother grabs his victim by the throat and drains him slowly under my glare as a display of power. His two blue eyes peer over the white neck, daring me to attack him in his moment of vulnerability.

I cannot afford it. I am already starving and healing from the wounds he would inflict would cost me any chance I have to escape. Bear with it, Ariane, PATIENT HUNTER. I can do it. I can do it. I just need a way out.

A door opposite the one leading back creaks open. Shuffling feet and grumbles heralding the arrival of the cult’s…

“What is the… Oh!” a woman says.

“A large variation on the old classic,” Malakim comments lazily like a man at a market inspecting a strangely shaped pumpkin.

The newcomer is indeed a surprise. She is a beautiful woman with an entirely shaven head dressed in a heavy blue cloak. She is also a powerful mage and I recognize her aura in the traps we faced.

A young man with an angelic face peers curiously from behind her.

“You! What have you done?!” she screams. To her credit, she reacts immediately. Her hands raise to reveal two bracers covered in runes. Sharp blades emerge from her cloak to fly in the air like an angry swarm of bees.

Interesting, she relies on a telekinesis spell. It takes a great amount of concentration and a natural predisposition to make this work.

Malakim scoffs and lets the first blade impact his heart, where it stops completely.

The woman pales.

“I am going to walk to you. I will grab you by the neck and then I will snap your spine like a dry twig,” he announces.

The mage frowns and focuses a dozen blades in a cloud, hovering before her.

Malakim takes a step forward. An enchanted dagger nicks his cheek. Black blood seeps from the wound.

I understand now why he did not try to dodge my shred spell, the one that mangled his arm. Malakim does not dodge wounds if it allows him to finish the fight immediately. His method goes against every instinct of self-preservation ingrained deep within our minds.

The cult leader throws everything she has at him. Malakim’s face turns into a pincushion but none of the blades pierce the skull.

His foe’s anger turns to dismay.

The vampire steps to the mage and grabs her by the throat as she scrambles against the wall. He stares her in the eyes as she dies, then backhands the boy attacking him from the side.

“Were you not going to interrogate her?” I ask, my patience at an end.

“Why would I ever do that?”

Because I could have learnt if there is another exit besides the obviously caved-in one.

“Because our sire is searching the place and they have researched it extensively.”

“Pah. They are cultists, not scholars.”

“Hsss!”

I struggle to remain in control. Thirsty. I take a deep breath to push the sensation back, ignore its claws buried deeply into my mind, pushing, craving. It takes monumental effort of self-control but eventually I manage to regain some measure of calm. I am holding, for now.

Malakim gives a knowing smile.

“Almost there now. We will just see what is behind the last door and then we will head back. Normally we avoid drinking from the silent folk but I am sure that an exception will be made. I just need you to be very thorough in your inspection. We would not want to miss anything, no?”

I know he will drag it out but I have no choice. A quick inspection of the workshop reveals a passage leading to storage rooms filled with preserved food, digging tools and a small well for fresh water. I accidentally find the cesspit they use to get rid of the wastes as well as the bodies of two more hounds. The smell is so shockingly strong that it clears my mind.

We find the leader’s quarters in the last room of the complex. They contain a single bed with a large sword by its side, probably what she used to kill the hounds. A large circle dug into the ground shows rudimentary runes, a far cry from the sophisticated construct I saw in Alexandria. They are lucky the portal fizzled before it could destabilize.

Amateurs.

Children fiddling with magics they cannot understand, and yet, the cultist still managed to achieve something.

I wonder if the knowledge of how to create portals is fully disseminated yet.

I shake my head to focus on the last one large gate left here. It was sealed with redundant layers of protection. Even with the caster dead, the runes covering it still shimmer under the pale light of the lines.

This is my last hope. All the other passages have led to dead-ends. If this is one as well, I will have to postpone my plan and risk being bound.

“No feeding until we determine exactly where the cult complex ends, little sister. Show me how you unlock this,” Malakim says with a vicious grin.

The Thirstier we grow, and the harder it becomes to focus on mental tasks. Fortunately, I am not so far gone yet.

I pick a heavy key from a nearby bed table and calmly use it on the lock. I give a disparaging glance to Malakim as the runes fade and the gate clocks open. He returns one of controlled rage.

Just because I am weaker does not mean I am stupid.

We walk into a cavern wide enough to host a house. While the rest of the installation was dug into solid rocks through unknown means, this is quite clearly a natural formation. Stalactites hang from a tall ceiling criss-crossed with the ubiquitous yellow lines, and in its center lies a dragon.

An entire bloody dragon. With a scaly muzzle, two horns, two wings, and a heavy orange stone on its forehead. It rests like a sphinx on its bed of stone.

My legs almost give way before I take back control and realize my error.

This is the statue of a dragon.

By the Watcher, I would have had a heart attack if I still could.

“By the Watcher…” Malakim whispers, joining his curse to mine.

He whistles in admiration.

The sound echoes across the chasm.

The dragon statue opens its eyes.

106. End of the Line.

I jump under the closest stalagmite while Malakim looks on, uncaring.

This is a trap. If there were any doubts, the voice of Semiramis emerging from the construct dispels them.

“Alien essence detected. Scanning.”

Her voice is bored and formal, a sharp contrast to the massive golem’s threatening presence. Its stone skin is covered in runes under which a metal armature snakes, poking out here and there like broken bones through skin. Rays of dark red emerge from its eyes to sweep the floor.

They land on Malakim.

“Primary target identified. Engaging.”

I swear and crawl away from my brother’s standing form. He merely snickers as he walks forward to meet the construct head on. A massive bastard sword with a jagged edge appears in his hand, which he moves around with a flourish.

“Let’s see what you can do then, you piece of scrap,” he jeers.

I search around for a way to protect myself and find one. My eyes land on an opening in the right wall ahead of me and a glimmer of hope grows in my chest, battling the Thirst for supremacy.

If only those two could keep each other busy…

Malakim struts with absolute confidence. What a fool. I have seen golems before, of course. They are rare magical constructs that require an independent power source, most of the time a core formed from precious material and charged by mages over several days. Even then, they have always been suits of armor.

They also have none of the weaknesses of their squishy creators.

Golems are slow compared to us, yet what they lose in power, they make up in durability and blind tenacity. This one was designed by Semiramis to eliminate Malakim specifically, therefore it must have countermeasures to account for the man’s resilience and speed.

I push my head up and watch from the side as Malakim appears before the golem. His sword digs a furrow in the construct’s torso, as if it were butter. My brother is like Siegfried before the imposing mass of his foe.

Perhaps he can win easily after all?

The orange gem on the dragon’s forehead shines—

Void.

Pain.

I am on the ground, The left part of my forehead is slightly singed and I shake under the dreadful memory, the terrible reminder of what I once endured. I want to stay down and hidden lest it happens again but curiosity and the need to escape urge me on.

The sun.

From the dragon’s gem came a single ray of the vengeful orb. It was a mere spark, a shadow of the real thing, yet that was enough. I raise my head to gaze at the dying shimmer of the orange gem, now spent.

Impossible.

Impossible!

Semiramis can store sunlight! She can unleash it from inside a dark cave, and now, Malakim is missing his head. I can hardly believe it.

The unstoppable force, the unmovable object who swatted me like a fly and filled me with despair falls on the ground, a finger away from death. The golem’s enormous paw will be enough to crush his heart and finish him off, now that he can no longer resist.

Just like that.

I am at a loss.

The dragon golem pounces as I am paralyzed by indecision. The Thirst throws me off and robs me of my ability to think. Malakim is going to die. Is it good? Is it bad? Should I do something?

I cannot think.

The dragon’s clawed foot is as large as Malakim’s chest. It descends, and then it stops.

Against a shield.

A massive half-sphere of purple light has formed over the prone form and cocooned it in its inviolable embrace. The golem’s paw smashes once more against the defense before its red eyes once again glare over the battlefield.

I finally manage to recover enough to realize that I should act while I can. I move to the right, towards the second exit until my back is to it, yet I dare not leave my cover.

“Shield detected. Countermeasures engaged.”

Three silvery talons slide from the paw and on the next bump, the shield starts to crack. Fissures appear in the smooth surface.

It does not matter. As I crawl away, I can feel him coming like a stormfront. This pressure grows and grows until the air feels almost liquid and advancing feels like fighting through molasses.

He is pulling on the world to move faster.

Something clicks in my mind. The weight of fate, which had been silent since last night, tugs on me once more. This is it. This is my chance.

I lift my gauntlet.

“Nu Sharran!”

The light of the sun has created an imbalance and the spell flows out as if torn from my chest like an eager child. The deepest darkness gathers around me with its welcoming presence.

The first vampire crashes into the cave in a cataclysmic shock. Shrapnel of bronze and stone fall like a hail and with one hand, he blocks the paw.

The world holds its breath. Nirari has one hand on Malakim’s chest and one against the paw, his attention fixed on the construct with such immobile intensity that he has become a statue as well.

“My son,” Semiramis’ voice whispers from some enchanted recess.

A complex expression takes over my sire’s adamant countenance. This is, perhaps, the most lively he has ever looked without making someone else suffer.

Then the scene is broken when both eye-orbs crack and a noise like an angry teapot emerges from the golem. Nirari’s dark glare turns to me as the last tendril of my shadowy cloak forms and my side of the room changes into an inky abyss.

He gives me the tiniest nod of respect.

And then, we are gone. I move faster than I ever have in my life to the exit I chose. I race down a tunnel dug into the very rock with no care for traps or spells. I kick open a locked door, turn left into a side alley by stepping on the wall and rush forward without pause.

The world rocks under a massive explosion.

“Ooof!”

I am thrown forward. Down becomes up. Scathing air flails my back. Ears pop.

I wait, hands over my neck.

It stops.

I stand up on uncertain legs, brush the dust and pebbles covering me. Light above is still diffused by those yellow lines.

Behind me, the passage is obstructed by collapsed rocks as large as slabs. The blockade must go on up to the golem cavern and farther in the other direction.

Nobody is going through there for a long time.

I did it. There is now a physical barrier between me and my captors that cannot be crossed. I am not safe yet, however. I need to exit the complex and find someone to drink. It must happen tonight. So THIRSTY. But no, I must focus and take precautions. Quick, quick, then I go.

I make sure my earrings are securely fastened. They are. Now, to take care of the rest.

I kneel and force my fleeting attention to my aura. Subdued is not enough; gone is required. I pull my power in. It feels like rolling and wringing my own mind, which I find eminently unpleasant. My control wavers at some point and I start to unravel, yet a last supreme effort brings me as close as possible to aural invisibility as possible.

I feel constrained as if I wore far too tight clothes. The discomfort adds to the craving pain in my abdomen and makes me want to claw myself open. I will move after one last thing.

I raise my gauntlet and gather every last dredge of focus I can. Sinead uses this to escape detection by vampires.

“Nu Mahiken Oe…”

I cough and the spell wavers. Dust. The feedback burns into my veins until I seize firm control of it. I wrestle the construct back under control.

The corridor around me turns… smoother. The wall loses its granularity; rock powder falls to the ground.

“Nu Mahiken Oessi Nok.”

Let the imprint be gone. With this, my smell should disappear almost entirely. It will last for as long as I feed it power and keep it at the back of my mind.

I need blood. I really do. Time to find it. Wait, no, time to escape. VITALITY. Same thing really.

The corridor moves forward and I follow it at a run. No time to waste. The beautiful canvas of the world needs some more red in it. Down with all that dreary grey! Three paths. Left, forward and right, all of them twisted so I do not see where they lead. Unless I missed something, I should FORWARD. Wait, no. From his throne room, I went forward then right then forward then right then right again into the golem chamber. Then I turned left. Right will head me back towards the throne room. Forward or left. FORWARD is fine. Go.

I run without a sound. Another passage. Another three-way path. Strange glyphs on the wall looking like Akkad but not quite. Drawings? I hurry hurry hurry. It does not smell like much, just strangely fresh air and old magic.

A dead end.

I turn around and retrace my steps and pick another way. Left. No, Right! Right is left now. Yes. I go. I find another cross. So many ways! Where does this all lead? Forward forward forward with all haste I just need a way out I just need to find someone this is all that matters now I just need the blood and everything will be fine. Everything will be fine in the world.

Another crossroad.

Where am I?

How many times have I turned?

FORWARD. No, I need to keep track. I bend and dig a mark with my talon in the raw stone. The sound and sensation force me to grit my teeth, nothing that a little blood cannot solve. Forward now. A dead end. Back and to the side. Another mark. Another crossroad. Another.

This is a maze. A large maze with symbols for keys and I do not remember them and I cannot remember how I got here and it HURTS.

I lean against the wall, then on my knees, a hand grasping my chest.

Calm down, Ariane, calm down. I am not in a maze per se. I already guessed that Semiramis travels around by messing with space. I recall that her ‘home’ back when I met her was larger on the inside. I must be within a sort of transit system, and the glyphs are the key. I could just follow the same glyph and probably emerge somewhere. Which one? I do not recall.

I stop where I am and inspect the symbols. There is a sort of turtle, a stylized circle, a cloud and a twisted arrow.

I rush left. A sort of wolf, a honeycomb, a field, three mountains.

No match. Maybe I saw wrong?

I return. I double check. Turtle, circle, cloud, arrow.

It makes no sense.

Another path. No match.

I come back to the one I chose as reference.

Turtle, Scale, lantern, square.

No. No no no no no no. No. No, I must be losing my focus. Keep it together, Ariane, you are just THIRSTY. Unfocused. I just need to…

PAIN.

I stop and take a few shaky breaths to fight back against the pointless urge I feel now. My instincts have always been things to control and use, just like pain itself. Now, they are merely obstacles. Yes, I know that I am falling apart, thank you very much. No, I do not need to be reminded of it every last fucking second. Dear beastly me, things would go better if you just let me focus for one Watcher-forsaken minute. Fuck!

The anger helps me push the pain back into a recess of my mind, yet I know this is merely a short reprieve before its needy talons dig once more into my vulnerable psyche. What to do? I am TRAPPED.

Trapped, trapped, trapped.

I would use fate to guide my feet, but I cannot manage to focus enough. I never thought I would need magic specifically to escape a labyrinth either…

Wait, I know! The air is fresh but I have not detected any runes to that effect. There must be circulation and I can just follow the draft to an exit, hopefully. Even if it comes from a small opening I cannot use, it will surely drive me closer to my goal.

I close my eyes, wet my right index finger with a little bit of saliva and wait. It grows cold on one side and this where I go.

I repeat the maneuver at the next crossroad and am pointed in another direction. I hope I can finish this little treasure hunt before I run out of saliva. That would be awkward.

At the next crossroad, the wind points me back the way I came, and I am not even surprised. I run back, paying more attention to my perception to see where exactly the spatial fuckery occurs.

I cannot tell.

Two more crossroads succeed each other and I can feel it now. The air grows cold and windy, not charged with the perfumes of soil and plant life but crisp and clean like a mountain.

The last passage I follow does not lead to another choice. This one snakes up and up, through the earth, until the beautiful canvas of the wall shifts from grey to a deep sapphire blue. The temperature drops to lows I had never experienced before in my life, not even during my werewolf hunt in the heart of winter.

Ice.

My feet lose traction though I do not fall and keep rushing forward. The arch above me is pure cobalt under the midnight lights, and then, dotted black.

I am out.

An incredible vista rolls before me to the horizon, a blanket of pure white carried to the end of the world and buffeted by howling gales that lift snow in the air like clouds of powdery diamond. The lack of relief makes the sky enormous and filled with an infinite sea of stars, and from them fall strange curtains of purple and green, bleeding up as if into another realm. The wind here plasters my hair to my skull and carries with it a complete absence of smell. No sap, no smoke, not even a hint of grass or fish.

The otherworldly beauty robs me of words.

I may as well be on another planet, with all the implications.

This beauty is sterile. It cannot bear life. Even now my flimsy dress grows rigid under the arctic onslaught. Fuzzy spikes of ice grow on it like crystalline mushrooms. In a few minutes it will be frozen solid.

There is no one here.

No one.

For a world and a half.

Some mountains rise up to my left, so far that I may not even reach them in a full night. The biting cold should not hurt me, yet even I feel myself growing languid. This is a dead-end into a barren world as desolate as the surface of the moon. No blood. No blood at all.

For the first time, it occurs to me that I may go rogue here and shackle myself in madness instead of in bondage. I could haunt those labyrinthine depths like a wraith until Semiramis finds me on her way and turns me inside out. Trapped trapped trapped.

I step back in.

There is only death outside. I run and rake my claws over the frigid wall, digging deep furrows. The tinkle of broken ice soothes me for an instant before the Thirst surges back in a tide of blinding need. I force back a moan and stop. Why force back? Why? I keen and growl and run because it does not matter and neither do the squiggly lines by the crossroads, as undecipherable to me as hieroglyphs. Pointless. Useless. Wasted. I run and I HUNT.

NEED IT. THE SWEET NECTAR.

Passages go by. STRAIGHT IS NOT STRAIGHT BUT BACKWARDS AND INWARDS TOGETHER. I kneel by each access with my nose on the ground sniffing out PREY. Hum a little song to keep the pain at bay. Canvas of grey needs canvass of green to lead to my goal. Outside. I run and I moan a keening sound, something sharp and discordant that no human throat can produce. The world fades at the edge of my vision until something fragments. The shards break apart, unravelling at the seams. They are of no use. They get in the way of blood.

Quick quick, faster. I find a useful shard that pulls me in a certain direction. Nice little shard that will give me ink for the canvas, crimson ink vivid and fragrant for little me to keep going.

Time slips.

After a time, but not too long, I feel another draft. I move faster now and shed more shards. I smell it first.

P

R

E

Y

Quickly now I rush up and through the twisted path until I…

Something…

An obstacle? CANNOT MOVE! Earth and trees and the familiar smell of tall grass beyond. Shuffling steps.

TRAPPED.

I grab a shed fragment. Bring it back. Discarded clarity returns for a moment. The way is barred. A metal grid of silvery fabric, with a… a cross. Cannot get past. Feet approach.

PREY.

Cannot get past? I grab another fragment, then another, pull myself back together piece by piece even though it will fall apart again.

“P—please! Please…” I beg.

A young man in a leather duster with a scruffy black beard jumps, scared. DELICIOUS. He turns around, and his eyes widen at my sight.

“Please…”

“Hold on miss, I’ll get you out in a moment. Jesus, what happened to you?”

He comes forth. The grid holds in place because of… of…

One more fragment. The pain is unbearable but I need to know what, I need to know how. I need to get past.

Hinges freshly mortared in. Quite possibly a rush job.

The man’s hands slow as they take out a set of keys. His brow furrows. No. No!

“What are you doing here, anyway?” he suddenly asks, his voice dripping with suspicion.

More fragments. I need to Charm… but the cross blocks me, just as unyielding as before. I bend over in pain and collapse against the wall as a wave of unimaginable agony overwhelms me. I scream and cry. Distant voices sound on the other side.

“What’s going on, Beckett?”

“A woman, sir. She looks hurt.”

“A woman, you say?”

Another face. Fragments split again, useless. No! This is my chance. My only chance. Just one last little push is all I need.

“Please… it hurts…”

“For the love of God, Beckett, step away from the bloody door, did your branch teach you nothing?”

“I haven’t opened, sir!” the bearded man protests.

“You there,” a newcomer with greying hails, “who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Please…”

It hurts so much.

“I gave you an order, woman!”

He DARES?

“HSSSSSSSSS!”

“FUCK!”

“Bloody hell! What is this?” the bearded man cries.

“I can’t believe it, the reports were true! There is a nest in Texas. This is a blood-starved vampire!”

No. They won’t open. Why won’t they open?

Push against the barrier.

Cannot.

PUSH.

Cannot. Enough! I need to… I… What?

Unravelling. Breaking apart. I just… Find a way. So close…

“Should we shoot her, sir?”

“No, that would be a waste even if we hit. If she is truly blood-starved she will stay there until dawn. Either she burns or we open the gate and follow her in, kill her while she is asleep. Jesus am I glad we placed a cross here.”

More fragments. Come on, one last time.

I need a projectile. The wall is sheer with no convenient bricks. This plan will not work.

I struggle to regain some lucidity in one last-ditch, supreme effort of will. I have a tool.

I raise my gauntleted hand. Tool. It can… open things. From afar.

PAIN.

Cannot remember. What was I doing? Barrier Yes, I must break it. I have a tool. I can do it.

PAIN.

Soul-rending suffering. Why am I holding my arm up? No, I must…

Someone is coming?

Many ink bottles covered in pretty leather, so close yet so far. There were two, now more have come. Behind, ephemeral constructs of things that do not matter. Tents. A fire.

They all stare at me but someone is coming. I feel a scent in the air. An aura of a kin.

Another vampire.

One of the canvases on the left looks to the side but too late. I heard it first, the panicked neigh of a useless thing, a ‘woosh’ of displaced air.

A reinforced cart lands on the assembled group in a cataclysmic crash of steel and bone, wood and flesh. The fracas is deafening and the aftermath is screams and cries. The half-broken wheel of the chassis turns and turns and captivates me, until a new form arrives.

A massive vampire in dark iron armor, face entirely covered by a medieval helm strides forward with energy. He stops before me and considers the grid. He approaches, but his hand is blocked.

The cross.

Our eyes meet. I do not know if he sees the agony there, the melting psyche. I only know that he speaks.

“I will always be here for you, Miss Ari,” he solemnly declares.

Then he does the impossible. Massive armored gauntlets grab the bars while flames of burning blue devour the flesh underneath. He bellows with a roar that shakes the trees. With a crack of broken stone, the masonry gives way on one side.

Can slip by.

Slip by. Find a man on the ground. Bite down.

Bliss.

A pleasure like no other washes away everything in my mind. It sweeps away the pain, the memories, the will, my senses, the world around me. I only exist in ecstasy, a trance like no others that erases everything.

Too soon, it ends but I am in luck! There are other broken things on the ground that still draw breath. More nectar for me.

The other vampire comes and kneels by my side as I raise a struggling man and expose his throat. He removes his helmet to reveal… a familiar face?

The cleft lip is mostly gone though his smile remains lopsided. His swarthy complexion is paler now though he is still quite ugly. I know him well.

He stops me with a hand on my shoulder. I allow it because it is him.

“Miss Ari. Come back.”

He stops me and he is very strong. The blood is here. It will taste so sweet. I want to fight him and rip into him because he is a rival, except, this is not entirely correct. A small part of a fragment whispers something else.

I do not wish to fight him, merely to drink. I pull more fragments in and now that the pain is gone, they rejoin the whole more easily. They have stopped disintegrating. I pull more to find a key, a way to make him leave me alone.

“Go back to the Dream, I will be there shortly.”

The hand stays strong and his face, placid.

“No, Miss Ari, I cannot obey you this time.”

What? He should. The fragments say that he is… loyal. Always here for me. I need the blood so he should give me the blood. Only fair.

“You are safe and sated. Come back Ariane. I am here now.”

“Ariane…”

I taste the word. It feels familiar. Ariane. Ariane. Ariane is me. I am Ariane.

“I am Ariane.”

“Yes, good, you are Ariane of the Nirari. We are near Fort Texas. You are here to fulfill an oath.”

“Fulfill an oath.”

I frown.

Oaths are important. I have made oaths. I cannot die before father. I am the sister of Jimena. I will respect the Accords. I will aid the White Cabal. I will find my nephew.

Little by little, all the little shards I had discarded return to me as they were about to slip into the abyss. I pull them back from the edge even though I could let go and drink and stop hurting. Several times I am tempted to give up but the voice of the man before me centers me, until I am almost whole again.

“John?”

He smiles.

“Yes, it is me, John. I am back.”

“But…”

“No but, Miss Ari. You have to focus. What are you here for?”

“Blood.”

“No, you are here for an oath.”

I was here for blood but then I had some and I do have an oath. I just mentioned it. Ah, yes.

“I am here to rescue my nephew. He was captured. He may be held in Matamoros. I was on my way to Matamoros. I…”

Eight fangs. Malakim and Nirari. Captivity. The traps. The cult. The golem. Back home, the werewolf’s second village as their population explodes. Chicago expanding as well with Melusine’s subtle influence. Metis. Torran.

The last parts of me fuse back and I let out a few shaky breaths. The agony is gone and so is the temptation of oblivion. They recede like a tidal wave, leaving the land behind scraped and raw.

I sit heavily on the blood-stained ground, ignoring John as he finishes off the last broken Gabrielites.

I almost went rogue.

No, I went rogue and John pulled me from the brink before I was too far gone. Freed of the pain, I am still shaken and fragile. I need some time.

“Are you alright, Miss Ari?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

Oh wait. John. Natalis vampire.

“How?” I ask. He only blinks in answer.

“How are you a Natalis vampire?”

He stops to reorder his thoughts and this time I notice that his mind seems faster, or perhaps his focus has improved?

“I was weak. You were safe. Lord Jerak invited me to his land and offered to turn me. I served him for a bit over two years and had two children. I saw what kind of man he was and accepted the gift. I served him since and so does my family.”

“But… you are here now?”

Another pause.

“Nirari came. He said that we had to keep his presence secret and not interfere while he worked in return for being left alone and payment. Lord Jerak agreed, and we only had half an hour to send messages warning that we would close communication. Our mage could not join you. Lord Jerak freed me from his service, so I would not be bound by the agreement. I came here with the mage who was also freed. We felt Nirari’s spell at the village and saw you with a spell. We followed you and him to another entrance close by. He left earlier tonight and condemned the entrance, but we had already found this one here. We came and there were Gabrielites. I saw you. I came to rescue you.”

He smiles proudly at that, the bright expression odd above his armor-clad frame. Goliath could not have been more intimidating.

“You did,” I admit, “thank you.”

I move next to a chest and sit on it heavily.

“I need some time.”

Do I have time?

No.

“Nevermind,” I grumble, and stand back up. I move as if through water and the earth grasps at my heels. Flowers and shapes undulate at the edge of my vision, only to feign immobility when I turn around. The world looks strange.

“Would you like to keep this?” John asks.

He holds a strange thorn plant, now severed at the end. It clicks with something in my memory.

“Where did you find this?” I ask with suspicion.

“Inside the corridor. Where you were trapped.”

The root — or is it a branch? — shines with the luster of polished obsidian.

I touch it and it disappears in a flash of blue.

This happened before when I faced the werewolves, only larger this time.

Curious.

Just like that time, I have no real way to investigate what this is, except perhaps mention it to someone like Sephare. Enough of this.

“We need to leave. I don’t want my sire to find us.”

“They left. Or so Owens told me. Owens is the mage. We should go see him.”

“Yes, lead the way.”

John casts a last worried glance backward but he obeys. We leave the camp of the Gabrielites behind us and climb up a small slope to find the same landscape as before: tall grass over fertile black loam and the occasional meadows. I take a few wobbly steps before a familiar stomp makes me turn my head.

Metis’ massive head bumps against my chest, almost sending me stumbling.

“Yes, I was worried too, my best of all Nightmares,” I whisper as I pet her luscious coat. She moves forward and I climb on her back. I see John relax.

He opens the way, moving much faster now, and Metis follows him.

The smooth motion and rolling muscles of my mount rock me and distract me from the constant fear that this is only the illusion of freedom. I cannot flee in the state I am in, therefore I must place my faith in an unknown mage’s observation. John and Metis’ presences soothe me.

And now I have some time to think.

John saved me. He turned himself into a Natalis vampire and forfeited his mortal existence out of loyalty to me unless I am mistaken. Now, he obeys another. I am grateful, of course, yet the implications are many. If he truly was released from his obligations, I will ask him to serve me. But he could be used as a spy. Can I truly trust a member of my inner circle when I know that a word of his Master will turn him against me? Lord Jarek and I are allies now, but it will take almost a century for John to gain his independence.

Ah, who am I kidding? Urchin is in the same position and I have involved him in many of my ploys. This is John. He will be by my side.

Next, the great question.

Why did fate lead me here? What did I gain from this harrowing experience? I know I learned something from turning rogue, even if it was only for a minute: an intimate understanding of my limits and the process of losing oneself to instincts. That is only a side-benefit. The true knowledge is different.

Nirari can cast spells via Malakim’s dragon skin armor. The shield was his, I am sure of it. I do not know how he managed that incredible feat, but I assume it has something to do with the shackles binding Malakim to his service.

Malakim and Nirari know how Semiramis moves around. It is only a matter of time before they back her into a corner. Nashoba was right, their game is coming to a close.

Speaking of which, Semiramis can store the Watcher-forsaken sunlight.

Huh.

That is quite impressive considering that I was told it was virtually impossible. Sunlight can be captured for a variety of things, but once stored it loses whatever makes it anathema to us. From cleansing fire to shy lantern, it fades, but not for her.

Beyond the myriad things I have discovered, the most valuable experience I take from my confrontation is that time is running out and accruing power is not enough. It will never be enough. An alliance will not suffice to stop two gods, no matter how many soldiers I bring to the fray. Nirari cannot be overwhelmed. He forged himself against this eventuality.

I need a special weapon, or three. I will find trump cards, powers and items he will not expect. Unpredictability will carry the day.

I also know how to kill Malakim as well. I am surprised I did not think of it before.

Yes. There is much work to be done. We still have some time. Perhaps a century, perhaps less, and I will be ready. I will have to be.

Back outside of my mind, we arrive at a very small camp nestled against an overturned tree. A lanky black man with a short beard and a pair of round glasses sits on a folding chair, his spindly fingers held around the water basin on his lap. He wears a deep green suit over white shirt and tie.

He and John look like quite the pair indeed.

“Good evening, you must be Owens” I greet.

“And to you too milady. You will forgive me if I do not rise, I need to keep an eye on our departing friends.”

Ah yes, he uses the water in the basin as focus for a heaven’s eye spell, something that can track people from afar. I remember that it is quite taxing on the mind. My sire most likely detected the scrying and allowed it on account of his agreement with Jerak. If Owens had tried to spy inside the cavern, things might have gone differently. The mage was wise to keep it light.

“Nirari?”

“Lord Nirari and his lost souls, yes. They are on their way east.”

I can scarcely believe it. He would truly let me go without a fight? He did not seem so eager to pursue me, but I would think that he would make a token effort to get me back if only for the sake of his reputation.

Hold on.

“And Malakim? His servant?”

“They are together. His servant appears… indisposed. He was missing part of his head before being shoved into a coffin.”

“I see.”

I consider his words in silence. I was… so full of questions and uncertainty but they all flit around my head, escaping my efforts to concentrate. Clarity eludes me. There was something else though, something quite important…

Ah, yes.

“Do you have any news about my nephew? He was a prisoner of the Mexicans, last I checked.”

“Ah, then you will be delighted to learn that following the victory of the United States at the battle of Palo Alto, an exchange of captives was agreed and that your nephew will be returned safe and sound.”

I glare at Owens, whose expression turns instantly worried. Is that it? I came to rescue someone and they just… rescued themselves? And I had to rescue myself too?

I feel cheated. I am also relieved that I would not fail my promise, even if through no fault of my own. Very well then, I shall complete my mission then return north. The Rosenthal and I have much to discuss. The future of the world depends on it.

107. Choosing Sides

The lieutenant who so generously lent me his tent chose candles to light its interior. The soft yellow glow basks the insides in a cozy brilliance. It gleams on medals, blades, and the shiny buttons of his spare vest.

In contrast, my nephew’s expression is dark indeed. Upon learning that a relative had come, he had stormed in with righteous outrage. Now, his inquisitive eyes roam from John’s imposing form to my more familiar one. Eventually, curiosity needles him forward.

“Do we know each other?” he asks coldly.

Ah, yes, the arrogance of youth. I am pleased to learn that incarceration left his spirit undampened.

“You can consider me as a… relative of sorts. I came here on your father’s request, Richard.”

“And how come I have never heard of you before?” he demands.

“The request,” I go on, “was to keep an eye on you and make sure you do not lose your life pointlessly. I came here tonight to offer you a legitimate way out of your current employment, should you want one.”

Richard scoffs and the gesture reminds me of my brother. His eyes are the same blue, though his hair is brown, and he is leaner than Achille used to be. I notice a rebellious fire in his stance that my sibling always lacked. My brother was always content with the status quo.

Richard wears the uniform of the dragoons well.

“Look, I don’t know who you are miss, but if you expect me to believe—”

“Where are we?” I calmly interrupt. Anger fills him and I am once more reminded that I look like a young woman, not some grizzled authority figure to be instinctively obeyed. I could solve all my issues with a hint of Charm, but that is not why I came here.

“Where are we? We are in Mexico!”

“No, we are in your commanding officer’s tent, the use of which I was graciously offered to conduct my business. It should tell you more than you need to know about our respective positions. Now, I will repeat again, do you want to leave the service of the army and return to Louisiana without any legal consequences?”

I can tell from his uncertain glare that Richard has trouble accepting my presence. Thankfully, John comes to the rescue as he used to. Truly, we have lost nothing of our teamwork.

He shrugs and readjusts his posture. Massive muscles roll under his well-cut clothes like tectonic plates, attracting the eye as they readjust for maximum comfort. Greats swathes of cloth groan and strain under the titanic pressure and buttons stretch to their very limit in a display that never fails to catch the eye. John captures Richard’s attention, forcing it up to a pair of condescending dark eyes.

A primal chemistry occurs in my nephew’s mind, one that has guided his species for millennia. It goes like this:

The human mountain range before me could probably snap my spine between two fingers. He looks like he lifts boulders for fun.

I should respect him.

He obeys the woman.

Therefore, I should respect her.

And there lays the crux of both my joy and my annoyance. My appearance is a lure to lower the guard of the most careful of foes. That same appearance prevents me from being taken seriously by those unfamiliar with the size of my network and bank account. Instead, they will fear John, the colossal paragon of virile masculinity, silently admiring the humongous size of his biceps. Even though I could massacre him in mere moments.

Life is strange.

In any case, Richard finally takes us seriously.

“I know what father thinks of my endeavor, miss. We had words. I must also admit that the one battle I have been in rid me of some of my preconceived notions on war. None of it matters, because I took an oath.”

My nephew searches my expression. Perhaps he expected a rebuke? He soon resumes his argument.

“I took an oath to defend my country and I fully intend to fulfill it.”

I resist the urge to remind him that he is hardly participating in a defensive war. It would be hypocritical of me to criticize someone fighting for more territory.

“And there is something else,” he adds after a delay, “I am fighting for my men.”

His expression changes as he speaks, going from declamatory to thoughtful. He turns his gaze to the flickering light of a candle as he delves into his own mind.

“At first I thought we would crush their army in a heroic fight. Charge their lines with sabers and bayonets in one glorious assault, with God on our side. When we got caught and surrounded with Thornton it was a different affair. Messy. Confusing. And the smell! But what mattered is that I gathered my people and tried to get them out and when we failed, I kept us together. Two of the lads from the squadron tried to run for it by themselves and got shot down. Another squad got overwhelmed almost immediately. It was then that I realized how much of a difference I could make. Not for the whole war, mind you. For those around me. I think that was the first time I truly understood what responsibility meant.”

Richard stops there and I can tell from the steel in his voice that he will not allow himself to leave so easily. I am intrigued, and decide to test his resolve.

“Richard, my coming here was your father’s dying wish,” I tell him with a soft voice.

Surprise then grief animate the soldier, in a controlled display. He is troubled. I can taste it.

Richard readjusts himself in his seat as his eyes shine with unshed tears. I give him a moment.

“My father is dead?” he finally asks.

“Yes.”

“And his dying wish… was that I would come back?”

Hah! He got me there. Schooling my expression, I reply earnestly:

“No, his last wish was that I should protect you from dying pointlessly. He would not rob you of your choice, even if that choice leads to your death.”

“Then… I believe that I will stay.”

I allow myself a smile. If he stays, I have to stay. That was my promise. I cannot stop him from dying in battle, but I can protect him from night-time ambushes, politics, and magical attacks. Although the task will be time-consuming, I admit that I would have been disappointed if he had broken his oath.

Hopefully, the war will be brought to a swift conclusion.

Two nights later.

The Accords constrain few freedoms when it comes to the management of one’s territory. Constantine understood from the start that a federation of vampires from very different backgrounds could only be achieved by leaving the grumpy old monsters to their own designs whenever possible. Conversely, the rules defining intervention in each other’s territory, general defense of our kind, and intervention in human conflicts are strictly defined. I keep a copy of the official document with my baggage just so that I can follow protocol to its last exacting detail.

In this case, I was given leave to travel by Lord Jarek but not leave to stay, which leads me to the Natalis sovereign’s personal hacienda by the sea.

I need to negotiate my status as a long-term guest.

I also need to ask him a few questions concerning John. He and Owens are now taking care of his security from a Natalis base by Fort Texas. The front remains calm, for now, and I have no choice anyway.

Metis and I follow a path along the beach, passing by shrubs and palm trees. The air smells of the ocean, damp earth, and orange trees. Jarek’s domain begins at a pair of white columns dug into the ground at an angle, as if by a giant. I suspect that it might actually be the case.

The hacienda soon comes into view.

The Natalis compound is a curious collection of buildings showing vastly different architectures. The main building is a square block of yellow stone under a gently sloping roof made of red tiles. Lanterns decorate the inner courtyard and its vaulted promenade to show tables covered with food. It is also the only concession to local preferences. As I follow the path through a well-maintained lawn, I spot what looks like a medieval castle, a large house with a high roof covered with thatchwith its entire façade displaying the wooden beams underneath the plaster. There is even a sort of massive circular hut.

Even at the late hour, the land is filled with workers and their many children. The people are definitely on the muscular side of the scale. Even the bookish ones look like they could run miles without trouble. One such person approaches me with the uncertain manner of one who suspects I might be important, but not exactly how important.

“I am Ariane of the Nirari,” I start.

“Oh, of course! Lord Jarek has been expecting you. This way, please.”

Owen probably warned him of my coming. I climb down from Metis’ back and follow after the subservient man to the side of the hacienda and onto a rectangular field dotted with athletic tools, deserted at this time of the night. In the distance, tilled fields alternate with wildland filled with shrubbery. Towers rise here and there, occupied by men with muskets.

My surprise increases the deeper we travel into the property. I pass by a longhouse coming right out of one of Loth’s memories followed by a boxy construction of harsh white stone with deep blue shutters and a flat roof. The carnival of architectures finally calms down when the path snakes to the sea and along the beach. There, the locals have built a jetty that stabs into the sea with a large rock at its end. The stone is a monolith of smooth black rock upon which a man sits. Its shiny surface reflects the light of torches making it look as if fireflies were trapped within obsidian depths.

My sense of perspective plays tricks on me as I take in the man meditating at its top. Either the pier is very narrow, or the man and the stone are quite large. Of course, I know which is which.

“Did you create a path to that stone? It looks quite lovely,” I ask of my guide.

“No no,” the man replies with a hint of fear, “he liked the stone, so he grabbed it and moved it there.”

Ah.

I look at the size of that massive boulder, standing at the edge of being a geographical feature. Alright then.

Lord Jarek opens his hazel eyes to watch us approach with a benevolent smile. He wears loose black trousers, a white shirt, and a red sash around his waist. He looks positively piratey.

The merry costume does a good job of hinting at his massive musculature instead of emphasizing it so that a passerby could mistake him for something other than a warrior. I assume that I am meeting him at his most casual, in the heart of his domain. I appreciate the implied show of trust.

“Good evening, Ariane of the Nirari,” he greets as we reach the bottom of his rock.

His voice is very deep with a gravelly quality that I find rather attractive. His face is handsome too, in a squarish, manly sort of way. I am not surprised that he would be so popular with the gentler sex during his short stay in Boston.

“You may leave,” he informs my guide who then scurries away. Then, he pats the stone by his side and, with a short jump, I join him on his unusual throne. We watch the hacienda for a while in companionable silence, with the sound of waves providing a rhythmical background.

“Do you like my domain?” he finally asks.

“I find it beautiful. If you allow me a question, why are there so many different types of houses?” I ask.

Jarek’s expression grows wistful. He searches my face for some unknown sign. Although I am not accustomed to such a direct, confrontational gaze, I allow it. I can tell that this is important.

“Do you know how bloodline powers came to be?” he asks.

I need to be careful not to reveal too much.

“They reflect the desire of the Progenitor, yes?”

“Correct. I briefly met the first of our kind. He turned me,” he announces.

I am quite surprised, and he can tell.

“Yes, I am old. Natalis was a simple man, a tortured man. When he was changed, he received the two things he had been craving: more strength and tranquility.”

“Tranquility?”

“Yes, tranquility. A storm of thoughts and reflection rages in all minds, be they that of vampires or mortals. Suggestions, ideas, criticisms, memories, your spirits fly from one concept to another like bumblebees to flowers. Natalis found the constant noise abhorrent and had it suppressed. This is our weakness.”

“Is this truly a weakness? You make it sound like meditation,” I object.

“Our tranquility is born from emptiness,” he explains while staring in the distance, “not calm. Our power robs us of initiative and idle reflection. It is, after yours, perhaps the greatest burden imposed on a bloodline. It has cost us our independence and our status on many occasions. Painted us as simpletons. The current Natalis holds in Europe are poor and scattered as a result. But not here.”

He points at the visible buildings.

“I invited my brothers and sisters and told them to build what they wanted for once in their life. They flocked to my banners in unexpected numbers and turned this domain into a proper village. The locals were only too happy to be under our protection from raiders and beasts. They think we are sorcerers, and do not mind the blood and nightly habits.”

“Those houses are personal projects then?”

“Yes. One of our Vassals is an excellent architect. He has helped us bring those projects to fruition, and we had our fun helping. Amusingly, those are not always childhood homes. Christiana’s house imitates the Mediterranean style she saw during her stay on the Greek island of Santorin.”

“The white house with the blue roof?”

“Indeed.”

I keep quiet for a while, and wonder who, when presented with such rich variety, would choose to live in that hut I saw. Oh, well.

“You did not come here to discuss architecture, I take it?” Jarek notes with an amused smile.

“My apologies, and you are correct. I want to bargain for the right to stay in your domain.”

“And keep an eye on your nephew?”

“Until the war ends, yes.”

Jarek ponders my request for a few seconds.

“You will assist me with a task of my choosing, and handle your own nourishment. You are allowed a retinue of no more than ten people at any time. In return, you will hunt up to one target a month. You may also call upon me to protect your relative in your absence, should you have a need to travel.”

“Those are generous terms,” I observe.

“We are allies, are we not? Besides, this is not even close to the greatest service I have done for you.”

Jarek turns to me and I am caught in the intensity of his stare. I am reminded now that he is ancient and powerful even when his aura remains politely subdued.

“Is it?” he insists.

“John,” I say.

“Indeed. Though you may want to call him Doe in public, as we already had a John.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” he answers with deceptive lightness. Ah, a game.

“Why did you release him from your service to be by my side? John is a competent and loyal subordinate, and he is still a fledgling. You could have just detached him for a week instead of leaving him under my care so freely. It does not make sense.”

To my surprise, Lord Jarek chuckles. The deep laugh rumbles in his chest like a small avalanche.

“You assume much, little Devourer. For example, you assume that I frenetically gather assets and underlings like you do. Or like Sephare does. I have my haven and I have my friends with more on the way. One fledgeling will not make a difference.”

“But…”

Jarek lifts his hand to forestall my protests.

“You are scrambling for power. Newly ascended Masters do the same while Sephare does it because she cut herself from her powerbase, though admittedly, her latest stunt had already cost her their support. I do not function under the same imperatives. I intended to return John to you shortly. Your sire’s timing merely forced my hand.

“And before you ask, no I do not treat all my allies with so much care.”

“Then why me?”

“Because you are a Devourer.”

There it is again. Allies and enemies alike treat me the way they do because of my bloodline, not because of how I act.

“I see that my words frustrate you,” Jarek states in an amused tone.

I immediately school both my face and my aura.

“I will explain myself for your sake. When your sire came to me to request free operation within my land and secrecy therein, I accepted his terms because I had no choice.”

I gaze at Jarek in wonder. It is quite unusual for a lord to admit weakness.

“I am a second-generation vampire, like you. My martial prowess is almost unequalled among the Natalis and others. I stand at the pinnacle of physical power and yet, I do not stand a chance against your maker. At all. Nothing will ever narrow the gap between us.”

Lord Jarek cracks a sliver of basaltic rock from the monolith under him between his fingers and flicks it in the ocean.

“Bloodlines are not made equal. None can match the intellect of the older Rosenthal lords, or the guile of the Hastings. We were never meant to balance each other. In terms of combat, Devourers are in a class of their own if they live long enough. You are still a fresh and small little thing, and yet your power already matches that of a trained master while you have been one of us for only half a century. In another hundred years, you could be among the deadliest fighters in the world”

“You want me to oppose my sire,” I state, “but it is impossible.”

“For now. Perhaps forever. It matters not. Any odds are better than zero. You are our only hope of ever matching Nirari and his second, so when I learned that you had been captured I dispatched Owens and our newest fledgling to your location. I ordered the pair to stand ready to assist you when you escaped and, as I expected, you did. I left Doe with you because you might need more help and this is as much as I can get away with.”

Something he said bothers me.

“I am not the only living free scion. I know of Svyatoslav.”

Jarek shakes his head.

“Your brother chose another path. He roped himself in codes and obligations. His oaths are both armor and shackles. He picked the bow as his soul weapon too, thus forfeiting your emblematic power.”

I remember Torran mentioning it and shake my head, still disbelieving. Why would he use a bow as a soul weapon? The crystallized essence is meant to be used to fight against our own kind as it would be wasted on anything else. And he chose a bow? Unthinkable, from my perspective. I hold guns in high regard, and I still know better than to rely on something that runs out of ammunition so quickly to fight against another vampire.

“Your reaction speaks for itself, young one. Only you walk in the steps of your progenitor.”

“I really cannot catch up,” I observe. Again, Jarek does not seem disappointed.

“If we are to oppose him, your strength alone will not suffice. It will, however, be the bare minimum required to even think of fighting. You understood that. That is why you have not scoured the land imbibing blood wherever you went. Your Hunts have been efficient and you have taken time to learn how to duel, and apparently how to cast spells as well. This is the proper way. If you cannot win a contest of strength, then do not fight a contest of strength.”

“You have been keeping tabs on me,” I reproach. My arcane training is not common knowledge.

There is not even a hint of amusement in the old monster’s eyes.

“Of course, I have. Me and the others. You are not the only investment we have made to improve our chances, but you are one of the more promising.”

“You are preparing for conflict besides fighting my sire?”

“Indeed. We expect our European cousins to start testing us quite soon. There are some on this land who will side with them and others, like me, who would rather be left alone. A Devourer could be a game changer if you survive that long. ”

“You seem quite confident that I would side with you,” I remark, a bit miffed that they would assume so much.

“I am,” he answers calmly.

Annoying.

“Your aura has changed,” he remarks after a few seconds, “I know what you have been through.”

My aura? Could it be because I went rogue?

“Do not worry, those of us who can tell have been through the same thing. There is no stigma. Remember the pain and more importantly, remember that you endured it. I wish to return to my meditation. You may stay here at any time you wish in the future. I will contact you when I have decided upon a task.”

For one moment I consider asking about the spikey growth that appeared when I went mad, but I know when I have been dismissed, and so I stand, curtsey, and climb down the rock. A female Vassal with pale skin and a lazy smile awaits me at the end of the pier to show me to my quarters.

As we walk, I think.

I should have expected Jarek and the others to plan for an eventual conflict with the major clans. They are the ones who can actually do something, and also those who have the most to lose. I did not imagine that they would try to nurture me as a sort of deterrent against them and my sire. Sometimes, I find it difficult to assess exactly how important I am to various factions. This time, their hope in my potential saved my sanity.

In any case, I must now focus on finding tools and knowledge to use against my kind, and the sooner I get started, the better. As to who can help me, why, the answer is obvious.

My friend glares at me with disdain though there is mirth in his brown eyes.

“Oh, great one, the Rosenthal consortium is simply amazed by your insight. We need powerful artefacts and magic to oppose Lord Nirari! What a revelation. We, who have been the custodians of our kin for the past few centuries, have never, ever considered that we needed a contingency plan in case he threw the gauntlet! Truly, the light of thine intellect shines upon thine unworthy—”

“Yes, yes, I get it, I am not the first to come up with this obvious idea” I interrupt, rolling my eyes, “please spare me the sass and tell me if I can join your merry band of peaceful murder planners. You need a hand to wield those mysterious tools, no?”

Salim’s face wavers in the mirror I use to contact him, courtesy of the Natalis. My control is not yet perfect. The mirror’s surface undulates like a sea at low tide from the power I feed it. When he speaks again, his voice is serious.

“Am I to understand that you intend to go against your sire if you can?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Ariane, I need you to be sure. If you wish to commit with us there will be binding agreements. We have a friendly and fruitful relationship going, retracting your proposal would not go well.”

“Yes, I am quite sure.”

He pauses for a moment, giving me a chance to reconsider. I have no need to do so.

“Very well. I will contact my hierarchy. Expect us to get in touch very soon. Goodbye Ariane.”

“Goodbye, Salim.”

I close the connection. The die is cast and all that. In a way, meeting Nirari and Malakim was salutary. It reminded me of the end game.

There is another I could contact, who could grant me much power. I focus my attention on the mirror once more and push south, very far to the south. Soon, a connection is formed and I pour a torrent of power in the construct to stabilize the link.

The face of a small boy with a beret on top of his fluffy dark hair appears, bobbing up and down with excitement.

“Oh hello there!”

“Greetings Makyas, I would speak with Sinead, if you please. I have a business proposal for him.”

The childish countenance falls away and what smirks now does so with sharp little teeth.

108. The Other Sphere

Author’s note: Jerak retconned to Jarek as it should have been since that’s how he was named to start with. Thank you, dyslexia, very cool.

Dysentery did not rate high in the list of probable causes of death for Richard, but that was underestimating mortal stupidity. The army made camp on the banks of the Rio and waited for reinforcements before heading south. Between June and July of 1846, its ranks swelled from two to ten thousand with an influx of volunteer regiments.

The newcomers are a rabble of unsanitary louts.

The stench of their encampment alone can be smelled from a mile away, five if I stand downwind. Between this, the Rio Grande’s waters, and the sweltering heat, the camp at Camargo has become a haven for all sorts of diseases. I end up bringing a medical mage from Marquette just to make sure my relative would not end up as a dehydrated corpse wallowing in his own refuse.

Fortunately for me, though unfortunately for them, volunteers are the first victims of their own lack of preparations. Most of the regulars remain untouched.

When it becomes clear that Taylor will not campaign at the height of summer, I relax my constant surveillance and agree to my first mission for the Natalis.

This land is warm. Even now at night, I can smell the remnants of heat on the yellowed grass, the cracked earth. Shrubs of darkened wood speak of a day without shade or respite. An open-air oven. Metis’ steps cause little puffs of dust to pop in the air.

Lord Jarek mentioned a cult of spellcasters hiding near the Rio west and north of Fort Texas, and he sent me to investigate. They did not choose to live near an existing town, so I had to locate them by trailing one of their supply convoys.

The only problem I notice as I approach the clearing where they made their camp, is that they appear to have been massacred. The stench of death and the buzz of flies would have warned me if the towering columns of black smoke had not been enough.

Frustrating.

Someone stole the prey. Well, the more mundane, boring prey.

“Cover me,” I order John who follows me on foot. My faithful servant angles to the side of the dirt path to find a vantage point, silent as he goes.

I follow the narrow path surrounded by dried out trees at a leisurely pace, taking the time to expand my senses. I quickly taste the remnants of a fire spell in the smoke and embers. A lone human heartbeat thumps angrily in defiance to the desolation around. Its owner remains hidden to my left when I pass by the wreck of the first carriage.

A body lies near, half of its chest ravaged by buckshot. A flash of recognition at its garb sends a wave of fear in my heart before I realize that I am not in danger. The body wears a purple cloak with gold filigree just like the victims in the complex I visited with Malakim. Thankfully, both he and Nirari left the region. The cult remains, or at least some of it does.

All three carriages were left in a line by the side of the open ground while the center is occupied by a cooking fire. Only the last item was ever meant to be ignited. Cultist handymen in simple clothes lay here and there while their four guards still grab their weapons with the stiff grip of rigor mortis. They certainly put up a fight, but they only managed to fell two of their attackers. There were three.

On the other side of the clearing, near the first shrubs that cover the hill, I spot the corpse of a man who fell where he fought. He gazes at the stars with his one remaining eye. A lucky shot caught him right in the head.

Another was dragged against a desolate tree, exsanguinated. His lifeblood smears his shirt and improvised bandages, shining a delicate shade of crimson against the steady fire. The pool around his prone figures shows that the efforts to save him were in vain. He is young.

I lightly nudge Metis and she stops. I stare at the lone survivor’s hiding place until he stands up cautiously, red-coated hands strangling a shotgun.

“Well, I’ll be. A woman.”

Fantastic tools of deduction there.

I make no effort to move or breathe. He is a lone human under no particular protection, my staple food these days.

“And what’s a pretty thing doing alone, here at this hour?” he demands.

I inspect him with some interest as he does the same. He is a man of medium size, well built, with light brown eyes and a magnificent dark mustache that splits his head in two like an axe wound. He wears a long duster powdered with red earth, caked blood up to his elbows, as well as a wide-trimmed hat. A revolver hangs by his side and he bears on his breast the star of a marshal. A lawman! How quaint.

“Are you an officer or are you a bandit?” I retort with innocence.

The man is cautious, and I respect him for that. He alternates nervously between Metis, me, and some unidentified threat at our back with his gun brandished as if daring us to act.

“Marshal Sheridan, ma’am, Texas Ranger. Now I’ll ask you to kindly tell me what the hell you’re doing out here,” he says, and lifts a hand to grab Metis’ bridle. My precious Nightmare lifts her head, suddenly interested by five potential crunchy snacks.

“I would not try that if I were you,” I suggest, and his hand falls away. I can see the telltales of a man at the end of his rope. His nerves are raw and exposed, visible in the erratic movements of his hands and the bloodshot quality of his eyes.

“You and I were after the same quarry, except that I intended to follow them to their base and you… removed that option.”

“Those men were mad!” he suddenly screams, “Mad as hares the lots of them! Lunatics! I’d never… never…”

The shotgun in his hands aims down. A great shiver shakes his tired frame. A dam opens.

“They never gave us the time. We were just asking questions… I have been a ranger for four years and I have never seen such a… Logan. James. I am sorry.”

As quickly as it appeared, the weakness is hidden behind a curtain of steely resolve. Sheridan regains control of his emotion with visible effort.

“That ain’t here or now. Lady, you are confusing me. Quarry you say? That doesn’t sound right at all.”

“And yet,” I reply with amusement, “here we are, and I would bet solid gold that an armed woman is far from being the strangest thing you have witnessed tonight hmmm? A bit of wizardry, perhaps?”

“How did you know?” he asks with distrust.

“I told you. We are after the same people. What differentiates us is that I knew exactly what I was going to face.”

I did not exactly lie. I exaggerated. Exaggerating is a form of gloating, and a perfectly acceptable occupation for a respectable young vampire.

“Devilry…” Sheridan mutters. He resumes his inspection, this time more thoughtful than wary. His gaze travels along my travel dress, the lightly armored kind, my rifle, and to the revolvers on my hips.

“Do you even know how to use those?” he scoffs.

I draw and shoot his cap off.

“JESUS… FUCK!” he screams as he falls on his behind and scrambles away.

I do not move, except for patting the gun I used to unhat him. Metis snorts, as is her wont when someone gets humiliated before her august presence.

Sheridan climbs to his feet and recovers the mishandled headdress. He shoves a finger in the newly made ventilation hole — you are welcome Sheridan —and shakes his head for what must have been the twelfth time.

“I must be mad.”

“I find it amusing that you would face a flame-tossing wizard, yet a girl with a gun aggravates you.”

“I had heard about flame-tossing wizards before…” he grumbles, before stepping back. “The world has turned on its head. Or I was indeed shot, and I am lying in some ditch hallucinating the whole scene.”

“Or perhaps someone came to answer your call in your hour of need.”

“Do you bring salvation?” he asks, hope flaring.

“Perhaps…”

“Are you… an angel?” he says with uncertainty.

I give him my most unmoving, cold smile. I let the dancing lights of the improvised funeral pyre shine on a hint of fang, red and shiny. Just enough to make him flinch. Metis rakes the ashes beneath her with a heavy hoof.

“Do I look like an angel?”

I get a great answer. Sheridan scrambles back, white as a sheet. He signs himself in his terror as his succulent heartbeat drums a merry tune to compliment the crackle of the fire.

I missed this.

“If you are here for my soul…”

“Nothing so crass, I assure you. As I said, I am here to, shall we say, purify this land of their presence. Us meeting here was merely… divine providence.”

I taste ash on my tongue as the religious terms cross my lips. The world does not like it when I skirt the rules. It lets me know in no uncertain terms.

“You want me to pair up with you? A witch? Never! The lord is with me and I will never align with the forces of evil!”

“Ah, so you would leave those who murdered your friends unpunished. I understand.”

“I know that I won’t forfeit my immortal soul!”

“I already told you. It is not yours that I am here to collect.”

I am genuinely curious now. Will he take the bait? I have never worked with someone who sees themselves as virtuous and possesses an inkling as to what I am. The possibilities intrigue me. And if things come to a head, well…

I can always use a snack.

Sheridan considers my offer with more seriousness than I expected. His attention turns to the bodies of his previous allies and only now do I see the glint of a star on their chests. At the sight of their lifeless forms, his body hardens. It gains an iron quality I have seen in humans who will pursue a goal to its bitter end. Vengeance has overtaken justice.

“You are not after my soul, you swear?”

“I am simply not interested in it and I will not go after it. You have my word.”

What is it with humans and souls? I cannot even eat those. Pah.

“Well…”

His gaze hardens.

“Dammit all. I have to complete my mission. At any cost.”

Our eyes meet.

“Any cost. I will go after those loony heathens, and hell will come with me.”

“That it will, Mr. Sheridan, that it will.”

In the next few minutes, I silently assist Sheridan with the gruesome tasks of preparing the bodies of his friends. He places them on planks of wood he recovered from the wreck and covers them with mostly unburned tarp. I stand at a distance as he mutters a few prayers, then stand where I am as he climbs up the valley to recover his horse. I am lucky to have absorbed Erenwald essence or this partnership would have ended here and there, with a horrified horse. Instead, the poor gelding is merely made nervous by Metis’ scent.

“Will you return for the bodies?” I finally ask.

“We have patrols in the area. They will be found within one or two days with the smoke. I hope. I can do nothing for them anyway.”

I should not have mentioned it. The weather is very warm. The stench of carrion is sure to attract a multitude of animals eager for an easy meal.

“You did not seem too surprised by the presence of a witch among our foes,” I idly remark.

“There have been rumors lately. We were told to fear more than the curses of the savages. Strange creatures. Abnormal beasts. The world is getting stranger and darker,” he complains.

Ah.

I was expecting that.

For a long time, magic had been a misunderstood and mysterious part of the world. Soldiers and peasants in the middle ages accepted magic as a fact of everyday life, making few differences between the potions of an herbalist and the hexes of one burnt at the stake. Even madmen or epileptics were part of the supernatural world on the level of gnomes, elves and korrigans.

Enlightenment and the rise of the natural sciences have lifted the veil of mystery over many phenomena. Thunderbolts are electricity. Epilepsy is merely a disease. The potions of herbalists are chemical compounds with salutary effects on the flesh of man, and so on and so forth. The winds of change have stripped away much of the fog of superstition, but what remains now only stands in sharper contrast. Worse, the development of reliable means of communication, the multiplication of newspapers and centralized governments now shed light on magical creatures and their true capabilities.

Most communities make a good attempt at remaining hidden, so the mortals in power probably underestimate the size of the supernatural population in their midst. The status quo will not last forever.

I believe it is only a matter of time before we are revealed in a world that abhors differences. We must prepare.

Creating bonds with mortal agents might be a first step towards protecting ourselves. I will treat my cooperation with Sheridan as a proof of concept and converse with Sephare. She has her fingers in a great many pies, and she understands politics better than most. If anyone knows how to manage the transition when it happens, it will be her.

As I ponder, we follow the lone track away from the encampment and towards a series of hills in the distance. The night is as bright as a winter day, with a gibbous moon on a cloudless sky. I find myself bubbling with questions.

“So, have you hunted witches before?”

“Only once,” Sheridan intones, “we chased a group of Comanches who had abducted women from an isolated farm. We hung the lot and the oldest of them cast a curse upon us. Lo and behold, five months later George was completely bald. Terrible thing, that.”

“Uhu,” I answer noncommittally.

Nevermind.

“And there was that time where we had to kill a buffalo that was twice the normal size! And it could destroy a house by charging through it!”

“Ah yes. I am familiar with the oversized fauna.”

Truth be told, they are much less amusing to hunt than feral werewolves. They lack the vicious cunning that makes the bipedal prey entertaining, with the notable exception of that alligator that almost ate me.

Sheridan’s mood collapses. My distraction only pushed his grief and suspicion away for a moment. I am, once more, inspected from head to toe.

“Are you really a witch?”

“Of a sort.”

“So… you… and the devil…”

It only takes me an instant to know exactly which myth he is referring to.

“What? No! Noooo. That is not how it happens!”

“Then what happened? What pushed such a nice young thing like you to… do whatever you do?”

His tone is gruff, yet strangely nonjudgmental.

I remain silent for a while, searching his face for signs of disgust and finding none. Whether out of misplaced chivalry or true curiosity, his interest appears genuine.

It is, I believe, the first time in my life that someone asks me this question. The men and women I interact with either do not care or know better than to ask. There has not been a single Devourer turned consensually since the first one. We were only allowed to die after being broken and humiliated.

“It was not by choice,” I begin, and falter under this stranger’s full attention.

I never considered how to explain it.

“It was not by choice,” I try again, “I met someone at a social event a long time ago.”

“The devil?”

“The closest thing this world has to the devil. He was mature, handsome, and charming. He was also an acceptable prospect for a well-to do young woman. Champagne and sweet wine made me daring, and my audacity amused him enough to garner his attention.”

“What happened then?” Sheridan asks softly.

“He killed me and turned me into something like him.”

“He turned you into one of his servants.”

Did he?

“Not even that. I was made out of one part convenience and two parts fun.”

“For fun?” he exclaims.

“For fun.”

“That sounds like a tough deal alright. Any chance you can, you know, redeem yourself?”

“Not even death can redeem us because we already died once.”

My companion is not the best conversationalist, as I should have realized before. He ruminates on my words. Actually, he is ruminating on a piece of tobacco chew he removed from a breast pocket. I still appreciate the concern.

“You were dealt a bad hand, miss.”

He chews pensively.

“… but you seem alright. My father used to say: you got yourself and you got the world. If you were turned into some kind of demon lady in waiting or something and you still decided to go after faithless heathens like the fellows we’ll soon meet, well, you’re alright in my book.”

And just like that I have been vetted. I do not think I will ever grow used to how strangely accepting some people are of my nature. Papa was the first and there were others too, like Cecil Rutherford Bingle. Perhaps they are trying to make sense of the world through acceptance, or perhaps they simply have an open mind.

“We should plan,” I finish.

“Right. What do you know about those lunatics?” he asks.

“They are part of an unnamed decentralized cult made of several cells that cooperate for supplies and knowledge. My associates and I believe that they trade with Comanche raiders for funds, among other things. From the size of the supply convoy and the regularity of the runs I would say that their base has between fifteen and twenty people, plus the ones you already eliminated, with at least five being women and untrained for war. They will have at least one other spellcaster of unknown strength. I expect the camp to be hidden over there:” I say and point to the hills in front of us.

“You can see a bit of smoke trailing over the vale right behind that cliff there. We can expect sentinels that we can dispatch if we are careful. As for weaponry, they can have anything from antiquated Brown Bess to Models eighteen forty-one cap locks they filched off some rich victims so you must remain careful.”

I stop and turn to Sheridan who is no longer chewing. His mouth hangs open.

“You sure know your business, huh?” he finally says.

“I always prepare if it is at all possible. Why? What put you on their trail?”

“Kidnapping. Lots of settlers around here. Sometimes, some go missing. Bandits, raiders, sometimes they just get lost or die from diseases. We help whenever we can. I suppose we found what other source of financing they use heh?”

“Ransoms? No. Abduction is a strange choice for them. Relatives may try to locate them to rescue the captives and they already have an efficient way to recruit new minions if they must. Hmm. I hope this is not what I think it is.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are more than a hundred pounds of edible tissue in an average person.”

“Jesus woman, I hope you’re joking!”

“So do I.”

Cannibals disgust me. Only those who have devolved to less than humanity would stoop so low. They also share a dreadful tendency not to wash themselves, which makes feeding a much less pleasurable experience. Also, lice.

My latest remark sours the mood. Sheridan does not object when I lead angle off-track and dismount a short distance away.

“We will make our approach on foot under the cover of the shrubbery. If they have even one sentry, they will be watching the road.”

I pick up my newest rifle from Metis’ harness and place a hand on the girl’s neck before she can take off.

“No eating his colleagues,” I warn her.

She shakes her head in an equine ‘maybe’. I can never be sure exactly how smart Metis is. I highly suspect that she is sharper than she lets on and pretends not to understand when it fits her temperament and her stomach. A bit like a cat if cats shattered rib cages for fun.

“You are not tying her up?” Sheridan asks.

“No need. She will be here if I need it.”

“So… a magical horse?” he asks, and Metis snorts as she trots away.

“Yes. She comes with increased stamina and sass.”

“Huh. Say, I have one more question.”

“Do tell.”

“It’s just that I have never seen real magic. I mean, I saw street magicians who could guess cards and the likes but I suppose that it’s all tricks. So, magic. Can you show me some? Because so far all I have is your word for it, and I feel a little bit like a fool. No offense.”

“None taken. Light.”

A small orb of purple light emerges from the center of my gauntlet, hidden beneath my sleeve. Sheridan fixes the selfish lantern with his sad brown eyes, then turns his attention to me. He studies my face now basked in the treacherous radiance and I meet his gaze with my own.

“You are older than you appear, are you not?”

“Excellent guess, Sheridan.”

He now turns a bit sheepish.

“So…. How old are you exactly?”

“Ranger!” I tsk, “you should never ask a lady’s age!”

“Sorry! I’m just curious, is all.”

Oh well. If I am going to be honest to see his reaction, I might as well go all the way.

“I am sixty-four.”

“Wow! Just like my nanna then!” he realizes. The exclamation turns his face a delicate shade of tulip.

“Just like your nanna,” I parrot, amused, but he now stares at the orb once again.

“It’s pretty enough, I guess,” he whispers. “Not what I expected from, well, devilry.”

“I get my powers from being what I am. Most other folks have powers because their ancestors frolicked with fairies. No devil involved.”

“Really? With fairies?”

“To be fair,” I remark while thinking about a specific amber-eyed villain, “they can be rather seductive.”

“Right. That’s… a lot to take in.”

I hang my rifle over my shoulder.

“Then take it in on the way. We have a busy night and must be done before morning. I have a very sensitive skin. The sun is bad for it.”

“What, will you burst into flames?” he laughs.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

We move forward in silence. The visibility is good tonight which is a double-edged sword. My companion will be able to see but so will our foes.

This is the moment where I hesitate. I agreed to take this Hunt for Lord Jarek and I intend to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion. Sheridan’s presence adds a volatile element to a familiar mix. I am giving myself a disadvantage here.

Ah, but I agreed to kill them, not to kill them tonight. Therefore, I can give myself a challenge so long as the task is completed in the end. The Natalis lord would understand, of this I am sure.

Should I limit myself to support spells and my firearms? This could be an interesting… ah, who am I kidding, it would be fun.

I lovingly caress the engraved surface of my rifle. The revolvers are Jimena’s gift. This is my creation.

“Is it a magic gun?” my companion wonders.

“Glad you asked. This is a modified eighteen forty-one needle gun from Prussia with a custom firing pin and spring for improved reliability, a self-cooling bolt-action mechanism and percussion-cap, glyphed silver bullets. The barrel is perfectly rifled and reinforced at the base. This, Mr. Ranger, is a marvel of military engineering that can shoot a man dead from half a mile away.”

I raise my eyes from my creation, only to meet Sheridan’s puzzled expression.

“Are you normal? For a witch, I mean.”

The lout.

“You will learn, if you live, that there is little normalcy in our world. Now quiet, we must find their lair and decide on what to do,” I grumble.

We spend half an hour in silence, moving forward at a brisk pace to the base of the hill. The chest-high shrubbery turns to blackened tufts of grass as the land elevates. There will be no cover to be found here, so I take a full minute to thoroughly inspect the crest. It would be wasteful to put limitations on myself only to fail from overconfidence.

Satisfied with my inspection, I move up and end up following Sheridan who endeavors to be first. He sometimes casts a glance back as we scale the incline and the ease with which I keep up needles his pride, so that he has turned into a sweaty, hard-breathing mess by the time we near the summit.

“Do you have some sort of demonic constitution?” he gasps.

“Of course.”

This offends him, somehow.

“Look,” I whisper, and point in the distance.

Over the ridge of the hill and on the flank of the next, about two hundred paces away, the cultists have created a small encampment out of a strange ruin. While we have treaded soil on our way up, the opposing slope is rust-colored stone, sheer and vertiginous. The remnants of a village merge seamlessly with the geography, brick walls of the same dye closing and opening spaces for houses and other buildings. The settlement huddles around a central well around which the earth is moist and dark.

The cult only made a token effort to fit out the place. Most dwellings lie gutted and empty. Only a few openings have been covered with undyed tarp. As expected of a smaller group.

A single trail leads from the path we abandoned earlier into a narrow ravine and up a mountain road. A sentinel covered with a cloak sits restlessly on a stone chair, peering at the moonlit approach. I was right. We would have been spotted immediately.

I return my attention to the open ground before the well and its content: two rows of cages.

The right one is a makeshift thing with an iron and wooden frame over a collapsed house. Multiple pieces of fabric cover it to ward off the sun during the day. I spot moving skin and clothes through the multiple openings.

The kidnapped victims.

The left one is a nasty steel trap that could contain a feral for hours. It currently hosts a living, drooling Merghol hound. The quadrupedal version.

At the sight of the creature, I hiss, causing Sheridan to look on warily. I had forgotten my instinctive reaction because the beasts I had uncovered with Malakim had been quite dead. This one is healthy and kicking and it SHOULD NOT BE HERE.

INTRUDER.

“You see something?”

“One sentry, one magical dog, and your abductees.”

Sheridan swears.

“A dog means we cannot sneak in to—”

He stops when the scene changes before us. A group of three people exits the largest building. They wield torches so that even my companion manages to spot them with ease. The trio walks down a few steps to the well and the captives. The leader stops and removes a silvery tube covered in shimmering glyphs from the confines of his cloak that screams of powerful magic. Surprisingly, I feel nothing even if I should be able to perceive its aura with no barrier between us. Even focusing my attention on it yields no result.

“What are they doing?” Sheridan whispers.

The two other men are clearly muscle. They walk to the human cage and get in. I strain my ears and get a few panicked screams and the telltale impact of a fist on someone’s flesh in the still night. The goons soon drag a young man away from the cage, punch an older woman in the face when she tries to stop them, then slam the entrance close. They drag their victim towards the hound.

A hand clamps on my shoulder, causing me to hiss once more. The issue is not physical contact; the issue is boundaries.

“Woman, give me that gun,” Sheridan orders.

“Remove. Your. Hand.”

My tone brooks no compromise, and the man knows it. Reflexive Charm brings the point home with more certainty than a pistol to the head.

We have reached the breaking point long before I anticipated it.

I was entertaining an amusing distraction. He was riding with the flow, my strange presence like a fever dream after the loss of his partners. Something pushed him forward. Something stayed my hand. I feel fate tug on me once again, but this time I will do nothing. This moment belongs to him.

The world around me tastes of the moment before the fall, when gravity still has to assert itself.

“Can you make the shot?” Sheridan asks, his face ghastly. I am showing my fangs now.

“Yes. It will reveal our position. Make my task harder.”

The child is at the cage now. One of the goons climbs on top of it. The hound slams against its prison, in vain. The cage is secured.

“Will you not save them?”

“Remember who you are talking to.”

A hesitation.

“What will it take for you to save them?”

Supplicant. Not just supplicant. Something more.

A man who would accept me for who I am without being a monster himself.

“I have been looking for someone like you for a very, very long time. Someone who would keep his values and his codes and still tolerate my nature. Let me be clear. I can save all those bumpkins you never met and yet value so much. I can put a bullet in the head of anyone who approaches their cage, then move closer and do much worse. I can do all of that and you cannot because all you have is a pistol and a crappy shotgun made from pig iron served by your pathetic mortal senses. I can do this for you.”

The first goon opens a smallish trapdoor. The hound rams its massive, ugly lamprey mouth into it and receives a few smacks of a truncheon for its trouble.

“In return, you will come and see my world. One hunt is all I ask. Join me, and find out how far that midsummer night dream carries you.”

The second goon lifts the terrified wreck of the teenager to the top of the cage.

“Yes, dammit yes. I will see. I want to see. Show me the world as it is.”

Something clicks.

Then my firing pin clicks. The deflagration takes the cultists by surprise, especially the one on top of the cage when the bullet hits him in the neck.

I was aiming for the head but, well, he jumped.

I calmly open the bolt, replace the cartridge with a fresh one and close it in one smooth, practiced motion. The second goon was just about to turn when my next shot catches him in the chest.

“Cover me, I’ll go save them!” the ranger yells.

Then he is off.

A few yards to my right, an escarpment juts out above the void below. An athletic adult could easily jump the distance to reach the opposing side without sliding down the ravine, not to mention the grueling climb that would follow. I notice this as my hand locks the third cartridge in its deadly little cradle.

The man carrying the unknown artefact would be my next priority since my new objective is to protect the child. Unfortunately, he has more brains than his minions and he hits the ground almost immediately. I can barely spot the tip of his boots as he scrambles behind the well and its successive layers of mortared brick. So much for clearing the place entirely.

I still shoot the sentinel as he makes his way back.

Sheridan jumps over the chasm and lands on the other side in a puff of reddish dust. At the same time, the huddled form of the artefact holder screams orders to his men still inside. I hear a clang of released metal and a familiar baying.

Of course, they would not just have the one hound.

I tsk as several of the purple creatures charge into the settlement’s plaza with the grace of rabid bulls. They crash into the abductee’s cage almost immediately, ignoring the cultist as they pass him by. It only takes a moment for the ugliest of them to raise its tentacled snout into the air and breathe like a forge bellow.

Sheridan, who had been rushing ahead with the energy of despair, stops in his tracks.

The hounds turn in multiple directions. Two of them inspect the cage containing their brethren as well as the lanky youth hiding behind it. The rest focuses on the gesticulating form of the ranger a bit further.

“Hey, hey, you big ugly cocksuckers! Come get a piece of this!”

Foolish man.

The head creature rises to the challenge and the pack follows soon after. I move towards them, firing all the while. I have a problem. The bullets I use could puncture a bear from eyeball to sphincter, but they only slow down the hounds unless I hit something vital and I do not dare take too long to aim. Stupid magic resistance.

Sheridan is now sprinting back as fast as his legs can carry him. We reach the promontory at the same time.

He jumps, half a dozen beasts barely half a second behind.

I drop my rifle and draw. I lodge two bullets in the first hound’s skull , causing it to stumble in its death throes. The next two hit the corpse in a mad tussle that tilts them over the edge and down the chasm.

One more hound. Two more bullets. Three. Another falls down with a yelp.

Last hound. I switch to my last gun and empty the six chambers in its misshapen maw.

The lead creatures smash into the rocks below. Their ululating shrieks cease.

Silence returns.

I flip the revolvers on my index a few times, then return them to their holsters with uncanny grace.

I am not showing off.

Alright, I am showing off, but only to impress the mortals. Displays of skills are an essential part of proper gloating.

A quick levitation spell and my rifle jumps into my waiting hand.

The shock on Sheridan’s face delights me.

“Where did you learn how to shoot like that?!”

“Now is not the time to be impressed,” I soberly inform the man I was trying to impress, “the work is not done.”

“Yes, of course. The child.”

And off we go, running in the other direction again. I make a note to return later and make sure the dead hounds are actually dead. A quick jump, and we rush up the cliffside road to the pair of cages.

“Let’s stay low,” Sheridan orders, and well he does. We have barely topped the incline when the first bullet flies over us like a furious wasp.

“Hold fire, dammit!” a commanding voice hollers in the distance.

Ah, the joys of having incompetent underlings. That is why we vampires only recruit carefully instead of raking in anyone with two legs and a pulse.

Sheridan sprints forward and fires his shotgun at one of the many maws in the ruins’ pockmarked face. Someone yelps in pain. Not bad. The ranger uses the distraction to slide against the cover of the well. He drops the discharged weapon and grabs his sidearm, a genuine Colt Patterson.

“I’ll give you one chance to come out with your hands in the air ‘fore I turn your collective asses into a sieve you lily-livered fucks!”

Bullets impact the well, showering us with stone shards.

“Very eloquent,” I comment.

“You know, before tonight I had only been in a shootout twice. In four years of service,” Sheridan replies conversationally.

The hail of bullets intensifies, which means that we will soon have a few seconds while those idiots all reload at the same time.

I take a peek over the edge, only to see the man with the artefact lift it. Now that I get a perfect look at it, it resembles a long, girthy tube of silvery metal. The runes on its flank shine ominously as its maw reddens.

That cannot be good.

“By the Watcher. Get down! Shield,” I yell.

The purple half-circle is barely formed before the world explodes around us. A tremendous blast vaporizes half of our cover and smashes into my last line of defense.

“Ooof!”

I am pushed outward and land on Sheridan’s stomach. The ranger fearlessly grabbed me as I was falling.

The shield cracks but the strength is enough to deflect the projectile which impacts the other side of the ravine in a great shower of carbonized dust and black grass. My ears ring. I feel like I was punched in the gut with a ship prow.

Sheridan lifts me up with a wince and a cough. A cloud of brick powder masks our presence now and the gunfire has abated as our foes wait for the dust to settle. If I were them, I would expect our remains to fit in a snuff box.

The feedback from the broken spell courses through my essence and I grit my teeth in pain and anger.

Even more so when I take in the desperate state of my combat dress.

It was the last one too!

Augh!

Can’t my foes spend one bloody night without ruining my wardrobes!? The insufferable…. Curs!

“YOU HAVE BEEN VERY NAUGHTY!” I bellow to no one in particular.

“You’re alive?” the artefact wielder exclaims.

This kind of shameless observation only deserves the hardest of rebuke. I lift my gauntlet and consider the full catalog of horrible, bowel-dissolving, skin-peeling hexes I could unleash on my foes when I spot something at the edge of my vision and the very idea comes crashing down.

Inside the cage, the one surviving hound gnaws on a steel bar with unmitigated ferocity, giving me a full vision of its collar.

The strangeness of the situation surprises me so much that my attention lapses and, if I had been facing vampires, I would have been in danger. Nothing comes to distract me from my observation.

Someone fastened a restraint around what passes as a neck of this horrid creature. The apparatus is unlike anything I have ever seen. Segments of dull straight metal alternate with modular, spring-like contraptions that keep the thing close to the beast while allowing a full range of motion. A larger cylinder on the side houses a glassy capsule inside of which sloshes a blue liquid. Its design is not just specifically made for the hound, it also shows a completely alien sense of aesthetics — or lack thereof — a sterile mesh of elements as meticulously made as they are bland. It is, without a doubt, new. The abomination it is stuck to has not yet found the time to despoil its smooth surface.

The very sight of it fills me with rage.

INTRUDER.

OUTSIDER.

A deep sense of wrongness fans the fires of my anger. Those cultists have done it, the fools. They have done it indeed.

A long time ago, Semiramis mentioned that she had learnt the names of the creature by books she had found. I had realized the implication, of course. The dull world we saw had not always been dying, its magic shred from its physical anchor. No. Someone had caused the cataclysm.

I had always expected the perpetrators of this monstrosity to have died from the consequences of their actions. Now, seeing the relatively new construct, I realize that I was wrong.

Someone still lives beyond the portals.

Someone with manufacturing capabilities.

And those someones may just have ways to track their belongings.

“What have you done?” I screech.

Any thought of a new potential Vassal, any notion of challenge or the Hunt evaporates.

Sapient life beyond the portals.

And a plethora of careless idiots opening ways there left and right, leaving the key to piercing the veil at their very feet.

Enough of this.

I let my aura go, discarding any restraint I placed on myself. It crashes against my hidden foes who swear and curse as even their mundane senses pick up the arctic tide of power. As for the mage, he is stuck in place.

I take a deep breath and the taste of magic changes around me. It feels like frenetic sprints and breached hiding places. The tension hangs in the air like a raised belt in a drunken father’s fist. I am done playing games.

“Aennestra.”

Terror.

Mewling screams expand like a wave from my extended hand as something screams at the edge of my listening range. The spell travels outward, its power warping the air with its passing.

I let the underlings cower and flee and make my way to the leader, barely noticing the thorny root keeping him in place. The cultist cries when he finally understands what he has been facing all this time.

I grab him by the throat and smash him against the wall. The cowl falls from his face, revealing a clean-shaven young man with pale green eyes. His aura flared after he dropped the cylinder.

“I have questions.”

“I will answer everything you ask truthfully and completely if you agree to let me go and if neither you nor your servant pursue me,” he babbles.

Amusing.

“I am not her servant, boy,” Sheridan says, calm despite my display of power. I aimed the wave of terror forward so he and the other captives remained unscathed.

This should be amusing.

“You get one night of respite. For one night, neither he nor I nor the prisoners will be allowed to pursue nor strike you. Refuse and I will start interrogating you thoroughly. Do try me. I have much on my mind.”

“I agree to your terms,” the mage hiccups between sobs.

“Good. Where is your portal?”

“Inside! In the main building! It’s inactive now.”

“Do the other cells know how to open gates as well?”

“Yes! We are… mapping the new world. We will find paradise, eventually.”

I stop for a moment and relax my hold on his neck.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Beyond limbo, there is Elysium. We will find it.”

They think this is the afterlife! The Watcher save me from those superstitious monkeys.

“Why is there a hound with a collar here?”

“The…the hounds of hell suck life and magic alike. We believe someone was controlling this specimen. We poisoned it and found remnants of a corpse in the vicinity, but I do not have it. The cadaver was taken by another cell. It looked like a short man, that’s all I know, I swear!”

So, the handler was dead. Perhaps we have some time before we are found. Perhaps he was the last of his kind.

Bah, who am I kidding? A dying man on a desolate world could not have forged that.

I spend a few more minutes asking him about the location of other cells, but it soon becomes clear that my captive sits rather low on the cultist totem pole. Even the people shooting at us from inside the structures were just laborers, not trained soldiers, and they surrendered to my companion without any more effort on my part.

“You may go,” I finally inform the mage as I toss him on the side. By the time I was finished, Sheridan had already freed the surviving abductees and gathered them in a semblance of order. Many of them were staring at me with the wariness that comes from seeing a young woman lifting a fully grown adult with one arm before discarding him without effort.

Despite everything, the ranger still walks up to me.

“Guess you fulfilled your end of the bargain. Can’t say that I’m looking forward to mine.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. I will not ask you to do anything too unsavory. We might even save some mortals,” I declare with some annoyance as I watch the back of my fleeing would-be dinner.

“It does not feel right to let him go,” the ranger grumbles.

“Indeed not, Sheridan. Fortunately, my kind loves few things more than semantics, and giving our prey false hope.”

I whistle. It takes half a minute for a familiar voice to emerge from behind me.

“Your will, Miss Ari?”

“Do you see that man running down the ravine?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Kill him.”

109. Hell's Gates

The following two months sees me alternating between keeping an eye on Richard, cursing all the deities I can name and a few I cannot for the prolonged war, and taking Sheridan on Hunts. We find two more cult hideouts before the rest figure out that someone is after them, rescuing a few more mortals from ending as hound chow. He is only slightly disappointed when it turns out that the second group of rescued captives is made of Comanches.

“Well, they don’t deserve to be eaten either, I suppose,” he gruffly admits.

Jarek later requests that we track down an oversized jackal and end up covered in guts when the creature inexplicably explodes.

“I wish I could say this was unusual,” I tersely remark as I remove a piece of intestine from my hair, “but that would be lying, Mr. Sheridan.”

The ranger ponders on an important revelation while cleaning shredded liver from his hat.

“You know,” he finally replies, “I think that you may call me Marshal. If you wish.”

I still call him Sheridan.

My Vassal candidate ends each Hunt with the same awkward “Let me know when we can do it again!” as if he had brought me home after a night at the dance. I am unsure how to express that I am more than ready to consummate our union, in this case by having him serve as my moral compass and ambassador for the rest of his mortal life. I cannot help but draw a parallel with Dalton who had been direct and daring.

I should not compare the two. It would be unfair.

Late September finally brings a change. The temperatures lower to merely ‘oppressing’ from ‘one of the circles of hell’ and the hostilities resume anew. The American army moves south and assaults the Mexican troops in Monterrey. Follow three days of hard-fought combat during which Richard makes a name for himself through decisive actions and a cunning understanding of tactics. His stance also shifts. From mentioning the strategic reasons of the conflict and justifying its existence, he progressively comes to talk more about his squad and leading them. Responsibility and duty catch him by surprise between two bouts of patriotism and it soon becomes clear that my nephew has a bright future in the army.

To my dismay.

I cannot simply drop a large group of bodyguards to defend him then scurry back north, because it would go against my oath. I promised Achille that I would take care of my nephew until he returned, and I must do so in person or risk my essence fracturing if he dies a preventable death.

I am thus forced to handle all my affairs remotely. Fortunately, I have extremely competent allies in the persons of Merritt, Melusine and, surprisingly, Urchin. My presence near the army also means that I conduct a great deal of spying for my faction within the Accords and Constantine himself. There is also diplomacy. Mexico has an active population of mages with several competing traditions, a population that we are eager to establish contacts with. Fortunately for me, most of them are rather fragmented with little sympathy for their own government, making my task easier than it could have been.

It also helps that I am polite and peaceful. Most people with any knowledge of my kind as well as two brain cells to rub together prefer to keep it that way.

Texas, early October.

My rented room inside of the Natalis safe house is cozy and warm. Red banners decorate the ochre stone and the lack of windows only makes the setting more intimate. My sarcophagus lies in the corner, its top open.

A silvery mirror occupies one corner of a room. I sit down in front of it and focus on the engraving around the frame. The surface shimmers when I activate it and a man I recognize greets me with a smile.

“Isaac of the Rosenthal? You have returned?” I exclaim.

“Ah, Ariane, it is so good to see you again. Splendid, splendid. Yes, indeed I have come back to the New World for a most important occasion, and we will have an excellent opportunity to meet each other again.”

His image wavers due to my distraction. Fortunately, the mirror is a powerful focus, specifically designed for this task. It also cost a pretty penny. Isaac looks good with his intelligent brown eyes and carefully combed dark hair. He appears more predatory now, less a competent civil servant and more a sharp investor.

“Being a Master suits you,” I observe.

“So it would seem. I am still grateful for the help you provided in that Hunt we shared. Without your timely assistance I would have failed to reach that state.”

“Surely you are exaggerating,” I politely answer, “you were on the verge of becoming a master anyway.”

“No Ariane, I was on the verge of going rogue. It was the excruciating agony of bringing myself back from that state that pushed me over the edge and let me feel my essence for the first time.”

Oh wow.

“I… am sorry. I had no idea.”

“The memory of this moment will remain engraved in my mind until the day I die. I had never felt anything close even under the care of our resistance trainers. Truly, it was a pain that seared my essence and left behind a cracked brand from which only death will deliver me.”

A drunken muse could not salvage this conversation.

“Ah, but I digress, I digress, after you somehow erased the Key of Beriah, I returned to Geneva and managed to convince our Progenitor that not only had you rid the world of a tool of senseless death, you had also managed to do so by repulsing an invasion and slaying its Herald in single combat at the ripe age of twenty something. She was intrigued.”

“I did have some assistance.”

“Not for the dueling part. I assure you that it was no small feat, and you did it anyway. This, as well as my recommendation, means that we agree to your proposal on a formal alliance with the purpose of securing tools to kill the unkillable.”

“You will help me?”

“Ariane, we are a centuries-old organization with means and knowledge beyond your comprehension. You will be assisting us.”

“Yes, whatever, as long as I pull the trigger and it works.”

“We are not ‘pulling the trigger’, as you so prosaically put it, my dear, we administer the medicine. One that the patient must survive.”

“The patient being the world?”

“Yes. We have ways… but we are unwilling to pay the price, unless we face a ‘cas de force majeure’,” he finishes in French.

“We do have an interesting lead to pursue.”

“Do tell.”

“It will require an expedition that we will organize and fund and that you will head, if you so wish. My esteemed clan head requires a boon in return. We have decided to hold this year’s Hell’s Gate in New-Orleans.”

I remain silent as Isaac stands there, looking very proud of himself.

“This will not involve tiny imps flying around and dragging the sinners, gamblers, and brazen hussies back into the bowels of Tartarus, will it?” I ask.

“Of course not.”

“Good, because there would be very little left of the city then.”

“Hell’s Gate,” Issac explains with the patience normally reserved for slow children, “is our annual inter-species auction.”

I pause.

“Never heard of it.”

“A lady should never admit to ignorance, my dear. As for you never hearing about it, it is simply due to the fact that this august event has never taken place in your fair country. Yet.”

Then, after a while.

“We also leave the best pick to the clans beforehand, so they have little reason to attend, or to mention it.”

“Fascinating. And you need my assistance?”

“Indeed. We have a sensitive security matter we would need you to handle. It requires a delicate touch camouflaged as an iron fist. I immediately thought of you.”

“Yes. Delicate touch. That is completely me. Haha.”

“I apologize for asking this. Her grace the Lady Rosenthal requests further proof of competence and commitment from you, but she means no insult.”

“None taken.”

“Then, if you agree, make your way to Lord Jarek’s base where a ship will take you to New-Orleans.”

Hmm.

“I have a… Vassal candidate. I took him on two hunts but for some reason he is not crossing the threshold. Can I bring him with me?”

“Can you vouch for him? You can bring a small team if you wish. Keep in mind that they will be your responsibility.”

“I understand. One last thing. Have you looked into what I asked?”

We need to finish this quickly. My focus is wavering, as shown in Isaac’s increasingly blurry profile.

“I am sorry Ariane. Except for some specific Erenwald powers and a handful of druidic traditions, there are no records of vampires causing thorny roots to grow when they fight. The spells I found always cause growth from existing vegetation and they do not disappear afterward. This is a mystery.”

By the Watcher. It already happened several times too. What could those be?

“Ah, the spell is breaking on my end. Remember! The Natalis pier.”

Well, Richard’s squadron is still encamped for the foreseeable future and it looks like the next offensive will be by way of the sea. I will arrange for a light protection detail and see that this entails.

One night later, off the coast of Texas.

I lean against the railing of the tiny sloop and watch the shore as it passes me by. Beaches, cliffs and rocks succeed each other in a slow revolving canvas that has not yet grown monotonous.

“It’s my first time aboard a ship,” Sheridan finally admits, “besides canoes and small river crafts.”

“Is it? How do you like it so far?”

“It’s very calm.”

“Yes, there should be no boarding actions this time,” I assure him.

Ah, perhaps it would have been better not to mention this at all.

“Boarding actions?” he immediately replies, horrified, “could it be that you have engaged in piracy?”

Dread Pirate Queen Ariane the Bloodthirsty, scourge of the Atlantic!

“No no, just a little bit of privateering.”

The ranger submits me to his inquisitive glare, one that led to the confession of many a ruffian.

“I had a genuine letter de marque, I promise,” I reply innocently.

It might have been slightly illegal and crafted in secret by an assistant after a torrid night with the world’s most rakish Likaean. I could not say.

“Right. And you committed state-sanctioned banditry too?”

“State-sanctioned banditry is merely lawful asset retrieval,” I observe.

He does not look convinced. His brow furrows and his ample mustache quivers with suspicion.

“You have seen how I operate, Sheridan. Do I strike you as a vulgar highwaywoman?” I finally say.

“No… I suppose not. So, tell me about this auction of yours.”

“Ah yes, the Hell’s Gates.”

“I beg your bloody pardon?!” he bellows. A few of the sailors watching over the deck decide to keep their distance.

Ah, damn.

“Ariane, you have insisted that you were not, in fact, made by the actual devil.”

“Yeeees?”

“And that you do not lust after the souls of sinners.”

“Indeed not?”

“And that your aversion to all church-related symbols was merely a, and I quote, side-effect of not truly being native to this world.”

“Yes.”

“Because your soul is bound to that big thingamajig in the sky that only you can see.”

“I did say that, yes.”

“And your auction is called, the Hell’s Gates.”

“Errrr yes. I did not choose the name myself.”

Sheridan masticates his mustache in contemplation.

“Sometimes I feel that you are making a fool of me.”

“Listen, my dear little mortal” I reply with fangs bared, “I have been nothing but forthcoming with you. The term merely alludes to the temporary contact between mages, who are mostly humans, and us who are not.”

“Right… Right. So what happens then? What will we do?”

I sigh.

“The auction will take place in a large building in the old quarter previously used for administrative matters and duels.”

“Duels?!”

“Yes, duels are an integral part of vampire politics. I had one duel there, actually.”

“Did you win?”

“No, my blood sister stabbed me in the heart so I could feign my own death. Anyway…”

“You survived being stabbed in the heart!?” he interrupts with a cry.

“I did mention that we were resilient.”

“Have you already been shot, then?”

“Yes.”

“Stabbed?”

“Yes.”

“Exploded?”

“That too.”

“Set on fire?”

“Yes, that was horrible.”

“Frozen to death?”

“I was frozen, but it barely affects us at all. I could still move. Being set ablaze was the worst thing by far.”

“I find it eerie that you would be vulnerable to fire.”

“For the last time, Sheridan, we are not demons from hell!” I complain for what feels like the millionth time.

“Could have fooled me…”

“Sheridan,” I interrupt with a serious tone and he stares at me, sheepish in his duster with his Colt and star.

“Why are you still here, by my side? If you truly thought we were abominations, you had ample opportunity to leave.”

“Hrm. I don’t know rightly myself.”

He avoids my gaze.

“Either you think me a monster that needs to be erased, or you consider me a person. You tiptoe around the issue instead of choosing,” I scold.

“It’s not that easy!” he yells. Then, in a softer tone:

“It’s not that easy. All my life I thought I knew how the world was. God created it in seven days and he made man in His image. He made all the animals and all the plants for us to use. And now I learn that there are other worlds? And species? Magic? Giant creatures? I never asked for this. I only wanted to live a right and peaceful life upholding justice, not getting in shootouts with madmen calling hellhounds from beyond the veil!”

I let him finish. When he does, out of breath, I keep quiet for a few seconds to mark my understanding. I can appreciate that his circumstances are delicate.

“Then you must decide if you want to return to your peaceful life. If you do, I will not blame you. You are free to go. But you must decide.”

“What is there to decide? I am already here, ain’t I?”

“Your heart wavers. Tell me this is not true.”

He would not meet my eyes.

“You will have to make a choice, and soon,” I finish.

The arena where I fought in is also the siege of vampire politics. I visited the old, square-building only once and the experience was disheartening, so to speak. I remember that it was a building of yellow stone with a strong Spanish influence at the edge of the Vieux Carré intentionally left decrepit to avoid undue attention.

I drag Sheridan through the streets, still warm and wet from the day. He tries to stay composed and dignified, but I can see his gaze drift from richly dressed ladies to darker-skinned beauties in exotic garbs of reds and yellows. His attention wanders to the gamblers and musicians filling the air like a discordant orchestra of life and sin. We stop at a stall and I buy him a few skewers of chicken dipped in red sauce. The scent of cayenne and paprika fill my heart with nostalgia, even more so than the familiar architecture.

We then must stop to get a cold beer because Sheridan has no tolerance for spice.

Eventually, the crowd thins, and I must admit to some surprise when our destination comes into view.

Gone is the non-assuming edifice, the new center has been repainted and redecorated. Gas lamps shine on every corner and cast a deeper shade of beige on the walls, darker as they climb up to the third story. Guards in the white uniform of the Rosenthal mercenaries patrol in pairs of two, holding lanterns and poorly concealed pistols. They salute me as we pass by.

“Welcome, Lady Ariane.”

I return the greeting.

“They know you?” Sheridan asks as we make our way to the entrance.

“They know of me. I have worked with their company before.”

“And they are all normal people?”

“Yes. Professional soldiers trusted for generations, well-trained and well-paid. Such families form the backbone of our entourages.”

“Do you have families like that?”

“Not yet.”

“What about traitors? Can they not strike you when you are the most vulnerable? Bring your enemies to your doorstep? Unless you have a way to control them.”

“We have multiple redundancies as far as security is concerned. It would take a convergence of factors for an attack to be successful, such as when we travel. Even then, we have ways to escape and fight back. We are also quite good at reading the emotions of those who surround, including duplicity.”

“Hrm, hrm, really? Then what am I thinking about right now?”

“You are scared to learn that I can read you like an open book.”

“Devilry!”

“And here we go again…”

“Sorry, sorry. Surprised me is all. Hrm. Ah, we are here.”

The entrance stands before us, brightly illuminated with lanterns of stained glass. Their armatures of crystal and brass reflect a smooth light so that the monumental entrance appears more inviting, like the manor of a rich relative opened for festivities. Guards in exquisite dress uniforms stand by it and they bow when we enter.

The palatial hall greets me again in all its glory. A wide mosaic of black and white depicting a tragedy mask decorates the entire ground. A massive wood lobby lines the left wall with a few attendants idling behind. The large gate to the arena where I first experienced having my heart damaged are currently closed, while the double stairs leading to the second-floor promenade lie empty.

The perfume of vanilla and scented candles replaces the squalid stench of humanity. The subdued lighting, the red drapes, the sober clothes all serve to welcome the guests in an intimate setting, and helps them forget the nature of their hosts. It will be our role to subtly remind them of that fact, should they become rowdy.

We have barely stopped when Isaac steps out from a side corridor with a sharp older man in a white officer jacket and a morse mustache. The Rosenthal Master wears a black ensemble of exquisite make with a white shirt that seems to radiate from within. Somehow, I reach with my hands and he takes them. The intimate gesture — and the implicit show of trust — create an unexpected effect. All eyes land on us and I hear a few gasps of surprise.

Isaac and I are united by bonds of friendship and shared suffering. I do not see myself getting involved with him, though not that I am once more celibate, the idea does not shock me as it used to do.

“Ariane, my dear. I am so glad to see you in the flesh once again.”

“And you too, Isaac. It has been too long.”

“Indeed! Indeed…” he answers as he links his arm with mine, “allow me to introduce Lieutenant Venett, the head of mortal security.”

“A pleasure, madam,” the officer says with a nod.

His name is familiar.

“I fought alongside a Venett thirty years ago.”

“Yes ma’am, my grandfather. He spoke highly of you in his correspondence. I am honored to work alongside you.”

“Likewise,” I reply, pleased. And it does seem that my good reputation precedes me. I catch more furtive glances sent my way, all of them respectful. It feels… oddly pleasant to be considered an ally. For once, I am not the unknown quantity, or a valuable investment.

“And you must be Sheridan!” Isaac continues.

The presentations are short, and we quickly leave the lobby. Isaac and I dismiss our respective mortals so that they can compare notes and facial hair, then make our way up the stairs and through the largest door directly in front of us.

We end in a lodge, much like an opera one. The circular arena where I fought is the same and private viewing booths line the walls on three sides. The sand has been replaced by a red carpet of massive proportions, as well as a pulpit and a small platform.

“This will be where the main action takes place. I will be presenting the items personally two days from now.”

“You mentioned security. You expect troubles?”

“We no longer expect, we are certain, that a thief will attempt to steal the Heart of the Nile on the night of the auction. We are talking about a jewel worth half a million dollars.”

I refrain myself from showing any reaction at the outrageous sum so as not to appear as a bumpkin.

“Besides its obvious worth, the Heart is one of the few gems capable of storing essence. It could be used to power a war golem as large as a carriage.”

“Why would you leave such an incredible asset in the hands of mortals?” I demand, scandalized.

“Because, if you have a bag of sweets on top of a shelf, you need to dispense them on occasion, or the children will start looking for a ladder.”

“You mean that it is done to prevent theft?”

“Precisely. Hoard too many assets too quickly and the magical societies will turn to banditry. Power must be shared. Sometimes.”

“I see.”

“We also have a sufficient amount of carriage-size war golems at our disposal at the moment.”

“That certainly helps.”

“Your task will be to either stop them or let them go after identifying them. I have not decided yet. It will certainly depend on how confident I am that the thief can be tracked down.”

I just glare at him.

“Oh, do not be cross. Obviously, the tracking part will be my responsibility.”

“You would take such a risk?”

“We know that the Heart will be targeted because someone requested it and the request was answered. We do not know who that mysterious purchaser might be, and we are eager to find out, as you can imagine.”

“Are there many who would steal from the Rosenthal?”

“Oh, yes, but few do so for very long,” he replies with a pointed smile.

“You already have security,” I remark.

“Indeed. Venett has the situation well in hand, I assure you. The goods were moved to a repurposed vault in the basement a month ago, long before we revealed the final location of the event, and they will only be taken out in two days. The vault itself is nigh impenetrable.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite so, Ariane, quite so. I will let you work out the details with the good lieutenant later. What I want you to do is to welcome the guests first, search for anomalies, then roam the place. You may deploy Sheridan and Doe as you see fit.”

John took the vampiric name ‘Doe’ because his patronym is currently used by a Lancaster lord. Calling him after a skittish beast feels like strapping a cute party hat on the head of a lion.

“Very well. I also wish to know what exactly I am to recover, if I join the expedition you mentioned.”

“Ah, yes. Are you familiar with the Sea Peoples?”

“You will have to be more specific.”

“Not any people of the sea, Ariane, the Sea Peoples. They were responsible for much destruction around the Mediterranean Sea at the end of the bronze age. Quite a mysterious lot. We have recently recovered an interesting document from a dig site near the Nile that may shed light on their repeated invasion of Egypt.”

“Do tell.”

“We are still working on the translation, however, it appears that they were planning on heading south to slay a dragon with the assistance of a tool of great power.”

The mood turns from pleasant to deadly serious in a mere instant. I school my aura too late. Isaac’s inquisitive eyes pierce into my mind.

“You know of the dragon.”

“I cannot speak of this,” I reply, still aware of my binding agreement with Semiramis.

“An oath?”

“Yes.”

“How curious. In any case, they failed twice before the Pharaoh’s chariots and withdrew. The documents we recovered were buried on the site of the last major battle of the campaign, possibly to prevent hostile troops from seizing them. The entire journey of the army was painstakingly chronicled, meaning…”

“Meaning that we can trace it back to the source.”

“And hopefully recover the weapon.”

It would sound promising if the details were not so sketchy

“You base your assumptions on a significant amount of unknowns,” I observe without malice.

“Spoken like a true modern investor,” Isaac answers, amused. “When it comes to ancient relics, unearthed documents in rare scripts are the best you can expect, since there is a good chance that the treasure has not been looted yet.”

“Even if it is, the weapon could just be rusted-out metal by now.”

“That, my dear, is not the case. You see, the little we have translated detailed the start of the expedition and the making of the blade. It appears that a massive snake spitting fire interrupted an important commemoration and killed the high priest, and from his remains the Sea Peoples retrieved a claw.”

“A claw?”

I am stunned.

“Yes. The blade of our prize is a dragon claw.”

Huh.

I say nothing for a while. The claw of a dragon? Due to the highly symbolic nature of magic, such a blade could cut the best armor including the hide of the creature itself. It could also put a stop to Nirari’s undoubtedly massive regeneration.

It could kill him.

It could work!

“How soon can we go after it?”

“Slow down, my dear, slow down. The manuscripts are still being deciphered and we will need the best mind on the planet to reverse their path to their original homes. Let us see the auction to a satisfactory end first, yes?”

“Of course. I cannot believe that I finally have a chance.”

“That is because you do not,” Isaac lightly chides.

I am taken aback by his pessimism.

“Oh, do not give me that look, young one. Only the desperate would face Nirari with just a blade, no matter how strong. We will continue stacking the odds, and the ancient weapons, in our favor until the night of reckoning, when our kind finally unites with a single purpose.”

“Hold on. A night of reckoning?”

“Ah, forgive me, I was feeling melodramatic. Suffice to say that it will take an army to bring that old monster low, and not just any army: one that consists of lords and ladies, and possibly archmages. The rest will not matter. Only the most dire of circumstances will force those to cooperate.”

“One would believe that the threat of world domination at the hands of an ancient, ruthless king bent on conquering all the spheres would spur them on.”

Isaac taps on the railing with two fingers, amused.

“How would you qualify the leading figures of the New World’s vampires?”

I consider the question for a moment.

“We are a viper den of backstabbing, devious fiends held together by the threat of mutual annihilation.”

Except Jimena. My sister is just too pure for this world.

“How accurate! I will have you know that the European scene is a viper den of backstabbing, devious fiends with centuries of grudges held together by the threat of mutual destruction, with half of said vipers being reclusive, paranoid old twats.”

“Those are adverse conditions.”

“Quite an understatement, my dear. I am afraid that they will only act when they see their doom right in front of them. It will be up to us to prepare.”

I watch the plain of roofs from my temporary office on the building’s last floor.

John looms, arms crossed across his prodigious pectorals. The ever-loyal man has raised looming to an artform, of which he is the master. No one can quite match the careful mix of polite disinterest and understated threat. Being turned has changed him a lot. He is no longer so ugly now that his cleft lip has closed into a scar, and his gaze is too sharp to be considered simple anymore. Our change has made predators of all of us.

“Do you regret your decision?” I finally ask.

John remains silent. I do not mind. He will speak when he is ready, he just needs time to order his thoughts.

“I wanted to be by your side to protect you. Therefore, I asked Master to turn me. After that, I wanted to serve Master because it felt more important. Master said that I can serve him by keeping you alive. I have no regrets.”

“Is it really what you want to do? Protect me for years and years? Until I die, or you do?”

The silence this time lasts long enough for me to hesitate. Did he lose the trail of his thought? Eventually, he makes his point with a slow, soft voice.

“You saved my life, but that did not mean that I owed you everything. I followed you because you were always right and made things around you better. You made things better for me and also for those who were kind to me. It was good. Protecting you meant that the Dream would be better. After you left, we went to Alexandria and I realized that you would need to make things better for a bigger place and that I was too small to protect you from the world.”

He speaks with conviction now, not the affected tone of the politician, but the unwavering certitude of the zealot. It almost scares me.

“That is when I decided to become a Natalis. I am still… not that smart. It just no longer bothers me. Our mind is a quiet place. Natalis are free from worry and fear, even if it means that we have trouble listening to our hearts. But I do not need that. I know what my heart would say if it could speak. I am doing something important. The others do not realize how important it is yet. Only I do.”

“Do you perhaps… see the future?” I ask with some alarm. Aisha of the Amaretta did mention that I would be instrumental in saving the world if I live long enough. Was John a seer all along?

“No. I do not see the future.”

“How can you be so sure that protecting me is important?” I insist.

“I just know it.”

And there it is. Under the placid tranquility of his mind lies a belief as unfounded as it is strange.

“I know it, and when you give me orders with a hand gesture and only I understand what you want, I… fulfill a purpose. Master said that was what we needed to find. A purpose. I have it, and so I have no regrets. I will protect you until I die because no one will kill you while I still live. I will break their spines.”

John picks a steel candelabra and presses it between his large hands. He maintains eye contact as the decorative metals bends under his power as if it were wax, until only a tiny ball of twisted scrap remains.

“Like this.”

110. The Heart of the Nile

“It’s the last job Kate, then we can retire. Get that land you dreamed of and never work another day in our lives!”

Kate crosses her arms and turns her head wistfully. Her instinct had never failed her, and, right now, it told her that it was a ‘Bad Idea’.

“It’s too risky. We can just hit a few more banks and use the cash to disappear.”

f“Not smart, darling. You never know how many rich folks you can piss off before they send the Cabals after you, and without a specific fence we would have to sell the stuff at a discount.”

“The Hell’s Gates are held by vampires, Chris. Not mages or mundane humans. Vampires. You know what they say.”

“We’ll just leave them to their games and blood drinking with the other guests. No need to get close. We get in, do the job, then get out. One hour tops. We already have someone in.”

“Griggs?”

“He did it, yes. The mark will leave him a uniform.”

Kate stood abruptly. The simple bed of their rented room creaked under the sudden move and Chris backed off with a yelp. She held an accusing finger under his nose.

“You took it! You took the contract!”

Her brown ringlets shook with fury.

“You did it behind my back!”

Chris brushed his scruffy blond hair back, giving her a disarming smile. The gesture used to make her swoon. Now it only made her mad.

“Don’t you try to act cute! You took such an important decision without checking with me first? You know we cannot back down on a contract with one of the covens!”

“Relax darling, everything’s already planned. You only need to get in and do your magic, as usual. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Kate seethed in silence. She hated this heist. She also hated that she was dismissed and that Chris had gone ahead without her approval. He had always been the brain of the outfit, but things were supposed to be different now. They were supposed to be a couple and a couple did things together, not behind each other’s back.

“This is the last time, Chris.”

“It is. I promise.”

Kate wanted to believe him.

The cellar under their safe house was Chris’ domain. He was moving with confidence from the table to a map pinned against the wall, then to the supplies spread on the ground near the entrance. Never did he look more alive than when he planned a deed. Under the pressure, he would gain an intensity that Kate loved. His passion was infectious and affected the whole group, pushing them to outdo themselves. It was that fiery passion that had captured her heart.

Sometimes, a small voice would tell her that Chris was not meant for the family life she envisioned, that he would wilt without the constant challenges that the criminal life brought him. She would push it away, but it would keep coming back.

“Let’s start with the introductions, since we have a new member joining us tonight,” her lover started with a dazzling smile as the group gathered around the table.

“Our newcomer is Father MacCormick. He will be covering us if things go wrong.”

Kate eyed the latest addition to their merry band. The father was a man in his fifties with a white beard wearing the black and white collar of catholic priests. Her aura control was decent for someone without formal training, and she could tell he was a mage like herself. There were not a lot of caster priests that she knew of, but, well, it was a big world out there.

“The good father will cover our retreat from the vampires if things go south. He assured me that crosses stop them. Isn’t that right, father?”

“Not stop them so much as slow them down,” the man grumbled, “you don’t stop vampires at night. You hold the cross and hope they don’t find a way to flank you before you close the door.”

“Have you faced one before?” Kate asked.

The older gentleman stared at her with undisguised annoyance. His next comment dripped with disdain.

“Since you lot allow women to interrupt your discussions, I will oblige. Some associates and I faced what they call a Courtier. We managed to wound and repulse him, but not before he managed to gut one of us. And it takes silver bullets to hurt one to begin with,” he continued as he opened his vest to reveal a pistol’s handle. “We didn’t even see him move. That’s what we’re dealing with if they find us out.”

“Father MacCormick will only join us on the last leg of the missions. If it looks like we were made before that, we bail.”

“Let’s not get carried away. I need the money,” their old time partner Griggs added with a radiant smile.

Kate made the mistake of meeting his eyes. The green pools captured her in their murky depths, and she felt herself drifting before she regained control. She shook her head. It was not his fault. He could not control it, she told herself.

Another part of her whispered that he made no effort to do so, and that she would not trust him around any woman she knew. She silenced that voice as well.

Griggs shook his handsome face, long dark hair fluttering artfully.

“I guess it’s my turn then, old man. I’m Griggs. I’m the infiltrator. I’ll get us through the first part of the mission.”

The priest frowned.

“You wield power as well,” he stated. Griggs’ answer was to flip a card from the deck he always kept, one of the many queer habits that rubbed Kate the wrong way.

King of Hearts.

“There are many who find me irresistible.”

Only because he left them little choice. In a perfect world, someone would have gouged his eyes out. Only Chris’ promise that he would never touch her soothed Kate enough to trust him on a heist, if barely.

“And I am Moreau, nice to meet you,” the only dark-skinned man at the table interrupted with a disapproving glare. Moreau had been the mover of the team for almost two years now. Kate was unsure as to why he kept working with them. She believed it had something to do with money, since he still had the same ratty clothes despite the hauls they had already made.

“Moreau will stay with a carriage next to our exit and make sure that we do not dally. As for my dearest Kate, she has a special set of skills that will get us in the basement,” Chris continued smoothly.

“Does she, now?” MacCormick asked with clear doubt.

Kate felt anger settle as a tight ball inside her stomach, but she would not say anything. It annoyed her that Chris let a newcomer doubt her skills, just as it annoyed her that he would introduce her instead of letting her do it herself. She settled with crossing her arms and looking as disdainful as she could. It worked, if the stupid priest’s reddening face was any indication.

“And now for the plan!” Chris exclaimed with an enthusiasm that no friction could shake.

“Our dear Griggs made contact with one of the attendants. He convinced her to hire him for the occasion as a waiter. Fortunately, their staff includes several groups working together so an unfamiliar face will be nothing too strange.”

“I also worked there for three days preparing the stage and nobody noticed anything. There are more than forty members of the staff slaving away to accommodate the guests right now,” the infiltrator added, flipping a Jack of Spades from his deck.

“They won’t notice a thing.”

“While your confidence is commendable, my dear Griggs, this only concerns the upper floors of the complex,” Chris continued with a disapproving tone. “There are two stories above the main ground, plus a small attic under the roof. The auction will take place there, in a circular room at the heart of the building. The pieces will be brought one by one from the underground vault under escort. We will intercept it on the way.”

He moved to the wall and started pointing at a map. The pinned papers showed the main floor and an expansive basement.

“Griggs will get in first and work normally. When the auction begins, Kate and I will come in as regular guests.”

Their two seats had cost them three hundred dollars, Kate thought bitterly.

“We will join our lodge first, pretend everything is normal. Then Kate will feign sickness and Griggs will escort her to the infirmary situated right next to the main entrance to the lower level. She will do her thing and bypass their security when their alarm deactivates, which is every time they open the doors to let an item through.”

“How do you know all of this?” MacCormick asked with some doubt.

“Alva is part of the retinue of the organizer, a vampire named Isaac. She was made aware of their security protocol in case she needs to evacuate,” Griggs explained.

“And the vampire just told her?”

“She has served his, errr, clan, for her whole life. Her defenses were solid, and she even had a protective amulet. He must have trusted her quite a bit but as I mentioned, I am irresistible.”

That meant that he had used his full power. After Griggs finished with Alva, she would be a babbling wreck.

The violation bothered Kate on a deep level, but she told herself that the woman deserved it for serving a monster. What person in their right mind would work for an abomination? Alva had made herself an enemy of mankind and she would face the consequences. That was all there was to it, really.

The thought comforted Kate somewhat.

“She confessed everything. We know most of their security measures, except for the vault. Which is why we won’t go in there,” Chris explained.

“Kate will follow the main corridor… here,” he continued, showing her path on the map, “then turn right into the first room where Griggs will have left a spare uniform and a key under the cupboard.”

“Why not use the trick that gets her past the guard in the corridor?” MacCormick interrupted.

“It’s exhausting,” she curtly replied before Chris could do it for her.

“Right. MacCormick, there will be time for questions afterward. The servant uniform will allow Kate to move relatively unimpeded. They have one patrol and a pair of maids who are supposed to stay there for the whole night. The disguise will serve well in avoiding their attention. Though, make sure that they don’t get a good look at you,” he told Kate.

“In the meanwhile, Griggs will return to the main room so as to not attract attention. Kate will go there,” he added while pointing at a specific spot.

The group bent over the table to inspect the small room leading to what appeared to be a tunnel.

“The ground here is very wet. The basement was modified to redirect humidity to a reservoir in this room, which they empty regularly through that passage here. It leads outside. The key opens the secured gate between the two. Do not lose it, because the gate is heavily enchanted and you won’t be able to open the door without it.”

“Understood. But why not open the escape tunnel from the outside?” Kate asked.

“An alarm will trigger if the key leaves the compound. Now, the tunnel I mentioned doubles as an escape path leading all the way to a canal. I will exit the building and link up with Moreau and MacCormick as soon as Kate is through. We will circle around, and the priest and I will get in through the emergency exit. Once there, we will wait and intercept the people carrying the Heart on their way to the exit. They function by pair, with one pair carrying goods up with the other patrolling the basement. They swap with each new item.”

His expression grew more serious.

“This is obviously the most delicate part of the heist, but we have little choice.”

“It does sound risky,” Griggs mutters while biting his thumb. He mechanically flipped a card. Two of clubs.

Kate shivered.

“Not that risky,” Chris calmly stated, “the basement is sound-proof and only has four guards at any time, two of whom will stay in front of the vault at all times. The basement is large enough that a small scuffle could remain unheard. After we disable the carrying pair, we will have some time to escape via the emergency exit. This is also where the plan branches. If it looks like we are made at any point before that, we escape, but if we manage to grab the Heart, we can escape even if the alarm is rung. You see, the entrance can be blocked by leaving the key half-turned in the lock, from the outside,” he finished with a ghastly smile.

“That sounds like a big oversight,” Kate remarked under her breath.

“That’s what Alva said,” Griggs answered and the other laughed as if it was funny.

They amused themselves for a few seconds, before Kate’s glare pushed Chris to resume the briefing.

“Right. We all leave through the exit except Griggs who will just stay long enough not to arouse suspicion before leaving on his own. We reconvene here after the deed. Any questions?

“How will you disable the guards?” Moreau asked with a frown. He was the most adverse to loss of life after Kate.

“MacCormick has a disabling spell and I have my truncheon. The guards will be caught off-guard. They are well-trained but they are not mages and should have no adequate defenses against spells.”

“How is their security looking? It won’t help if the vampire goes to pick up the Heart in person,” MacCormick commented while consulting the map.

“They have around two dozen guards, most of whom will be outside or patrolling the upper floors. As for the vampires, Alva said that they would remain around the guests.”

“Vampires? Plural?” the priest answered with obvious concern.

“There will be three of them. Isaac is the organizer, and he will present the items himself, therefore, he should not leave their auction room. The second one is called Doe and he acts as the muscle. Big guy. He looks like he wrestles bears for breakfast. The last one is called Ariane, and Alva said she and Isaac knew each other from before. She appears harmless, but she’s still a vampire so we need to be careful. She is the one who will be roaming around so we should keep an eye out for her. No matter what, the guarded, alarmed entrance is the only way to the vault and they probably trust it to keep intruders away. We would have no way through without Kate.”

“They don’t got last names?” Moreau asks.

Kate raised her brows in surprise. Moreau usually stayed quiet unless he had specific questions about the plan. She thought that he did not fully approve of what they were doing.

“I don’t think so. Apparently one vampire has one name and they don’t share. It works because there are not that many of them.”

“They are monsters, you can’t expect them to act like proper Christian folks,” Griggs commented, and the others laughed again.

Kate thought that they would be laughing much less when they met the real deal, even if those monsters could not be as bad as the rumors made them to be.

“Still worried?” Chris asked after they were alone upstairs. His voice betrayed his seriousness, Kate could tell. It wavered slightly.

He cared about her opinion.

She shrugged.

“Of course I am. Your harebrained schemes will be the end of you, one day.”

“But you will still go with it?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, yes, you convinced me, oh great genius you.”

Chris chuckled knowingly and the familiar sound warmed her heart. He had this look, the one where he had something more planned. He walked to their chest and threw it open. From there, he withdrew a package in a linen bag she had never seen before.

“What’s this?” she asked with trepidation.

“We can’t have all those rich bastards looking down on my pretty girl, so I got you a present.”

Kate opened the package with all the excitement of a little girl to reveal a dress, and what a dress it was. Dark green taffeta with sequins sewn at the shoulders, a tapered waist and a big, flaring hem. It would cover her breast yet leave the shoulders bare. It looked fit for a princess. She threw herself in the arms of her lover.

“Oh, Chris! It is wonderful! And my size! How did you manage it.”

“I have my resources,” he gloated with relish, “as for your body, I have a passing knowledge of it,” he finished, his hands trailing down to rest on her thighs.

“You are incorrigible!”

Inside, she felt more confident. She had a perfect pendant of nephrite and gold to match the outfit and she would wear her hair high, with two waves of brown ringlets falling on either side. She would look great. She would look the part.

Kate did not feel confident at all. The auction hall had appeared at the corner of a street like an ephemeral palace from a fairy tale, as if it would disappear on the twelfth stroke of midnight. It blazed gloriously with gas lights, clad in haughty confidence. The walls were sheer and neatly painted. They defied the city’s squalor with their unexpected perfection. And the guards! They were walking around in pairs, holding lanterns and muskets, all princely in their pressed uniforms and shiny buttons. It was no longer a normal building. It had become, in her mind, the domain of some Austrian prince who had deigned to open it to the commoners for one night.

Chris felt her waver. He gave her arm a squeeze and she forced herself to affect the confidence she did not feel. She was a mage, dammit, she belonged here! Or so she tried to tell herself. The ugly truth was that she was in way over her head. They all were. She had one nifty spell and that was it. The rest were trash invocations she had picked up here and there.

Only her experience let her keep her composure when they climbed up fancy stairs to wide-open gates. She affected polite disdain when Chris gave their invitations to a serious butler in a suit so well-tailored, it must have cost an arm. Then they were in and she could not help but gasp.

Kate had attended receptions before, mingled with the wives of bankers and landowners. This was a whole other level. The ceiling was so high and the room so large, you could fit her whole childhood home in there! The ground was covered in tiles that made some sort of mask and the place smelled exquisite, a delicate fragrance of vanilla, like some of those fancy perfumes one of her marks used to douse herself with. It took all of her willpower not to gawp like a bumpkin.

The guests were fine too. Chris and her had joined a queue. She fixed her eyes on the wide shoulder of an old man in front of her. He was wearing a suit of cobalt blue and the aura he emanated was incredible. She felt that she could hold her hand before her and her fingers would freeze and blacken before she could even reach his shoulder. It was that strong. And it was carefully controlled too.

She took a deep breath and tried to relax as the line moved on. There were only two groups left when she heard a commotion.

The man in front of her took a step back and she angled to the side to have a look at the disturbance. A young woman was standing at the base of a double set of stairs, dressed in a magnificent lavender gown that embraced her forms in a way that was both daring and modest. She was calmly addressing a trio of burly men in matching brown coats. A tall lad with a wide mustache covered her side, his expression alternating between flustered and angry.

“As I previously mentioned, you may keep your foci but your firearms must be left at the concierge. You will recover them when you leave.”

“I’m not disarming myself with you around, vampire.”

Kate’s eyes widened. This was the vampire? She appeared so normal! Her cheeks showed a light pink flush and she breathed and blinked normally. Not at all how Kate imagined her to be. Perhaps that was part of the disguise? Approach unsuspecting men and bite them when they leaned in for a kiss?

“Your safety is guaranteed as a guest for tonight. I will ask you to comply, otherwise we will not grant you access to the facilities.”

“You think to stop us? I’d like to see you—”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” the mustached man interrupted with a terrible bellow. The loud voice silenced the whispers of the assembly, such was the desperation it conveyed.

“Don’t say it. Don’t finish that sentence. You really, really don’t want to do that,” he hastily continued while growing red in the face. The woman had tilted her head and was staring at him curiously.

“She’s bound by the rules of hospitality so long as you keep your mouth shut and don’t do anything. I swear I saw a man tell her ‘you’re welcome to try’ from inside his house because he thought himself safe. It counted as an invitation. He died the next second. Don’t mess with semantics when you’re around her. Just don’t.”

The man’s concern was so heartfelt that Kate, who had interacted with many grifters throughout the years, found herself convinced of his honesty. Here was a man who had seen much, she thought. Here was a man who had seen enough. At least for tonight.

The trio of thugs remained ambivalent. She could see the tension in their backs.

The vampire tuted once and something peculiar happened. She started to talk and as she did, she changed. Her skin gained an unearthly pallor and her poise, once demure, turned almost… predatory.

“If you wish to keep your pistols to defend yourselves from me, I promise you…” she said, and she smiled.

It was ghastly.

Canines, no, fangs, were revealed by the withdrawal of her carmine lips like knives laid bare. Her eyes were half-lidded now, and reminded Kate of a waiting cat.

“…that they would not help.”

A cold wave washed over Kate. She and most of the other mages took a reflexive step back. She was reminded of opening the door in winter, at night. There was nothing in front of her but darkness and a biting cold that froze her to the marrow.

That did it. The three men moved to the concierge without a word. Her gaze followed them before she turned her attention to the next guest. Her expression reverted to its previous preppy self as if nothing had happened.

The old man had not stepped back before the onslaught. He strutted forward and Kate realized that he had a girl by his side, a pretty thing with a curious strand of white hair on her otherwise dark mop. The tensions must have addled her mind. She immediately remarked that the companion was young enough to be his granddaughter! Disgusting.

“Ariane! Are you making a habit of bullying the younglings?” he exclaimed in a raucous voice.

Kate half-expected the vampire to jump on him. Instead, she returned a disarming smile, sans the fangs this time.

“Frost! Always a pleasure to see you. Have you reconsidered my offer?”

“Nope! I will stay as is, thank you very much.”

“A shame. Ah, do not mind me. It is such a pleasure to see you again. And you brought your granddaughter with you! Welcome Margaret, how are you doing?”

Oh. It seemed that Kate had judged him too hastily.

“Fairly good, Lady Ariane, thank you. Grandpa has been training me with ice magic. It won’t be so easy for you next time!” she proudly answered.

“I will be looking forward to it,” the vampire replied without malice. There was no trace of her earlier hostility.

“By the way, Ariane, you still owe me one glorious death in battle!” the old man said again.

“You will have to forgive me, kind sir, a horde of werewolves failed to deliver so the task is harder than I thought. Rest assured that I will notify you of any heroic last stands I come across.”

“Damn right, you should.”

The powerful old man, apparently named Frost of all things, went on soon after and it was Chris and her turn. The experienced burglar handed the vampire their invitation with a flourish and a grin, which the monster returned affably.

“Is this your first time attending a Rosenthal event?” she asked.

“It is.”

“I would like to remind you of the rules, then. You are allowed to keep your foci, if you have any, and cast defensive spells if you believe that you are in danger. All other weapons must be left to the concierge. Any attack on staff or guests will be met swiftly and decisively. If your behavior interferes with the conduct of the event, you will be made to leave. Your safety and comfort are guaranteed by clan Rosenthal for the duration of your stay. If you have any questions, feel free to consult a member of the staff. Do enjoy your evening.”

She returned the invitation and they left without a word. Kate allowed herself a sigh of relief. The vampire made her uncomfortable.

They made their way up the flight of stairs, then to another further on the side. The second-floor promenade around the central area was draped in dark banners displaying a coat of arms that, she assumed, represented the clan hosting them tonight. They passed by other mages and mundanes in fineries as exotic as they were strange. There were even natives! She supposed vampires had no need to fear savages…

Chris opened a small door, and they went into the auction room.

Kate’s breath caught up in her chest from the spectacle before her.

They were in a tiny lodge with only two seats, one of many dotting the walls around the central pit. The only furniture was a small coffee table currently holding two strange glasses with tall bodies and narrow rims, as well as a bottle of bubbly.

The plush red chairs belonged in a boudoir, accommodating rich ladies in extravagant outfits gossiping over barons and viscounts. The paint did not flake. It smelled clean.

She caressed the velvety surface of the upholstery.

After seeing so many gilded travesties of wealth, after being disenchanted so many times by the appearance of affluence without substance, it felt both strange and comforting to experience the real deal.

She sat heavily and relaxed for the first time in three days. Her gaze trailed up to the large room’s ceiling where one more surprise awaited her. It was fully decorated with a massive, painted bas-relief that covered it from wall to wall.

Once, she had visited a library and found a book on the history of art. It was a treasure trove of illustrations showing the greatest works of the European masters throughout the eras.

The first page showed the Sistine chapel.

Kate’s first thought had been to question how they could paint something that high, scaffolding she assumed, yet soon her considerations had disappeared. The circular vista mesmerized her with its breathtaking composition. God granting Adam the gift of life gave her vertigo. She could not help but draw a comparison.

As her inspections continued, she felt a profound feeling of unease assail her. The men and women displayed were as varied as could be. One showed great strength. Another was a Mediterranean woman with eyes closed, seemingly asleep. Her eyes rested on a black man holding a miniature sun, his traits showing a strange exaltation. They were... eerie. Something disturbed her on a fundamental level, though she could not quite put her finger on what, until she looked towards the heart.

Like a small fish in a whirlpool her attention was drawn inward to a figure that sent shivers down her spine. It was a massive eye. There were lashes. At least, she hoped those were lashes.

The eye was staring down and ignoring her. She felt a wave of insignificance threatening to overwhelm her. She did not matter. She never would. She was just...

Kate shook her head to dispel the strange feeling.

“Are you alright?” Chris asked.

“Yes,” she answered, “just a bit overwhelmed, is all.”

Chris squeezed her hand once again and she felt better. Her nerves were getting to her. It was just her imagination. She would complete the job and get out. Everything would be fine. She just had to keep it together, dammit.

Kate ignored the disturbing painting and stared down. The lodges on the lower levels allowed more occupants. She recognized that Frost character with his overly serious granddaughter, who was nervously playing with her white strand of hair when she thought no one was looking. They shared the space with a handful of other mages, most of whom were caught in an animated discussion. She could hear their boisterous laughs.

There were other groups, of course: natives in western clothes burdened by pendants and amulets staring at each other in awkward silence. Blacks turtling in their own lodge as if they expected trouble. People dressed like royalty. Others dressed like soldiers. A ship captain. A trapper. A gipsy woman playing with her golden circlets. This was a strange assembly that not even the rowdy fictions she sometimes enjoyed could describe. Here was a cour des miracles to equal the Parisian one, hidden in a palatial arena at the heart of the American capital of sin.

She felt lost.

But not for long. Down below, a man walked from behind a curtain to a waiting pulpit. She knew he was a vampire with immediate certainty. There was something there that caught the eye.

The man swept the room with his gaze and it felt as if he stared directly at her. She could see his chestnut eyes with perfect clarity despite the distance. When he talked, his voice tickled her ear with its intimacy. It was warm. It made her feel comfortable and welcome. She felt herself relax a bit more.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Hell’s Gates auction! My name is Isaac of the Rosenthal clan, and I shall be your host tonight. It is my pleasure and privilege to welcome you and I hope that you are all comfortable and at ease. If you are not, you will find a bottle of Mumm Black Ribbon champagne by your side. I invite you to sample it and try again.”

A susurrus of soft chuckles and approving words rose through the air.

“I am sure that you are all eager to see what we have prepared for you tonight. Without further ado, feast your eyes on our first exhibit!”

The curtain behind the man flapped open and two guards pushed forth a heavy cart upon which a shape stood hidden behind a tarp. They removed it to reveal what appeared to be a suit of armor of incredible make.

“The first item is a Rosenthal specialty, a Sentinel pattern Heritage Battle Golem. The Sentinel is an indefatigable and relentless defender, one that will protect you and your descendants thanks to a blood identification system. Upon the death of the owner, the Sentinel’s loyalty construct will follow either the first child or another one of your choosing. The frame and mechanical mind are Rosenthal specialties while the armor and propulsion systems come straight from the Skaragg armories, hidden deep in the bowels of the Norwegian Scandes. With the Sentinel, you do not just build your assets. You build a legacy. Starting price is ten thousand pounds or equivalent.”

Kate almost expected the audience to scoff at the ridiculous price. Ten thousand pounds? She could retire twelve times over with that sum! And yet, the group below was animated by discussions.

“Is that thing really worth so much?” she hissed.

“I have no idea,” Chris replied with clear amusement. She pouted.

“Ten thousand pounds on my left. Ten thousand…”

Against all odds, the auction started to take off until it was won by a fat woman in a teal dress that made her look like a pastry. Kate shook her head again.

“You fucking bitch!” someone screamed from across the room.

The fiery declamation caused a few gasps and outraged whispers. The perpetrator did not appear to care. He was practically hanging over the railing, flailing his fists impotently. His scruffy grey beard made him look like some sort of vagrant, although his fine yellow vest told another story.

“You think you can—”

It happened very fast.

One moment, the man leant forward like a hound on a leash. The next, he was gone, and the door slammed behind him.

Kate blinked to remember what had happened. There had been a hand. It had enclosed the screaming man’s head like hers would grab an egg.

The hand had been attached to a giant.

“Oh dear,” their host commented genially, “please remember that we will not suffer interruptions. Now, for the next item…”

And everyone acted as if nothing had happened.

“I’m going to be sick…” she told Chris.

“Not yet,” he replied without looking, “wait a few more items.”

She wondered what would happen if she strangled him. Probably nothing good.

The auction went on without any further disturbance. Some of the auctioned goods required lengthy explanations due to the strangeness. One, for example, was a painting of an eye that would mesmerize anyone staring at it. She was briefly reminded of the ceiling, yet when she looked up again, the feeling was gone.

Quite a few groups sent members down to assess the piece of art. The canvas was angled away from the room. The newcomers would invariably take a look, stumble, then just stand there. Even the host’s smooth voice proved unequal to the task of keeping her calm after that one.

She just wanted out.

She closed her eyes to the wands and crowns and exotic weapons. She ignored the strange bookshelves and decrepit grimoires. The scandalous prices streaked through her brain like falling stars, the amounts absurd and fantastic. Each one was high enough to feed entire villages for years. The ransom of a king.

After what felt like an eternity, Chris touched her arm and she knew that the time had come. Both of them stood up and rang the bell that would summon Griggs.

The smarmy infiltrator took Kate by the arm. She had no need to feign illness on the way down. They dodged under a curtain and reached some sort of infirmary, bypassing the gate to the basement and its group of vigilant guards.

A woman gave her a tonic and she gulped it down before she started to channel.

Her power was strange and required some time to set up. Its major advantage was that her aura would only fluctuate strangely during the casting, a pattern consistent with the distress she claimed.

She heard the telltale noise of the path down unlocking.

“I feel better, thank you. We can go now,” she announced.

The pair of thieves left through the door and she looked left towards the passage. It was half-open, its enchantments disabled. A pair of guards were dragging a cart through.

Her vision doubled.

A part of her, more distant now, kept walking forward under the guidance of Griggs. That part was solid but also, false. It was an empty shell.

The real part of her turned and walked confidently through the gaping maw leading down. That part was real. It was also invisible and intangible.

She descended a few steps.

The shell’s gaze fell on a pair of piercing blue eyes. A distant voice rang in her ears.

“Is the lady indisposed?”

“She is fine now,” Griggs answered hurriedly, ”just bringing her back to her seat, ma’am.”

“I see.”

The vampire called Ariane let them pass but the shell caught one more sight. The woman was scenting the air.

A great fright shocked Kate. Her concentration wavered and the ghost gained solidity. Fortunately, there was no one to capitalize on her weakness.

The shell remained solid and the vampire left.

Kate allowed herself a sigh of relief.

The way down was made of stones leading to a corridor well-lit by lanterns. The basement was clearly designed to be lived in. Painting depicting grisly scenes from some heathen mythology adorned the walls.

She stumbled. The shell was almost back in their lodge. Every step it took tore something from her chest and replaced it with ice. She leaned against the right door and forced it open. It was blessedly empty. She collapsed on the ground.

The shell caught a glimpse of Chris and dissolved into nothing.

It was done. She was through, and no one was the wiser.

Kate awarded herself ten seconds of reprieve before starting her search.

The room she found herself in was half living quarter and half workshop. Piles of clothes waited to be ironed, a few more awaited mending. In a corner of the room, a table displayed a chessboard and a pile of books.

She took a minute to catch her breath and dispel the awful feeling that her torso was about to cave in. She had become better at it, but the spell was so harrowing that every cast left her feeling gouged out.

She found the key and uniform where Griggs left them, snuck behind a patrol, and made her way to the emergency exit. Her target was more a cistern than anything else. It was bare, save for a massive central pool. The entire far wall was occupied by a grate with a massive, fortified gate set squarely in the middle. It shone with arcane symbols of defense, alarm and solidity. Steel bars blocked a small window, allowing her to see beyond, not unlike a prison door.

The key clicked in place.

She opened the way in silence, the titanic slab of metal rotating on perfectly oiled hinges. She had almost expected some metallic shriek that would alert the entire building.

On the other side, she saw a canal with an overflow to allow the water to leave. It was tragically devoid of catholic priests. Or any other allies for that matter.

She stood there and prayed.

A minute later, a pair of footsteps emerged from the gloomy darkness and sent her heart aflutter. Her partners emerged a few moments later.

“Well done,” Chris said, “now we wait for the Heart.”

Even MacCormick grudgingly greeted her as he checked his many weapons. He was armed to the teeth.

Things were looking up.

Griggs sighed to prevent himself from whistling. He clenched his fist to avoid snapping his fingers, or taking his deck out to flick cards. Control, control, control. Frustrating. All those rules and norms and whatnot everyone had to follow. They were just games of shadows, pointless and restrictive.

He stopped on the threshold to one of the lodges and knocked. The door was opened by a mage in a ridiculous white coat, who blinked when he recognized another practitioner. Fortunately, Griggs had long ago understood that a subdued aura was an inoffensive one and the guest asked another bottle of booze before slamming the door in his face.

Griggs smirked, turned around and almost walked into the vampire.

It was the woman. Lucky him.

“Say, the woman you escorted down has mysteriously disappeared. You would not happen to know anything about that, would you?” she asked with a soft smile. Griggs returned it. They should have sent the muscle. He had a way with the fairer sex.

He met her gaze and submitted her to the full power of his hypnosis. He saw the surprise in her pallid face, he saw her eyes flutter and felt a strong resistance, then he was through.

He heard a noise like moving branches, then he appeared in her mindscape.

It was there that he was king. In the real world, the world of flesh, he was one amongst many. Here, the fabric of the mind moved under his fingers like clay under the care of a virtuoso, creating wonders and destroying much too. All that it took was to find whichever item in the woman’s core, most of the time a bedroom, represented her ego. After that, he could tweak and twist to his heart’s content.

Griggs inspected his surroundings and his good mood evaporated.

What the hell was going on?

He should be inside of a house, or a room. Instead, he was at the edge of a bizarre maze of bark and stone. Alleys stopped without reason while strange statues dotted the Boschian landscape representing men, but also strange wolf-like creatures and other chimeras. A fortress rose from the earth at some distance, white of walls, with sharp towers jutting like spines. The light of the moon was… purple? Something told him that it would be a bad idea to look up.

That was the mindscape of a vampire? Original. Yet, as always, insufficient. He focused and his form elongated. His hands turned into twin claws ending in long, crimson spikes. It was time to explore this unusual playground, and find something new to play with.

Griggs took one step forward and hissed in pain. A thorny root had sneakily fastened around his ankle. He severed the guilty appendage and walked with renewed purpose. There had to be a way to the fortress.

The first seemingly empty alley was hiding a passage, a way to the left hidden behind a sort of optical illusion with the wall of vegetation bulging slightly outward. He snickered and turned around.

A branch whacked his chest.

Griggs swore. His powerful claw savaged the guilty piece of vegetation, as well as the wall behind it. Leaves and twigs rained before his fury.

He suddenly felt quite silly. Those were just obstacles, probably some sort of passive defense mechanism against intrusion that only vampires had. Alva’s defenses had been about camouflage and misdirection. This mind was probably trained differently.

He realized that he should be grateful the blonde woman offered a challenge. It would not do to grow bored and jaded. Enough self-reflection, it was time to move on. Griggs took a step forward and gasped in pain.

Another root had grabbed his foot. He freed himself, but not without damage. The horrid branch had blood and fabric stuck to its awful spines by the time he was done. This was getting tiring.

“Have to keep moving,” he grumbled to himself.

The hidden path led through another maze, under arcs and by pools filled with thick scarlet liquid. He tried to stop to close his wounds but found the scraps reticent to his ability to shift. It was as if the thorns had marked him. He also noticed it now: every time he stopped, roots would quest towards his feet.

Finally, he emerged on a circular plaza of white stone. One of the statues occupied the middle, a wolfish thing caught mid-howl.

“Finally,” he grumbled.

Sitting on the marble-like floor, he focused on the cuts spotting his legs with red dots, in vain. The wounds resisted his effort to close them.

“Fucking weird spa—”

Griggs received no warning.

The statue’s heavy claws smashed into his flanks and sent him reeling against the bramble. His only saving grace came from his own claws blocking the worst of the damage. The pain still forced a cry out of his lungs. He scrambled out of the way and dodged the roots snaking towards him.

The statue stepped back.

“You piece of shit!” he yelled.

Griggs lunged forward and raked the statue’s chest, easily crouching under its counter-attack.

He stepped back once again.

This had to be some sort of guardian.

The statue retreated once more.

“You cannot get out of the stone circle, can you?” he asked with a dreadful smile. The construct did not answer.

Griggs carefully and patiently started to dismantle his foe. He would step in, strike one blow then dance out. He would keep moving to avoid getting trapped.

His patient and cold joy turned to frustration.

“Why won’t you die?”

He tracked the groove his first attack had dug in the statue’s torso and realized, to his dismay, that it was closing.

For the first time in years, Griggs felt something more than frustration.

He could not even leave.

The moment he broke the link with the vampire, she would kill him. He had taken MacCormick’s warning to heart. He did not stand a chance.

“I must press on,” he raged between gritted teeth. He had broken a hundred minds. Experience was on his side. He would crack this nut as he had cracked so many others.

Griggs rushed through the circle and nimbly jumped over a swipe. The second one nicked his back, then he was through. He sprinted through another opening.

“Dammit!”

His circumstances were growing more dire by the minute. The questing roots were quicker to find him now. He managed to dodge under traps a few more times, but he could feel the maze closing in around him like the jaw of some impossible creature. And still, he dared not look up.

There, light!

He crashed into a large clearing, tired and hurt. The fortress doors loomed before him on the other side of a garden of statues.

His blood ran cold.

A female soldier in stylized medieval plate held a sword in a fencer guard, a fox mask hiding her features. A man in a leather suit, hands resting on the hilts of his two pistols. A titan in black iron armor gripped a massive double-headed axe. An amazon with a spear lounged on her pedestal as if it were a couch. Other unmoving pieces of art stood, kneeled, and sat between pillars of engraved onyx and amphoras bearing strange white flowers. The last guardian dominated the rest, and its alien appearance froze Griggs’ heart. It had a flat face, cruel blue eyes shining an otherworldly blue. Its smooth torso possessed a chitinous quality that the otherwise human traits made even more jarring.

Griggs had to get through at any cost. He had to hope that the gates were unlocked. It was his only hope.

But wait.

There were spots there that did not have stones. Perhaps the range of each statue was extremely limited? He had to chance it.

He sprinted forward with the strength of despair, relying on his longer limbs to move with unexpected swiftness.

He rolled under the titan’s axe swing, he pushed on his feet and jumped forward.

The titan pursued him.

The titan stepped outside of its stone circle, signaling his demise.

A sword caught him in the shoulder and pinned him to the ground like an insect. He raised his claws to break it, to escape.

A gunshot.

His left hand exploded in a shower of blood and bones. He screamed his heart out. The pain tore through his psyche and flayed his vessel. His body returned to normal.

He awaited a coup-de-grace that did not come.

The constructs took a step back while thorny branches captured his limbs. The strange vegetation hoisted him up and smashed him against a nearby wall. The ropey root around his throat threatened to crush his neck.

Around him, the statues stood in a semicircle, weapons pointed at him. The vampire was sitting daintily on the shoulder of the last guardian in a vaporous dress of midnight blue. Her feet swung in the air. She held one of the white flowers between two nails of polished obsidian.

“You know, I have a theory about those who assume a monstrous form in their mind palaces.”

“What… the fuck… are you?!”

“My theory is that they are significantly less human on the inside than they appear to be. In any case, we have a busy night ahead of us so I will be brief. Where is the woman?”

Griggs tried to break the connection, tried to fight, but he realized that he was completely overpowered.

It was time to negotiate then.

“How about—”

He screamed when something sharp stabbed the back of his skull. He felt himself unravel.

“I forgot to mention, your consent is not required. You are probably familiar with the concept.”

“This isn’t what you said!” Kate hissed.

One of the guards lay dead on the ground in an expanding pool of blood. He had managed to block Chris’ cudgel’s hit to the head, but not MacCormick’s follow up. The other one had crumbled insensate on the ground.

Her lover looked pale but resolute.

“Later, Kate. We need to leave first. We can hide the bodies but not the blood. We have to go.”

MacCormick seemed to agree as he grabbed the Heart of the Nile in a gloved hand. The jewel was as large as a quail egg and sapphire blue. He tossed it to Chris who deftly caught it. It seemed to Kate as if it had gained a red tint.

“You killed him!”

“They are enemies of mankind, girl, you waste your sympathy. Pah, I knew that it was a mistake to bring a woman,” MacCormick spat.

“Enough of this, let’s go!” Chris urged, but too late.

From the entrance to the basement came the noise of stumbling footsteps and a terrible whine. The female vampire, Ariane, Kate remembered, strolled in with a man in tow.

She dragged him behind her like one drags a rowdy child. It took her a moment to recognize Griggs.

The man she had known and feared was gone. Only a shadow of its former self stood there gibbering like a madman, eyes wide and bloodshot, foamy spit bordering a mouth frozen in a rictus. He was emitting a keening sound, like a boiling pot of tea. She did not know if it stemmed from madness, or the talon stabbed deeply into his clavicle.

The vampire stopped a few steps away to examine the scene with polite interest. Her gaze swept the guilty trio, the gem in their possession and the dead man at their feet. The detached, almost amused expression bothered Kate even more than the blood slowly staining her ally’s shirt.

“Not a meal then, a buffet,” she commented.

They finally moved.

Kate rushed into the cistern with Chris close behind. A blue light emerged from behind her, where MacCormick stood still.

“In nomine patris, et filii…" the priest intoned.

“Djarn," the vampire answered.

Magic devastated the hallway.

Kate had tasted power as she stood behind the old man at the entrance. She had not experienced it. The spell roaring behind her spoke of peeled skin and steel knives scraping bone. It stung her gums. It grated the nerves behind her eyes. She lost her balance even as her legs pumped up and down to propel her through the emergency exit faster than she had even run in her entire life.

“Shield!"

She knew that it would not be enough.

MacCormick’s shriek turned into a gurgle as she crashed on the ground. The blue light dimmed.

Chris slammed the door and turned the lock.

The vampire was suddenly there.

The couple jumped back and Kate raised an arm reflexively, expecting a violent end, yet, nothing happened. The lack of any further violence was almost anticlimactic.

Chris was the first to stand back up and approach the door. She could not get through, Kate realized. The wards and steel had kept the monster at bay.

They were… saved?!

But no, she could have alerted others. Soldiers could be coming around to block all egress. They had to hurry, except she recognized something in Chris’ eyes now, something that almost never occurred.

He was angry.

And anger made him stupid. It made him stubborn and defensive. She could only guess the cause too easily: he had considered Griggs a friend despite his many flaws.

Chris lifted the jewel and practically dangled it under the creature’s nose. Even through the steel bars, she could tell that his provocation had not worked. The vampire showed the same polite interest as before, as if the murder of a man and the enslavement of another were but a pleasant diversion from her evening work.

“How does it feel to be outsmarted and beaten by a mortal?” her lover asked. He sounded bitter and furious.

Kate placed a hand on his arm to drag him away. The creature was wasting their time. It was a trap!

“Chris—”

“How does it feel to lose?” he demanded again.

The monster tilted her head as her smile broadened. When she spoke, her voice was conversational.

“Truth be told, I lose rather often…”

Kate pulled on Chris’ shoulder towards the end of the tunnel. She could almost hear the sounds of the night, smell the spice and stench of the city.

“… yet, in the end, I always come out on top.”

Kate’s heart stops in her chest. There was a click. There was the ‘ting’ of metal touching metal. She turned to see the entire barrel of MacCormick’s looted pistol slide between the metal bars.

The vampire shot Chris.

The explosion reverberated in the enclosed space in a deafening crack that left her ears ringing, her nose itchy with the pungent odor of spent powder. Her lover stumbled back and fell onto one knee. His hands reached to his chest where bloomed the crimson petals of a strange flower, expanding from a core of tarnished black.

“You… you…”

Kate screamed, then cut herself short a second later. She grabbed Chris under the shoulder and hoisted him up before he could finish his collapse. She took one difficult step forward, then another. They were going out. They were leaving this place for good.

Chris’ breaths came in gasps and pants. She forced herself to ignore the location of the wound. It could be fine. Such gunshots could be survived, if one was lucky, and Chris had enough luck for ten people.

She pushed the dread away.

They exited the tunnel into an abandoned garden at the back of some decrepit manor. Moreau’s carriage was right ahead. He saw them and stepped down, helped her get a failing Chris inside. They were moving by the time she had torn the fabric of her beautiful dress to apply pressure to the wound. It was not working. The improvised bandage was already soaking wet with no signs of improvement.

“Come on, come on...”

Just apply pressure and the bleeding would stop. Elementary medicine. Practically everyone knew that. She just had to keep doing it.

The carriage bumped and Chris moaned in pain. He grabbed her hand so she held onto it. The skin was slimy with half-coagulated liquid. She felt something as well.

“Take…” he rasped.

“Yes, I’m holding it. I’m holding your hand. Just hold on.”

It went limp.

It fell from her grasp. There was something left there, a mineral node that used to be blue but was now covered in scarlet fingerprints.

“Chris?”

He was very pale.

Kate went through grief and anger at the absurdity of it all and came out the other way, heart numb, brain frozen in a haze of stupidity. She could barely think. She had a jewel. She had a corpse. She was in a carriage vibrating like an earthquake. The information passed through her mind like through a sieve. She retained nothing.

Something bumped on top of her. She heard a brief scream, quickly interrupted.

The ceiling above her was ripped off like a page from a book. Each nail gave up one after another in a rhythmic ‘clack clack clack’. A half-smile. Half-lidded blue eyes.

“Why?” the thief whispered.

“Why what?” the stranger answered, ignoring the entire absurd world.

Then she was gone.

There was a terrible crash, a feeling of weightlessness. Cold waters tore a gasp from her chest and she would have drowned here and there if the carriage frame had not kept the air in. Kate was so far beyond any reasonable thought that her instincts kicked in without conscious effort. She saw herself as if from the outside. The bereaved woman pushed herself from the wreck. She struggled with the weight of her soaked garment, the accursed thing trying to drag her to the depths. She beat a little dance with her feet until the blessed lights came close enough and her head broke through the surface of Lake Pontchartrain’s turgid waters. She gulped its fetid air. She blessed her aunt for teaching her how to swim and stay afloat, despite the weight of her clothes.

She fought on.

She heard heavy footsteps coming from the side. Someone pulled her up and she realized that the water was no longer so deep. She pushed the brown hair plastered to her forehead until she could see the brown murk around her and the green shore ahead. A man had helped her, was still helping her get out.

She had clung to the Heart, somehow.

They stopped. They were on a swampy piece of land at the edge of a gathering of shacks. A handful of torches provided illumination for the rickety wooden bridge nearby and the carriage that had smashed through its railing. Of the vampire, there was no sign.

The man was familiar to her. She recognized the mustache and the righteous air. He and the vampire had welcomed her at the entrance after he apparently saved three thugs from… whatever had happened to her team.

She understood the implication only too easily, and found that she did not care. There was not enough left of Kate inside of Kate to care about Kate. Reality had lost its value, her own life included.

“Should have left me under the water,” she said, “wouldn’t be worse than what your precious monster has in store for me.”

“You begrudge me saving you?” he answered with a gruff voice. He had this white knight, valorous defender of the meek aura that pissed her off.

“Yes, I begrudge. I begrudge mightily. Begrudge, begrudge, begrudge, you pompous ass. Why are you here? Why do you serve this... this beast! Do you not see what she has done? That she is an enemy?”

Her voice started small but grew crescendo as the bottled ocean of feelings inside of her found a leak in her armor. Anger bubbled in her chest, aimed at everything and everyone.

The man was unmoved by her anger, contrary to her expectations. He did not even exhibit a trace of guilt.

“I have seen what she has done for much longer than you have.”

“She’s a monster!”

“I know, and I think I finally understand. You think that I should help you because you are human, and she is not. Correct?”

“Yes!”

Was it not obvious?

“Let me get it straight. You, a burglar guilty of breaking and entering, grand theft, and accessory to murder, want me to help you?”

“It does not matter!” she bellowed, “They are not people!”

“And the serial rapist in your team destroyed Miss Alva’s mind because she deserved it? You are fine with that? This… level of violation? This all alright to you?” he continued, his voice gaining in intensity. It was stronger now and burned with a conviction that he had not shown earlier when holding the monster back

“You speak of mankind. Hah! What a convenient and fleeting thing it is for you lot. Your allies loot, kill, and rape and that’s fine because they, whoever they are, deserve it. Kidnappings for the greater good. Sacrificing people for the betterment of that vague thing you call mankind. Horseshit!”

What the hell was he talking about?

“I understand now. You only plaster those values on the people you wrong so that it’s fine to treat them like garbage. You think yourself better than the monster you denounce? Hypocrites. She and I have done more for actual people of flesh and blood in the last month than you have in your entire life, you shameless tart. How people act is more important than what people are and you are a self-centered thief with no care for the victims your gang of thugs left in their trail. I am done. You can go back to your imaginary mankind, I want no part of it. I will do good in my own way.”

It took two seconds for the most important part of the answer to register.

“You’re letting me go?”

“I cannot morally justify holding you.”

Kate scowled at the tall man with obvious distrust, but she also knew that his type sometimes let women go, so happy they were with their little self-righteous moment. She also knew better than to stay. The pair glared at each other, both entrenched in their ethics as in a fortress. She trotted as fast as her exhausted legs could carry her and disappeared behind the corner of a dilapidated house.

Silence, such as it was, descended upon the scene.

“You might as well come out,” the man finally said after calming down a bit.

Shadows dissipated by the road. Ariane stepped forward.

“You did not tell her,” she said.

“No, I did not,” the man agreed between his teeth.

She waited.

“She is merely reaping the consequence of her own action, bringing a fake jewel to a cutthroat cabal. I am done wasting my time on those who are not worth the effort. I have made my choice. I will stay and… stir you in the right direction. God knows you need the guidance.”

He did not see the vampire roll her eyes.

“So, hum, is that fine with you? Do we need some sort of ceremony?” he asked with much less bluster.

“You need to give me your blood to conclude the pact. All of my kin will know that you are not to be touched. We can do that back at the auction hall.”

“Just my blood, right, not my soul?”

“For the last time, no!”

The tall man grumbled under his moustache as he made his way up the road and to his horse. Ariane stayed. She took one look towards the city, where the thief had fled, then another at the back of her newest minion.

“Two birds with one stone.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

111. Blue

I approach most of my problems with the same tried and true methodology. The first step is to identify the cause, the second step is to remove the cause with extreme prejudice.

So far, I could not seem to apply it to my current issue, taking Richard out of the Mexican-American war.

Indeed, the continuation of hostilities is not due to a sudden revival of Mexico’s scattered armed forces, but the very reason why their armed forces are scattered to begin with: they do not have a unified, functional government to agree on terms of surrender.

I am stuck in the south, away from my power base.

The first three months of eighteen-forty-seven are spent on several projects. Most of my time is dedicated to spying and keeping an eye on the ever-changing tides of war, and solidifying my alliance with the growing Natalis clan. Many a White Cabal agent finds employment among their magic-deprived ranks, thanks to my work as an intermediary. I also back Melusine’s many financial projects, including the completion of a canal and the first railroad in Chicago. I foresee that Melusine’s seat of power will eclipse Marquette in barely a few years and I do not mind too much. First, I have an interest in many of her endeavors and second, she cannot match the level of control, and thus safety, that I have over my land.

The rest of the time is spent getting my behind kicked by Lord Jarek in sparring duels.

That man is a monster.

Even my most powerful spells barely make him flinch. I have yet to force him to use his Magna Arqa, and I have rebuilt my ribcage more times than I care to count.

Besides training sessions, I also bring Sheridan up to speed on vampire customs and diplomacy. It takes an unreasonable amount of time, including exposure to my latest rendition of the Watcher, but he is finally convinced that we are not, in fact, hell spawns.

No.

Those are clearly the werewolves.

Nothing I can say convince him that “unholy crosses between man and beast” can be anything but the work of the Devil.

All in all, I had fun.

Then, in April, I finally get my chance when Richard is wounded at the battle of Cerro Gordo, in the Mexican Heartlands. The medical mage I handily keep around makes sure that his arm does not get infected, but the wound is still quite serious and would require a long convalescence. Richard and I have a bit of a falling out when he realizes how many lives medical mages could save and how I let some of his men die in vain. My answer is that I simply do not care about them. Sheridan’s answer is to remind the young man of the treatment of sorcery in an aggressively protestant army in a combat situation. Sheridan’s answer wins the argument.

I convince Richard to come home to rest and then, since the hostilities are petering out like a moist firecracker anyway, to accept the recommendation he received to enter West Point.

The war is over for him.

We ride a Natalis ship from Veracruz back to New-Orleans and then home. Our little group arrives at my family compound a bit after sunset.

June welcomes us on the stairs before the entrance. Her tired eyes light up when she sees her uncle, his arm still in a sling, but otherwise safe and sound.

“Richard, bienvenue chez toi,” she welcomes him in French.

“I am glad to see you, comment vas-tu?”

The pair catches up before June sends him inside for a late dinner. She turns to me with a sheer expression of relief.

“Hello Ariane, and gentlemen,” she greets. Sheridan and John politely remove their hats and I make the introduction. To her credit, she does not appear intimidated by John’s presence even after I revealed his true nature. I credit John himself for his performance. He developed a way to slouch that makes him appear as a sort of embarrassed, clumsy boulder. The disguise grants him a deceptive gentle giant aura that the fair sex often finds comforting.

June and I send the men inside and I take her for a short stroll around the property.

“You have such a nice dress,” she compliments nervously. I am wearing a new iteration of the classic semi-battle apparel with reinforcements around the chest area, as well as vambraces. This one is violet with blue undertones.

“Thanks. It has pockets,” I tell her with a little bit of pride. I prove their existence by removing a knife from a recess near my waist.

“Wow, how did you manage that?”

“I threatened the tailor’s family.”

“No, I mean, nevermind. So huh, thank you for bringing him back.”

“You are welcome. I merely fulfilled my obligations to my brother.”

“Right. We had a funeral. It was calm and sober. Serene. He would have liked it, I think.”

She seeks my approval. No, comfort. Sheridan’s presence has a peculiar effect on my psyche. Beyond his ability to advise me, I feel that I care slightly more about things I had discarded before, such as other people’s feelings. Without realizing it, I had let my nature erode my interest in ‘useless’ pursuits. Torran’s departure had not helped either. He always knew when to drag me away from the pursuit of power and influence in favor of the art of ‘carpe diem’. With him gone, I have pursued my projects with relentless focus.

Nirari’s presence reminded me of the end game but perhaps I should remember to unwind, from time to time. I should paint the drawings I made. And invite Isaac out while he is here.

“I am sure he did,” I comfort June with a soft smile, “my brother cared deeply about you. You were his pride. He told me so while I was there.”

She blushes.

“He… he did?”

“Achille mellowed out in his later years. You would not have recognized him if you had met him earlier. Despite his best efforts, he remained someone who was very private with his own emotions. Deep inside he saw himself as a stable rock upon which the family could be built, like our father was for us.”

“I see. So that’s why…” she finishes. She tilts her head downward with the absent air of someone lost in their own thoughts.

“What troubles you, child?” I ask.

“Hah. You asking me while looking so young…”

I consider leaving the Hasting essence unused and decide against it. I am not here to impress a mortal. I am here to spend time with my family, my mortal roots. Power games mean nothing and gain me nothing.

“Ahem. Yes. My dad sued me.”

“I beg your pardon?” I exclaim, outraged.

My anger finds echo in her, and outrage soon replaces shame on her lovely traits.

“Our lawyer read grand-pere’s will. My dad wanted the house to clear his gambling debts but Grampa only left him a single letter that literally just said: ‘you were my life’s greatest disappointment’, so now he claims that I poisoned his mind.”

That little… Gah! I forgot that every family has their black sheep.

“My own father…” June continues, her eyes brimming with tears.

I grab her and pull her into my embrace. She immediately cries and I somewhat awkwardly pat the back of her head. Her hair smells of sunshine.

“Do not worry, June. I will take care of this for you.”

“Oh… I did not mean to…”

“I know, I know, you do not want to bother me. I will not come back often, but I will promise you this: you can keep living your life as you see fit, and I will be the invisible hand that turns aside fate’s worst blows. You are a good person, June. I hereby choose you as my contact for the family. I grant you leave to reach to me in times of need, though do not forget that I will not protect you from the consequences of your own actions.”

June nods emphatically, then stops, considering. She has learned not to trust a free meal.

“What do you ask in exchange?” she asks.

“Nothing more than what you already do. Think of me as a… reclusive, rich, powerful, grumpy aunt that still wants to stay in touch with the family.”

She laughs this time, her joy dispelling her earlier dismay. I find that it… pleases me.

“I can do that.”

April 1847, Savannah.

My destination is quite a sight. Made of white stone —but not marble— the Rosenthal Consortium Regional Headquarter manages to appear wealthy without standing out too much. Careful engravings attract the eye, while barred windows and a monumental steel gate give off the vague impression that it would be unwise to show up without pressing business. I am rather sure that no spells are involved. The construction was just designed to be intimidating from the ground up.

I am quickly let in by very polite attendees and leave John to loom over a pair of clerks.

“Come in,” Isaac says as I knock on his door.

I do so, and take in the sights.

My friend chose well. His office overlooks the Savannah river and its many ships, offering a breathtaking view even at night. The desk offers the same understated elegance and anal-retentive obsession with order and cleanliness I have come to associate with him. Salim, at least, does not use a color code to differentiate three different types of litigations.

I will admit that Isaac looks gorgeous, even when slumming it. His dark hair is only a bit scruffy, and his impeccable suit gives him a young scion of a ruling family aura that fits his composure perfectly.

The vampire himself sits on a dignified leather chair, head held between his hands. A single gas light illuminates his work plan and the small pile of missives lying there.

“Hello Isaac. Trouble?” I ask as I shuffle in.

He offers me a seat with a casual gesture before flipping a letter to the side.

“Oh, Ariane, please do not mind my somber mood. I am delighted to see you. Delighted. Just… troublesome matters, such as revolutions in France, Germany, and Sweden. Hungary too. And a small book published earlier in London that has sent our seers in a frenzy,” he complains.

“A book?” I ask with a raised brow. He throws me a copy of the offending material and I inspect the cover.

The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels.

“Whatever,” I scoff, and toss it back to him, “should you not be pleased since you are here anyway?”

“No, for the same reason that your house being on fire does not become good news if it happens while you are on a trip,” he deadpans, and I feel a bit stupid. Isaac is a competent manager. Of course, he will be made to solve issues upon his return, and delay will only compound the difficulties.

“Sorry about that. You can always desert and join us, you know?”

He glares.

“Have you perhaps met Sophie?” he finally asks.

I am a bit surprised by the non sequitur.

“Sophie? Constantine’s secretary?”

“That would be Lord Constantine, Ariane. Be careful, for lords take offense easily. And yes, I am referring to her.”

“So?”

“She is, ah, persistent in her pursuit.”

The revelation strikes me dumb for a moment.

“You would not consider switching sides because Sophie lusts after your scrumptious self and her attention scares you?”

I never expected the fun I could get from seeing the placid vampire squirm.

“Not exactly scare. And there are other factors, of course. I enjoy my current position and all the knowledge I derive from it.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

“You need but to suffer the romantic attention of a Rosenthal once to understand what I mean,” he replies, unamused.

“Oh? Are you volunteering?” I tease.

“Hmmm. I do not love you as our kind sometimes does. I do find you fascinating, witty, brilliant, and dangerously attractive.”

“You are correct Isaac, I had not suffered Rosenthal attention before. I give you a passing grade.”

Isaac seems at loss for words.

“As my first courting present, I am proud to offer this to you,” I announce.

I grab the wrapped painting by my side and present it to him.

“Hold on, that is not… Should I not be the one who… Did you paint this yourself?”

“Of course!”

“May I?”

“By all means.”

Isaac reveals his gift with meticulous patience, cutting every string until he can unfold the paper. I drew a portrait of him as seen from above, captured as he was extolling the properties of his treasures back at the auction. I believe I managed to capture his congenial persona except for the eyes. They glance upward with a certain shine that shows the sharp mind underneath. They seem to search the spectator’s soul to uncover plots and duplicities. This is the mask of a man over the brain of a god. A true Rosenthal vampire.

I think he likes it. He does not speak for a full two minutes. His inspection is so very thorough, I think that he would remember every pigment and every stroke.

Finally, he returns his attention to me, expression inscrutable.

“I accept your courting present and hope that the subsequent sex will not get in the way of our friendship.”

Wow, that was unexpectedly fast.

And both Jimena and Nami did mention that vampires frequently engaged in casual sex with those they trusted.

And it has been a while.

And I am curious.

And, perhaps, a little bit lonely.

And I trust Isaac on a deep level. He was the first to help me understand our society.

And he looks really, really good in that suit.

Hmm.

I… think I want to try that. I push on before I can overthink the situation.

“That will depend on your performance, Isaac.”

“I will hold you to that.”

And off we go, with the Master of the place taking the initiative with an enthusiasm I would never have imagined from someone who was hesitating to hunt a prey.

It turns out that the Rosenthal Consortium’s second floor contains a secured bedroom. I just go with the flow and admit that Isaac is an experienced partner. We do not love each other, but I manage to ignore the nagging remnants of mortal guilt that would otherwise ruin the experience to just let go and enjoy myself.

And so I do, for a good hour.

“I hesitate to ask, but did you end your relationship with Torran?” he asks, as we rest under the covers after the act.

“A bit late to ask, no?” I retort, amused, but he shakes his head.

“Relationships between vampires follow different codes. Since marriages and families do not cement our unions, we make arrangements however we see fit. You could have ended your relationship, or opened it while you are separated.”

“I see. To answer your question, we are free to pursue companionship with the understanding that we will claim each other next time we meet.”

He nods in understanding.

“A wise agreement between lovers who hold each other dear.”

We relax in bed for a while longer and Isaac proves that he can put his memory to good use. He had clearly been paying attention to what I like. We have more fun and I take a pleasant bath afterward to give myself some time to recover, and also because my hair looks like tumbleweed. I did not imagine him to be quite so passionate! What a delightful surprise.

Alas, all pleasant times must come to an end. We eventually return to his office, where he shows a table containing a map, the official reason for my visit.

“We have made progress in translating the path to the dragon claw.”

“Alleged dragon claw.”

“Have some faith, Ariane, you never know what might be listening.”

I know what is watching and it does not care. Bah.

“The map, Isaac.”

“Yes. We called upon the minds of the prominent expert in the Sea Peoples, a Professor Fergusson, from Oxford. He and his assistant deciphered the text with incredible speed, and we have narrowed the starting base to an island south of Kos, in the Carpathian sea.”

“That is great news.”

“Not so much, because the island does not officially exist,” he answers, pointing at a small expanse of blue in the heart of the Mediterranean. I recognize Crete to the south, where the minotaur was said to have his labyrinth, and Rhodes with its lost colossus to the east, though, arguably, I had no notion of where that island was before looking at the map.

“Could they be mistaken?”

“Indeed not. The navigation records are quite clear, especially the traveling distances and times recorded in the recovered parchments. There are a few possibilities that we have to account for.”

“The island was submerged?”

“Possible, but unlikely. We have no records of any era with catastrophe consistent with an entire island disappearing beneath the waves. My guess, and our Progenitor agrees, is that the Sea Peoples managed to hide it with magical means.”

“What, an entire island?”

Anticipating my protests, Isaac lifts his hands in a calming gesture.

“Let me explain before you object. The place we are looking for is a sacred location. It was used as a rallying point for the fleets to conduct ritual ceremonies before they launched expeditions on whichever shore was unlucky enough to attract their gaze. It was not large. No more than five kilometers of diameter.”

“I remain unconvinced. Five kilometers is a lot to camouflage.”

“There could be something on the island that makes it special, something that would incite a confederation of raiders to choose it as their most sacred spot, despite worshipping different gods. Something that would draw a dragon in.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps. Your hypothesis begs the question, If it remained hidden for so long, how are we to find it?”

“I am glad you asked! We have designed a powerful tracking spell that only someone with an immense amount of aura and a good knowledge of blood magic can possess.”

“Did you now?”

“It will be set in a stella and dropped in the main cabin of a ship sailing soon to Gibraltar.”

“How soon does it depart?”

“Whenever you are ready. You may bring your Vassal but I will ask that you keep Doe here, on account of the amount of blood he requires as a fledgling as well as other… diplomatic issues.”

“I understand.”

“After you have arrived, you will transfer to the Corbeau, one of our exploration ships. Professor Fergusson and his assistant will already be on board, along with a team of researchers and helpers. Key members of the expedition will be made aware of your nature. You will have the power to stir them as you see fit, though we advise you to let them do their job.”

“Of course, they are qualified, after all.”

“Do you agree?”

“Yes. I will take part in this expedition. Hopefully, It pans out and we get a nice weapon out of it.”

“Even if it does not, perhaps you can use this opportunity to tour Europe. I am sure that Loth and Torran would be delighted to see you again. You can take a month or two.”

“Hmm. That does sound tempting. A pleasant trip followed by a holiday tour. The only way that this could go poorly would be if the captain was named Bingle, haha.”

“Bingle?” Isaac answers with a frown.

And there it is. My heart freezes in my chest —even more than usual—, a great feeling of dread assails my mind.

Please no.

“As in Miranda Bingle? Professor Ferguson’s assistant?”

Ah.

Ah, indeed.

Ah.

I calmly place my hands on the table. I calmly grip it until the wood groans, then, I calmly smash it against the wall.

The Atlantic, two weeks later.

“I’m booooored.”

A bang on my large cabin’s door.

“Not that bored! Go away, Sheridan!”

The Corbeau’s executive cabin is vast and luxurious even to the exacting standards of vampire nobility. It contains a bedroom, a bathroom, and a receiving room of great size, richly decorated by furniture that can be locked in place in case of bad weather. Polished wood and lush rugs cover the walls in warm colors, giving guests a feeling of cozy intimacy. The armory I brought with me only makes the place more interesting. At least, to me. The best feature is the throne-like chair on which I am currently sitting.

I turn to my domain’s temporary occupant. My cabin occupies the back of the back of the ship, and it includes a large rectangular hatch to the outside. My sarcophagus rests on rails aiming into it with an addition stuck around for the duration of the trip. Should the vessel ever be compromised, either I or Sheridan can launch it and I will safely rest under the waves until nightfall when ballasts will lift the heavy piece to the surface of the water. The purpose of the system is to render any attack on the ship for the purpose of killing me pointless.

Said hatch also serves as an ingress point for the world’s strangest castaway.

“A bother, don’t you think so Sirryn dear?”

The fish-woman replies with a throaty sound, her malevolent yellow eyed fixed on the door. She has scars on her greenish tail, across her pale white chest, on one cheek going backwards and she is missing parts of her fins and two webbed fingers. She looks like she was on the unpleasant end of a canister shot. Her nose is absent, replaced by twin vertical slits but that was from birth, so it does not technically count.

Her only notable belonging besides her bag is a strange wristband of pink stone, the material encircling a purple gem as if it had been weaved around it. For all I know, it was.

She showed up two days into the trip, flopping on the wooden board after banging on the hatch. I did not have the heart to chase her. I was already languid with ennui.

“Ariane, we need to talk!” a voice yells from behind the door.

I grumble since I can imagine why he wants a discussion.

Simply, I have fifteen hours per day of activity. I have been reading, I have been casting, I have been practicing forms of spear and sword. I have written two essays on the inevitability of our appearance to the mundane world, which I will send to Lord Constantine when we make landfall in Gibraltar. I have written three odes and seventeen dirty limericks, with Melusine only starring in three. I have tried knitting and realized I disliked it. I have filled one of my books with various drawings taken from my memories. I even found out a way to enchant the barrel of my next rifle.

It has not saved me.

So, the Watcher forbid me, I have started playing pranks on the crew. I could not help it.

Ghostly apparitions in the window? Done.

Strange noises on the hull as people try to sleep? Done.

Items that mysteriously disappear then reappear when no one is looking? Absolutely.

Perhaps enchanting a piece of wet cloth to slap the butt of the next person visiting the lavatory was a bit too much. The scream woke up the captain.

Rather than facing me directly, as the man was smart enough to know where the disruptions were coming from, our brave skipper asked an equally bored Sheridan to intercede with me and limit my shenanigans. The gall of this man, trying to make me responsible. I am older, therefore, mathematically more mature.

“Ariane, this is serious. There are pirates!”

Do my ears deceive me?

“Pirates?”

“Yes! Pirates!”

“Oh! Yesssssss! PIRATES!”

Finally! Finally! Miranda bloody Bingle came through! I thought her aura of undaunted catastrophe would only activate upon our meeting but no! Lo and behold, some action.

“We are letting them board us without resistance since it’s almost night. Can we rely on you to solve the problem?”

“Of course, you can. Do send them my way.”

Ooooh boarding action! It has been, what, ten years since the last one? How exciting. I wish I could have been on the main deck.

I quickly move my throne to face the door. I also grab a coffee table and place it to the side to hold my two revolvers. Finally, I change into full battle regalia: Loth’s armor, the obsidian gauntlet, the knives, the spear which I leave to the side. I apply a small enchantment to the lone lantern to give the light a blue hue, then I settle to wait. Sirryn comes to stand by my side and hides her presence.

I find the fish-woman curious. I am still unsure as to why she is sticking to me. It cannot be the food since she barely touched the salted cod I asked for her, preferring to rely on her own supply of multicolored algae and strangely preserved flesh she drags from her scale bag. Our conversations are often one-sided. She barely speaks more than five words per day, and all her sentences start with ‘Nirari’.

The most curious aspect of our unexpected partnership might be my reaction to her presence. She is a predator. I am a predator. So far, I have always felt strongly about those who would intrude upon my territory. Syrrin is still an unknown, and yet her presence does not bother me in the slightest, as if we were complimentary instead of competitive.

I dismiss the thought. Heavy footsteps announce the coming of quite a few guests.

A discreet bang on the door.

“Come in,” I offer, and Sheridan walks in first, hands in the air.

That immediately ticks me off.

The man who follows has a long brown beard and the sort of clothes designed to look like a navy officer’s uniform without being one. He stops when he spots me, and his mouth hangs open to reveal blackened teeth.

The lout currently holds Sheridan’s colt, muzzle pointed at my Vassal’s back.

That will not do at all.

More men follow. They look like unkempt sailors. Many show dubious hygiene and faces turned scarlet by alcohol abuse. The smell of my space downgrades from that of a salon to that of a barrack. I scrunch my nose in displeasure.

A good dozen men spread in a half-circle around me, all gaping like a bunch of fools and fouling the air with their fetid breath. My mood plummets.

Ah, well. Let us make use of this diversion, at least.

“Poras Dei Malkan.”

With a massive clang, the metal door seals behind my guests. They all jump at the same time and Sheridan uses the opportunity to withdraw to a darker corner of the room. I can feel his fury from here, a rare occurrence. It must chafe his manly pride to allow criminals on board. He is more of a ‘to the last drop of blood’ kind of lad.

I admire that he would place the safety of the sailors above his pride.

Tick tick tick. My nails play a little tune on the throne’s lacquered arm. Progressively, the sorry rabble of imbeciles populating my private quarters returns their attention to me.

“I was told that you had demands?” I ask, amused. A smile reveals a hint of fangs, not enough to be terrifying, just enough to leave them uneasy.

“Nah we don’t. We were just on our way,” the captain immediately babbles. Half of the crew nods emphatically while the rest still waits for their intellects —such as it is— to come back to life.

Hmm.

I find it both admirable and slightly disappointing that some people would exert common sense ten minutes after committing an act of piracy on a well-patrolled trading lane.

“Oh no, be my guests. I insist,” I finish in a lower pitch.

I Charm all of them at once and force a step forward. I hear a few muttered prayers. A white noise rings in my ear as they do so.

“First order of business, you will return his weapon to my friend. Now.”

The captain mechanically throws the Colt to Sheridan, who grabs it with relief. His anger abates. Good.

“Now, I’d like to know whose brilliant idea it was to attack this specific ship.”

Silence.

“No privateer with two bits of sense would risk what you risked boarding us, so I will ask again, who decided it would be a good idea to attack us?”

“What are you all doing?! Let’s kill the bitch!” a voice declares from somewhere.

Finally, someone with a spine and no brain on top.

The culprit is revealed when his brave companions take a step away from him. He is an angry one, I can tell, skin carmine and eyes bulging. I can feel the violence underneath. He is a man used to it.

“Oh? And how would you proceed?” I ask him.

After taking a few seconds to process the question, he steps forward and takes out a pistol with unnecessary flourish. I get a good view of the badly maintained barrel when he waves it under my nose. I should kill him just for that.

“Enough of your bullshit, woman...”

“Shoot.”

Silence, once again, descends upon the rabble.

“Shoot,” I repeat.

I am curious. I know that this will not kill me. I do wonder how much it will hurt, however. A tiny part of me thinks this is ridiculous, that I should just kill them and be done. The rest is bored, and knows that boredom is a dangerous thing. I need a little bit of play, a tiny hunt, something to keep me on my toes. Being shot in the face by a pirate might just be the thing.

“Shoot, you pu—”

A click. I watch, mesmerized, the powder ignite when the frizzen hits the rusty pan.

White.

Something blows into my face. It feels like being slapped, burned, and stung at the same time.

Ow.

Ow.

Ow.

Alright, ow. That hurt.

I open my eyes, blink a little bit, and blow air out of my nose. Black powder rises, which I fan away with the back of my hand.

The sailor and his mates let their jaws hang open, aghast.

I realize that the bullet has come to rest against my left lower molars. I push it with my tongue. Hot! And vile. Ugh.

I spit the piece of lead on the carpet.

Somebody swears.

“My turn, I guess,” I remark.

I snap the shooter’s neck and send his corpse careening against the hull, for intimidation and also because it really hurt. Reminder to self, avoid the cloud of heated powder whenever possible.

I grab a handkerchief and wipe my face, trying to digest the latest piece of information.

Normal bullets no longer harm me. At all.

I have changed so much in the past thirty years. I have gained many advantages. Sheridan’s presence reminds me that I have lost some as well. I should rejoice at the disappearance of one more weakness, and yet I cannot help but wonder what the cost was. I used to be… more human, at first. I think. I find it hard to remember how it felt.

I have forgotten.

I return my attention to the present. I do not want melancholy to get its apathetic grasp on me.

“Where were we? Ah yes, you were going to tell me why you attacked my ship, before I paint the room red.”

The following interrogation is as inspiring as it is unpleasant, with every minute those idiots spend here increasing the risk of having to delouse and fumigate the entire room. They were ordered to intercept us by a contact in a small port called Casablanca, in order to retrieve ‘any cargo’ we might be carrying, including the more peculiar ones. I suspect some rogue cabal fishing for artefacts with disposable assets. Isaac is going to have a field day. He loves to pull the string of clues until he reveals a fat, secretive lumps of rich bastards who think themselves smart.

“I understand. And you saw no problem with taking the contract,” I summarize while tapping a talon on the coffee table.

The captain has the decency to look embarrassed. His men huddle behind him smelling of fear and piss. More muttered prayers form an irritating drone at the back of my mind.

“This world is vast, and filled with dangers,” I continue. “Take it from someone who had survived for a long time, the most important thing you must know when stealing from someone is who, exactly, that someone is, and whether or not you can afford to cross them. Some companies will learn of a stolen shipment, write it down in their balance sheets, and contact their insurer. That would be the majority. There are others, like the Rosenthal Consortium, to whom this ship belongs, that need to protect their reputation. It means vengeance. It means that they will hire pirate hunters or…”

I lean forward and this time I show my fangs.

“... things like me, to send a clear message. That is why you little newts should have known better.”

I lean back.

“But since I am feeling generous, I may consider letting you go if you play just a few games. Well, most of you, in any case.”

Hope shines in their yellow, bloodshot eyes.

“First order of business, you are going to thin your own ranks,” I start with a grisly smile that hints at unspeakable horrors and advanced psychological torture.

The captain whips his pistol out and points it at a tub of lard of a man with filthy blond hair, pulls the trigger, then brains him.

All over my books.

My precious books! Covered with brain matter from a man with the cortex of a dead opossum. My only rampart against boredom. Soiled!

“By the Watcher you cockless little AAAARGH! You should have waited for me to state the bloody rules! What is wrong with you lot!?”

I am already grabbing my spear when a voice interrupts me, a warm baritone with a Texan accent.

“That’s enough, Ariane. Let them go.”

How dare he…

My anger surges, then dies like a wave against a rock, broken by instinct and belief. Sheridan is here for me. He is merely playing his role.

“I said I may let them go,” I hiss.

“No more semantics. If you were to kill them, and that was your prerogative, you should have done so from the get go. Do not play cat and mouse with human lives, Ariane. Respect the spirit of your word.”

He…

Hmm.

Semantics and tricks are part and parcel of what we are. I also mentioned several games, and I did say ‘may’. I do not believe that I am breaking the spirit of my word, as he said.

I could argue with him. It would be a waste. Sheridan has decided to be my conscience. I do not need to be technically correct with him because he is on my side, and so I decide to let it go.

The pleasure of killing them lost its appeal anyway.

“Leave my ship,” I begrudge, “and remember the rules, because another one of my kin might not be so generous.

One gesture, and the heavy door unlocks behind the pirates.

The room is blessedly devoid of disease carriers five seconds later. I consider that nothing prevents them from turning their guns on the ship, but I dismiss the concern. It will be night quite soon and the ship is sturdy. I will simply slay them all if they develop a collective case of insanity.

“I am worried about you Ariane, you were not like this when we attacked the cult.”

“We were on a schedule,” I reply, “I do not take as many risks playing with my food if there are lives at stake.”

Sheridan seems to accept my explanation, yet soon a new worry twists his traits into a scowl.

“Speaking of which, you have not, you know...”

“Fed from them?”

“Yes.”

“Well, someone ruined the mood and decided to let them leave.”

“I... I see.”

He looks sheepish. I wave his concerns away.

“Do not worry yourself. That was no worthy hunt. I will simply drink from one of the volunteers, as always. I am convinced that there will be ample opportunities to hunt before this trip is over.”

“Very well.”

“Now please leave me.”

“Right, good evening to you.”

“And have someone come clean all that brain!” I tell his retreating back.

Hmph.

Syrrin lowers her camouflage and point at the corpses

“Nirari. Give. Flesh.”

Her raspy voice sounds strange in the open air. It also annoys me that, after me insisting that there would be no flesh for half of the trip and her looking at me like at a child who claims the dog grabbed the cookie jar, her incredulity turns out to be warranted.

I never fail to deliver, do I?

“Yes, yes. Just don’t eat his liver, or you may suffer from alcohol-induced coma.”

Syrrin ignores my warning. She opens the latch and a blade of sunset light reflects on the side of the room like a long red gash. I hiss softly. I do not believe that I will ever forget the burn I got in Alexandria.

And now I am bored and reminiscing, again.

This has to be the most disappointing pirate experience of my life. This debacle also served to underline a few important details.

Sheridan is not Dalton. He sees himself as my conscience and as my protector, someone who will steer me towards the light (the non-burning kind). I will never compare them aloud because it would be a pointless and harmful experience. The Texas ranger was never meant to emulate another man. He has his ways, and that is fine. I will merely require a few adjustments in my expectations.

I am also changing. Evolution of character is a natural thing, a comforting thing, because it reminds me that I am still learning, and growing. At the same time, my recent tendency to play with my prey worries me. It could simply be the lack of true challenges in the last two months, at least since Lord Jarek stopped bashing my face in during our spars. It could also be an instinctual response.

If my nature turns more cruel as time goes by, I fear that when the time comes to fight the two old monsters, I might choose to join forces with one of them instead.

No... no, that would not be me. Toying with our preys qualifies us as a... whatever we are. I merely need to question my own actions. As long as I ask myself if my behavior conforms to the rules I set for myself, I will never be truly lost.

As for boredom, I just thought of something.

A few weeks ago, when I amused myself with that entertaining little band of thieves, I came across a mildly competent mind mage. I allowed him to enter my mind fortress so we could have a bit of fun together. I realize now that I could perhaps develop a more battle-oriented setup. It could be a lot of fun.

I close my eyes and meditate. I am now in the palatial bedroom of the imaginary castle of my psyche. The Watcher casts it’s purple radiance on a chaotic landscape of mazes, statues and gardens. Strange white flowers bloom on the dark roots and thorns that form the fabric of this space.

Time for a little bit of experimental landscaping!

I spend another week like this, mostly occupied with experimenting with mental warfare. I do not even need a partner to practice on. My instincts can gauge the deadliness of my creations.

I cannot wait for another mental confrontation.

Then, one night, Sheridan wordlessly drags me to the deck. We watch the green and grey of the shore rise to a sheer cliff gently sloping towards a bay and its many buildings. The Rock of Gibraltar stands guard over the entrance to the Mare Nostrum and its ancient treasures.

At long last.

Europe.

112. Third of her Name.

We moor in the Gibraltar harbor. The weather is particularly clement in May, and I merely wear a thin cloak in royal blue over a teal hybrid dress. The captain of the Corbeau, our ship, tries to stop me as I leave with Sheridan in tow. He combs his grey beard with a nervous hand.

“Milady, the research team will board the ship as soon as our landing is approved. Do you not wish to stay there and welcome them?”

“We leave in three days, yes?”

“That is correct, Milady.”

“Then there will be ample time to greet them before we depart.”

“But surely…”

“Are you suggesting that I should await their consent?”

“N… No, of course not.”

“I have pressing business in the city. Good night, captain.”

My pressing business would be to finally move and unwind before I start juggling with torn-off limbs. Me, at the disposal of mortals? Especially a Bingle? I am the money. They will see me when I feel like it.

A pair of sailors in the white uniforms of the Rosenthal fleet hastily prepare a plank, both of them showing suitable deference. As befit men whose naked buttocks are at the mercy of my wrath!

My Vassal and I tread the pavement of the harbor with palpable relief. I take a deep breath, and inhale the scent of the sea, but also of flowers and heated rock. The usual warehouses and offices I spot in the distance are made of stone and rather recent, while the town further back shows influence from both British and Spanish architecture. Fortifications cling to the cliff, dating back to the territory’s Moorish days. They are older than my nation.

I am going to climb them. Later.

It also smells like sweat and gunpowder now, and the source comes trampling down the pier with all the self-importance they can muster. Red uniforms. I let out a low hiss.

“Are you expecting trouble, Ariane?” Sheridan asks while discreetly placing his hand near his holster.

“No. Or at least, not for them. Last time I came across redcoats, they shot at me,” I grumble.

“Ah, I always forget that you are older than you look. So, they were hostile at the time, huh?”

“Yes,” I answer, then, after a while, “to be fair I was trying to eat them.”

The war is long over. I must remember that most of the men approaching me were not born when Dalton fell.

“Madam, you must remain onboard until we have inspected and cleared the ship,” the officer starts with a mighty frown.

I glare. He is young, with the marks of a lieutenant. Waxed mustache and polished buttons show a great attention to his appearance, the image ruined by a vicious sunburn. Freshly dumped here from his native Sussex, then. Or Wessex. Some dreary land of fog, rain, and tuberculosis. A stickler for rules.

“We have a medical emergency,” I explain with a bit of Charm, “of the female kind.”

The man blushes purple and lets me pass with a muttered word.

“I do not know of any medical emergency of a female kind that would warrant skipping quarantine and inspections,” Sheridan remarks in a low voice.

“That would be because you grew up on a farm, while this man grew up in some cottage where people insist on using ‘expecting’ instead of ‘pregnant’ because anatomy is improper. He would rather let me through than be further embarrassed.”

“I see.”

“Some people let respectability get in the way of common sense. Bah, enough of this, I am being too judgmental. Perhaps he just cared about my well-being.”

Probably not.

“So, what should we do?” Sheridan finally asks as we leave the pier behind us.

“You are going to the pub, or wherever your steps take you. I am going to climb to the top of that thing, visit that castle over there, and then poke the garrison.”

“Errrrr.”

“Don’t worry, the Rock is considered neutral ground. I am not invading anyone’s turf.”

Before leaving, I obtained American diplomatic identification papers. Traveling vampires also carry small, enchanted notebooks in Akkad to justify their presence.

“That’s not what worries me, woman.”

“Hmm?”

“You are going to prank the sentries, are you not?”

“Perhaps a little bit.”

“Is there anything I can say that might convince you otherwise?”

“I think not.”

“I need a whiskey.”

“Good luck! Oh, and try Scotch if they have it.”

Sheridan waves, already heading towards a more animated part of town. I hope he will have a grand time with the locals.

I spend the night moving around freely. I enjoy the eclectic architecture combining several cultures as well as the old and new. I climb the sheer cliff to The Rock’s summit and feast my eyes upon the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, the Spanish town of La Línea de la Concepción to the North and Africa to the South. I find small monkeys sleeping in clusters of fluffy grey fur. I follow an intricate network of caves and explore it for a while, enamored by its beautiful complexity. The largest grottos near the surface are tame and rife with the remains of torches, food, and human blood, but the deeper parts show no signs of activity. I make one sentry pee himself by touching his shoulder, then his hair, then flipping his hat without revealing my presence. I sup on an officer in the middle of his surprise inspection, thus giving a patrol the time to hide their booze. Let it be known that I can show generosity.

Finally, one hour before dawn, I retire to my quarters. Not even the discovery that Syrrin used some of my coffee beans to season her people jerky ruins my mood. It felt good to stretch my legs.

The next night leads me to the garrison’s barracks and Sheridan’s jail in particular. The tall man sports a bruise on his left eye that already started to turn a spectacular shade of purple, green, and yellow. Like a half-finished portrait. A grim sergeant frees him and leads us outside, past the squat building’s many alcoves and onto the whipping court beyond. A patrol looks at us with curiosity as he hands the Texan his packed belongings.

“Our apologies for the disturbance, ma’am,” the soldier says in an accent that I can barely follow. For a moment, it seems that he called me ‘mom’.

“Certainly.”

“I must insist that your man must stop carrying deadly weapons around, authorization or not. This is a military base, not the frontier, aye?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sheridan grumbles, although he keeps his belt and holster in a small bag instead of wearing it.

We leave in the direction of the ship, and I await with one raised brow, before realizing that Sheridan is not looking at me at all. He is admiring the many boats passing the straits, even at  night.

“Well?” I finally exclaim, out of patience.

“Well what? Oh, sorry. I went to their watering hole to grab a beer. Bunch of soldiers on leave asking a lot of questions. Nothing bad. Then a man deep in his drinks demanded that I toast Queen Victoria. I said that I’d toast the broad but that she was not my queen. They took exception.”

I wait.

“I’ve always been the brawniest around, least ‘till I started travelling with you. Recently though, I’ve been, I don’t know, feeling stronger. And faster than I had any right to be. And when I sent them to the ground it felt… good. I was meant to be there, and they were meant to crawl on the ground. It lasted until that military police unit clobbered me in the face.”

“Ah yes, I was expecting it.”

The effects of Constantine’s essence. It appears that his power extends to Vassals, not just Servants.

“A side effect of me becoming your spiritual guide? Sorry, I meant, uh, what was it? Vassal.”

“Yeeeees, spiritual guide indeed. I did not think that you would gain some of my instincts.”

“It scares me that I might not be entirely myself anymore.”

“You are yourself,” I reassure him, “Consider it as a sort of drink that you would take every time you fight that removes your fear.”

“A coward’s crutch? No. I see what you mean.”

“You could probably also survive gut wounds with your enhanced constitution. I also suspect increased healing. Your bruise looks like it was made three days ago, not twelve hours.”

He turns pensive.

“It does not sound too bad…”

“And before you ask, no, your soul is still your own and quite intact.”

“… I was not going to.”

“When you lie, you twirl your mustache on the right side.”

He drops his hands.

“Dammit.”

We walk in silence. The paved streets are calm, and the harbor comes into view, with its sapphire waters and moored warships. The Corbeau shows signs of intense activity. Slightly longer than a brig and without armament, its swift shape reveals that it was built for the quick transportation of valuable goods.

“You’re not mad? About the brawl?” Sheridan asks as we approach the gangplank.

“No. I am in no position to criticize your use of violence. Think nothing of it and focus on the future. We should meet the main members of this expedition.”

Field Journal of Miranda Bingle.

We finally boarded the Corbeau this morning! It was a ship of good size with the sharp figure of a frigate like I saw them in Dover. We were welcomed by Captain Ozenne, who I assumed was a Frenchman but turned out to be Swiss! I did not even know Switzerland had a navy and captains. What a surprise it was. Captain Ozenne greeted us warmly, the very image of a gentleman. My cabin is fairly small, but at least it is mine.

I have been loath to leave the ship, lest it left without me. I know it is a silly fear, and yet it will not leave me alone and wars in my heart with my boundless excitement. I am having my own story now! Not those senseless tales father and brother tell all the time, ripe with superstition, no! I will have my own very academic adventure, one that will propel the name Bingle in the more serious circles of scholarly pursuit!

We will leave in three days and I am told we are soon to meet the rest of the team, including one of our investors, who was not available at the time. How exciting! I hope he will see the light of reason and insist on not pillaging our findings. We are archeologists, not tomb raiders.

The stage is set, only awaiting the actors to come for the introduction scene. I have placed my seat facing the entrance with Sheridan by my side, while my guests will sit in front of me. The coffee table, now thoroughly debrained, hosts a few assortments of sweets as well as cups for everyone. For tonight, I wear an azure gown of exquisite make designed specifically to show wealth and good taste. I made my hair into a conservative braid to keep my cheeks free. A golden pendant of abstract design attracts the eye towards a modest cleavage to add a touch of exotism. Sheridan wears a custom duster that gives him the appearance of a seasoned adventurer, which in a way, he is. He left his colt behind at my insistence.

A knock on the door. They are here.

I stand up and Sheridan opens the door, inviting the two characters I was eager to meet.

The first is a scholarly type with benevolent brown eyes set in a wrinkled face. A well-trimmed beard covers most of his jaw, and a close-fitting tweed suit shows the wiry body of a long-time athlete underneath. He reveals a bit of shock at my sight, although he recovers almost immediately.

The second person to cross my threshold wears a sensible dress in dark brown. Its conservative cut still hints at a shapely figure, undoing the woman’s best efforts to appear bland. She wears round glasses to camouflage her lovely face and a pair of velvety brown orbs brimming with intelligence. Her only concession to beauty is her hair, which falls to her back in a shower of dark ringlets. She appears meek while he is confident, and the contrast between the two serves to underline the camaraderie of the pair, with the scholar instinctively shielding the maiden from my imposing Vassal.

“Mr. Fergusson, Miss Bingle, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Please, join me,” I greet them pleasantly.

Sheridan moves to the table and prepares the seat for Miranda like a perfect gentleman. The gesture of respect soothes my guests who sit down and eye the victuals with curiosity.

“My name is Ariane Delaney. I represent your employer’s interests in this venture.”

No reaction from Miranda.

“And this is Marshall Sheridan, previously of the Texas Rangers. He will contribute to the security of this expedition. Allow me to welcome you aboard and to thank you for your exemplary work so far. The Rosenthal Consortium has high hopes for you and we will hope that this will mark the beginning of a fruitful collaboration.”

“Thank you for these kind words,” Ferguson says, eyes darting around the room to take in the books, the maps, and the occult circle that I will use to locate the island poking from under the rug.

“My pleasure. May I offer you something to drink? Tea, perhaps? A good friend of mine offered me this interesting blend.”

“Oh, it would be my pleasure,” Ferguson answers while Miranda nods emphatically.

I grab the prepared teapot and serve both guests in turn. The delicate scent of Lady Sephare’s creation spreads through the air in a cloud, the blend meticulously measured, then kept fresh in enchanted compartments. Both of their engraved white cups soon fill with piping hot liquid the color of mahogany.

The pair lifts them to their lips in eerie silence and with perfect synchronization. They freeze at the same time, staring, askance, at my own.

This is where I reveal another pot.

Powerful wafts of freshly ground Arabica push the more discreet scent away like East Indian company crates into the Boston Harbor as I serve both Sheridan and myself the dark nectar.

We sip in silence.

“So, you are American then?” Fergusson finally asks, forcing Miranda to cough in her elbow.

“Yes. You had questions, before we begin?”

So far, Miranda has remained silent. The older professor still looks to her on occasion with paternal care. They obviously hold each other in high esteem. It shames me that I suspect a forbidden love almost immediately, but no, their relationship is closer to that of mentor and mentee. No signs of arousal.

“I was hoping that you could assuage my curiosity. Forgive an old man for taking liberties, haha. I could not help but remark that you are unexpectedly young… and…”

“Female.”

“Forgive me. Yes.”

“I appreciate your concerns. Do not be deceived by my youthful appearance, I have worked with the Consortium in the past. Your employer Isaac sometimes trusts me with his more... unusual pursuits.”

Oops, not to be taken out of context, that one.

“Are you, ahem, a scholar of sorts?”

“Think of me as the point of contact between the investigation team and your investors. My role is to make sure that everything runs smoothly. I can make decisions or request additional means to that effect, so that we bring this project to a satisfactory conclusion.”

“I understand,” answers the man who clearly does not understand. I do not have the heart to tell him that, beyond a necessary help in case of supernatural foes, I am here as an overseer.

“The chance to study ruins belonging to the Sea Peoples is a unique opportunity to learn more about this mysterious folk. I do hope that we will be free to share our findings with our esteemed colleagues throughout the world…”

I smile pleasantly.

“As stated in our contract, your research is your own. We reserve the right to keep a few key artefacts you might find.”

“For the purpose of conservation, of course?” the old gentleman asks pointedly.

Ah, I have to draw the line, it would seem.

“For the purpose we see fit and according to guidelines you already agreed on. Unless, of course, you find our terms unacceptable, and would prefer to opt out of the contract? This is your last chance.”

“No, no… of course not,” he replies with a put off expression. “We are grateful for the opportunity. I merely wish for you to consider the invaluable contribution to mankind those discoveries would mean.”

“Oh, believe me, I do.”

I use the pause provoked by the slight rebuke to sip on my delicious cup. I cannot believe that Syrrin would steal my beans and use them as spice. I hope that it messes with her metabolism and that she gets pimples all over that stupid flat face.

Fergusson mirrors me. Signs of annoyance pierce through his admirable composure, though he hides them well. It must chafe to be chided by someone seemingly thirty years his junior. A woman, no less. His well-earned position grants him the respect and obedience of all those he usually works with and the drastic change of circumstances will undoubtedly create frictions. He bears the frustration admirably.

I hope it will be true for the other members of the expedition.

“Good to hear. I have high hopes for our success. I have dedicated my whole life to the study of the Sea Peoples, you understand, a most frustrating endeavor considering the lack of direct sources. I had to rely on records from Mesopotamia… Are you familiar with the history of Mesopotamia, Miss Delaney?”

“Passably. I understand that the Sea Peoples are blamed for the collapse of the first community of civilizations in the twelfth century before… the twelfth century BC.”

That was before the time of Semiramis too.

“Indeed. I have sources from there as well as from Egypt. Unfortunately, we are only now barely starting to research the cradle of humanity, so there is little time and energy dedicated to the understanding of this specific group while so many other ruins still await to be recovered and studied. I hope that, by visiting one of their actual settlements, we will finally acquire first-hand materials to bring back to Oxford and comprehend the important — if destructive — role that the Sea Peoples played in the history of the ancient men.”

Ah, what delicious passion. Wait. No, Ariane, no sampling the expedition group.

I must have smiled, because Fergusson’s eyes shine with enthusiasm and the pleasure of a shared interest. Miranda also stares dreamily into the distance.

“This will be my last expedition, then, I hope to pass on the burden of discovery to the next generation on the person of my dearest assistant, a brilliant mind and a credit to her sex.”

Wait. Retirement? Passing the baton? Did this man just commit plot-related suicide? Aw, poor soul.

I stare with interest when Miranda turns a delicate shade of rose in a fit of bashful modesty. Ah, when will she realize that she is under his protection and that the rest of the academic body does not squish her dreams and ambition because they are indulging an aging genius, not out of respect for her skills? Hopefully, not too soon.

“I am sure that we will find something,” I assure him with perfect confidence. With a Bingle on board, we are pretty much guaranteed catastrophic success.

We make more small talk, with Miranda remaining mostly silent. I learn that Fergusson enjoys running and hunting, and that he used to play Rugby as a flanker, whatever that means. I reveal very little myself, except hinting that I have shares in many flourishing businesses and work closely with the Rosenthal. As they leave, I ask Miranda to stay for ‘girl talk’ and let Sheridan escort Fergusson back to his cabin.

She plants herself back on her chair with a guarded air. I allow her to squirm for a while as repayment for what she is going to put me through.

“Is this about my qualifications?” she finally asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you displeased with my presence? Is it due to my youth?”

“Ah. No. Everyone aboard this ship is here by the consent of House Rosenthal.”

Although, I would have been more stringent in my selection criteria.

“I merely had a question regarding your family. Some of them are adventurers, are they not?”

Her face scrunches in terrible disapproval. Her hackles raise with thunderous outrage.

“Do not tell me their… drivel has crossed the Atlantic!”

Huh?

“My brother and father write entertainment for simpletons. All these stories of curse and magic and other ridiculous notions, really! I intend to break away from fables and tall tales to bring our family name back to its erstwhile respectability.”

“Really? And you never opened one of those books?”

“I have better ways to spend my time than to fill my head with wild exaggerations,” she proudly exclaims. Then realizing my lack of reaction, she asks in turn:

“Surely you do not believe in magic and superstitions, Miss Delaney?”

I should knock on the hull and ask Syrrin in. Ah, no, it would remove the dramatic effect of what she will undoubtedly uncover.

“Why would you, someone with an obvious education, believe in supernatural fabrications instead of what scientific evidence tells you?”

Oi.

“I like to keep an open mind. Perhaps some elements that are now considered mystical will, in time, be better understood and fall under the mantle of science,” I politely suggest.

There, all diplomatic and mysterious. Better than casting ‘Shred’ on her arm asking her to scientifically analyze it. I am a merciful vampire. Sometimes. With a reasonable amount of select people.

“Do you rely on occultism in your investment strategy? Surely not? Unless… you think the artefacts we retrieve will be magical in nature?”

“Perhaps. I cannot tell yet.”

“Oh, Miss Delaney, I would like your assurance that you will not deprive mankind of valuable sources of knowledge. You must not…”

“Miss Bingle, please,” I interrupt, surprised by the torrent of words I am submitted to, “remember that my beliefs are not your concern. We have a contract, and we will both abide by its rules.”

“The rigorous pursuit of truth…”

“Enough!” I order, this time more sternly. “I do not owe you a justification. If you want to finish this conversation, I propose that we do so on our return trip.”

“Very well… I, huh, I should go. Sorry.”

“Good night, Miss Bingle.”

Field Journal of Miranda Bingle

We have bid adieu to Gibraltar and left for the Aegean, where Icarus fell to his death. The weather is pleasantly warm, and the distractions are many, giving the professor and I ample opportunities to mingle with our esteemed partners. We have another archeologist in the person of Emilien, full name: Emilien Eustache Marie Sigisbert Champignac. It is fortunate that our patronyms do not adorn our cabin doors, or he would have run out of ship. In any case, the Frenchman was polite enough, though flirty as expected of his race, and I learnt that he studied under Champollion himself. His knowledge of hieroglyphics and the reign of Ramses the Third will be of great use if we do find our ruins.

We are also graced with a quiet Prussian scholar who spends entirely too much time drinking beer and scratching his sunburns. Finally, and for an unknown reason, we are saddled with a greasy little merchant from Sardinia. I have no idea what his purpose may be, and I dare not ask our patron after that latest fiasco.

And indeed, the woman is intriguing. She only joins us for late afternoon tea, when we gather in the captain’s cabin, and I have no memories of seeing her move around much. When asked, the sailors deflect questions concerning their employer and show a clear apprehension of their curious guest. The only morsel of knowledge I grasped was from an angry man who hinted that she had been difficult to live with as they crossed the Atlantic. I can only deduct from this and her fine gowns that she is a woman of refined taste, and picky with either her food or her entertainment, thus creating a strain on the crew.

I have so many questions.

Why pick someone so young, when they clearly do not have a background in archeology or science? Her understanding of the expedition covers elements of logistics and finance, yet her knowledge of history remains basic.

Is that gruff man following her around just a bodyguard, or something more sinister?

Who are the people behind the Rosenthal Consortium?

What are they hoping to find on their island that would justify such expense?

This voyage grows more mysterious by the day.

It appears that our brave captain has learned his lesson. From the moment we lift anchor, he makes sure that I am suitably entertained through various social calls and by teaching me how to play poker. I have made progress since Loth and Dalton last flounced me like a plucked chicken, but there is an art to playing and that I had never understood it before.. He teaches me psychology, statistics, and bluff. Finally, he teaches me how to cheat.

Between this, my usual activities, and hanging with the crew, my days are finally filled enough that I have stopped recharging the hidden glyphs to have doors spontaneously open at random intervals.

I acquaint myself with the team as well. We will have around twenty handymen used for various tasks, cooking, and suffering ignominious death at the hands of ancient traps as Miranda looks on in horror. We also have a dour man of Germanic origin with a blond beard and a delicate skin who does not seem to acclimate and whose life expectancy I count in days. We also have a Frenchman who might be the romantic interest, and a fat little prick from Italy whom I have labelled as ‘emergency blood supply number one’. With Sheridan, we form a relatively large group. The captain and his crew will remain onboard with the understanding that they are not disposable like the rest of us.

I should feel aggravated, but, well, this is my third Bingle.

It only takes us a few busy days to bypass Crete from the north, the turn to the south before Kos. Captain Ozenne slows the ship to a crawl to wait for my directions.

At nightfall, I change into a thin, functional white slip. I then seal my cabin and have Sheridan remove the rug with Syrrin watching to uncover the construct underneath. Isaac told me it would fit on a stele. Clearly, he was wrong.

A circle of dark iron made of curved bars riveted to the hull’s interior forms the exterior of a complex series of glyphs engraved into the wood, three paces across. To begin, I open a can of luminescent paint and patiently retrace every part of the spell with meticulous care. A working of this size takes a great amount of work, yet at the same time it is strangely relaxing. I can stop worrying about the entire expedition and focus instead on the present moment and the brush between my fingers. With slow purpose, I complete the framework until it shines under the lantern’s light. The preparations are complete.

I walk to my safe and remove from it a small box containing the mummified hand of the expedition leader, the same who led the doomed attempt on Ramses the Third’s host of charioteers. His remains were to be interred on the secret island and the resonance between those two should be powerful enough to direct the spell. If this fails, I have others, though I do not believe they will be needed. As soon as I touch the lead, my intuition tells me that this will work.

I place the focus in the middle of the circle and leave to grab two more items. The first is a compass which will act as a conduit that I will be able to bring topside to help steer the ship. The second is my gauntlet.

I feel a rush of sensations as I clasp the precious tool around my hand, the power yet to be shaped waiting in the air and singing in my essence. I walk to my spot by the box and slice a vein open with a sharp talon. Instead of dripping down, the droplets of black blood rise in the air as if caught by an unseen current. They explode in shimmering clouds of pale purple, like a sunset on an alien world, until I can barely see the roof. Slowly at first, then with increased speed, the nebula rotates as I feed power into the spell. Yellow light emerges from the paint, soon gaining in intensity. I pour more and more power as time passes until the very cabin vibrates with contained might, and still, I give more. The strain on my essence grows noticeable and forces me to grit my teeth. Finally, an ivory arrow forms in the air.

“Seek.”

Syrrin and Sheridan back away from the roaring construct, which by this point whirls with tempestuous vigor. Despite the torrential onslaught, the boundaries hold fast under my practiced will.

The arrow solidifies in the air, sharp as a foil. I raise the compass in my right hand. A matching light.

“Good. It worked. Now, to get topside.”

“Get changed first, perhaps?” Sheridan mutters as he steals a glance towards my denuded feet.

He is right. I would not want people to see my knees and think me a shameless harlot. Not after the effort I made to appear all proper.

“Great idea Sheridan.”

He nods.

“Then get out.”

“Oh, yes, sorry.”

Five minutes later and properly dressed, the Ranger and I join an expectant Captain Ozenne on the deserted aft castle. The sails are reefed, and a full shift of sailors await our direction on the deck below.

“it worked, then?” the older man asks.

“It did. Follow the arrow.”

With a mighty voice, he yells directions and the crew scurries left and right. Soon, we slice the waves like a sharp knife.

And we wait.

The arrow points forward with unerring focus for a solid hour, until something quite peculiar happens. The sky is clear and the moon casts a light so bright that even a mortal should be able to watch, yet the ocean before us blurs and melds with the sky in curious hues of cobalt. I study the phenomenon with curiosity when the captain’s voice interrupts my musing.

“This is pointless. We should turn around. This cannot be right,” the man protests, eyes strangely glazed. The sailors below echo his grumblings.

“Keep course,” I counter.

“What? Why would… Hold on, something is wrong,” Sheridan continues. He shakes his head like a man reeling from a punch.

“I’m turning around,” Ozenne continues. His frown turns to a thunderous scowl when I stop the wheel’s motion.

“Let it go, woman.”

“Look at me,” I order, “good.”

I Charm him and find the most curious of intruders deep within his psyche, a permeating fog that muddles his mind. I find myself unable to remove it. Instead, I simply combat its influence with mine.

Ozenne blinks owlishly.

“What?”

“Maintain course, captain.”

“Oh right.”

The protests of the sailors intensifies, so I turn to them and grab them like one grabs the scruff of a rowdy dog.

“Shut up and keep working,” I bellow.

The mutiny dies before it could start.

Good.

The next fifteen minutes are a pain. I am forced to assist the captain during bouts of terrorizing the mortals so that they stop protesting. At some point, Professor Ferguson inexplicably joins us to complain that the island location was wrongly calculated. I send him back to his cabin with the instruction to ‘recalculate it then’. It works.

And, finally, just as I was about to start slapping people, the indigo of the night fades like fog under the wind and our destination appears.

An island like a tower springs into the air like a raised fist, sheer cliffs surrounding it on all sides with one exception. Slightly to the side, a small bay guards the only path up to a plateau and the thick forest covering the island’s center. The rocky walls are dotted with black marks from whence sea birds take flight. A network of caves.

“What was that thing’s name?” Ozenne asks me with a dreamy voice. The repulsion effect faded as soon as we were through.

“The Hand of the Drowned God.”

113. Fist of the Drowned God

Note: this chapter is short but don't worry, the next will be normal-sized.

Field Journal of Miranda Bingle

We made landfall at dawn, carried to shore in small embarkations. The sailors of the Corbeau gallantly dragged ours onto the rocky beach so that I would not have to wet my boots. While most of the crew prepared a base camp in a pleasant clearing, the members of our expedition made our way inland with five workmen carrying supplies. Mr Champignac proposed to lead the way on account of his experience trudging around, to which we agreed, and we were soon on our way.

The palm trees and bleached trunks of the shore soon left room to a dense forest showing essences from all across the Mediterranean! I saw olive trees, Lebanese cedars, Moroccan argan and other essences I did not recognize growing in dense clusters with thick, dark green leaves, and carrying unripe fruits. They seemed to close around us as we trudged our way in, and I could not help but feel a surreal sensation from their appearance. Many of the species I spotted were normally shrubs, and yet here they stood tall and strong like oaks.

We started to follow an uphill trail. Emilien Champignac went first, followed by Herr Mueller the Prussian researcher and that sneazy little merchant Stefano. I made sure to follow at a small distance while Mr. Sheridan went behind, sometimes helping the staff cross the more arduous obstacles. The high cliffs surrounding us must have trapped the humidity inside, turning the basin into a greenhouse. The cloying smells of life soon replaced that of the sea and it was not long before I huffed and puffed under the weight of my backpack. Even wearing a thin cotton dress was not enough to escape the smothering sensation of this wet heat. My only reprieve came when the Texan bodyguard casually removed the burden from my back with a gravelly ‘allow me, miss’. Even if he was already carrying his own, and enough weapons to overthrow a government! I wondered if all Texans liked firearms that much.

I believe that he was taking our security too seriously. What could there possibly be to justify such an imposing arsenal? Preposterous.

We paused for a lunch of bread, fruits, and cold cuts near a small spring. Mr Champignac was confident that we could reach the base of the cliffs opposite the beach tomorrow at the latest. From there, we could climb the comparatively gentler slope for a commanding view of the valley.

It was during early afternoon that we made our first tremendous discovery.

“Une route! A road, a road!” an excited voice came from the front. We all spread out —me with some difficulties since we had run out of path to stand on — and exclaimed our excitement at such a good find. There was indeed a road of stone with an elliptical surface reminiscent of Roman viae. Its inequal surface showed the passage of time and it was strangled by roots and creeping vegetation. None of it dampened our mood.

“Civilization,” Mr Champignac proudly exclaimed, and we all rejoiced. Miss Delaney’s map had not led us astray. There were indeed ruins in this place.

“Should we follow it?” Mr. Sheridan asked.

“Of course we should follow it!” the Frenchman scoffed, “roads lead to places after all.”

I was a tad aggravated that he would take a rhetorical question seriously, then look down upon he who had asked it. Mr. Sheridan took no offense, thankfully, and I crossed my arms and scowled in silent disapproval. That would show him! Fortunately, Professor Fergusson managed to save the mood by detailing the remarkable make of the ancient road. The ancient avia led up to the center of the island and the base of the tallest cliff, and so we decided to follow it.

I never realized how valuable a road was when going somewhere. With solid ground under our feet, our speed increased dramatically. The trees around us grew more sparse, but also taller as the altitude increased, until we started under the sun again. We entered a forest of pines just as the sun was starting to set. The pleasant scent of their sap soothed me, and reminded me of home.

Our excitement returned when the stone path stopped at the mouth of a large circular opening. The forest was at our back, and the cliffs in front of us behind some rocky elevation we would have to climb. To our left, bramble-covered stairs led to a sublime discovery: an imposing, primitive statue of a man.

It was at least eight feet tall and made of some darker stone than that of the island. The beard and flat, round face showed both babylonian and egyptian influence. I felt a sense of rare pride from this discovery, to which I had contributed! It was, perhaps, the first original Sea Folks artefact ever found at all! And it had been done with the contribution of Miranda Bingle!

However, my pride soon turned to outrage. As we stood there mesmerized by the august spectacle before us, Mr. Stefano stepped forward and onto the thick layer of vegetation separating the clearing from the base of our discovery. ‘There is something shining in its eyes!’ He said, moving forward with speed. Oh, what a lout I thought he was, although he spoke the truth. The statue’s eyes shone slightly blue under the afternoon sun, and I realized that jewels had been placed inside its orbits.

My blood boiled in an instant. We were on the verge of the greatest archeological discovery of the decade and the only thing he cared about were precious stones! Alas, how I regret my reaction now, how I wish I had held him back and instilled into him the necessity of patience, for no sooner did he reach halfway that the vegetations at the edge of the clearing cracked ominously and the poor merchant sunk five inches. Too late did we realize our mistake. The cover of vegetation did not rest on solid land. It was a densely woven bridge of creepers and lianas over the abyss below! Mr. Stefano screamed in distress. Mr. Sheridan took out a rope and threw it to him, but it was too late. We were stuck on one side, powerless to come and rescue the poor soul and powerless to hold the heavy weight of nature as it collapsed down. There was a dreadful shriek, then silence.

The men walked forward and looked down. Their horrified expressions told me all I needed to know. I screamed, I think, and had to move away.

Our expedition had been struck by misfortune on the very first day!

I remained prostrate under a tall pine tree for some time. Mr. Ferguson brought me a cover and I felt better afterward. Poor Mr. Stefano, he certainly did not deserve this. I had judged him hastily and only thought bad things about his morality, manners, fashion choices, and personal hygiene and now he had departed this world.

It took me some time, but eventually I picked up on strange activity going on. The helpers had set up camp in the clearing while I was gone and they had a fire going. Meanwhile, someone had cleared the passage to the statue, only to discover there was none. It stood on an elevated platform in the middle of a pit. The research team was nowhere to be found.

I stepped closer and was informed that the mortal coil of Mr. Stefano had been recovered by Mr. Sheridan, whom they had lowered with ropes. It had been set upon a stretcher and two men were selected to carry it to base camp.

I murmured a quick prayer and moved to the now-exposed hole to see what the fuss was all about. The opening into the bowels of the earth was not natural. It had been excavated, and strange wooden statues set on poles lined its walls. The research team —minus Mr. Stefano— was gathered in an animated circle. I found that they had installed a rope and wood ladder down and took the opportunity, while everyone was distracted, to climb down. It was difficult to respect propriety and still pursue research! I almost showed my calves! One must suffer in the pursuit of science.

As soon as I reached the ground, the reason for all their excitement became obvious. The statues were not statues, and the poles were not poles. We were surrounded by the unmistakable shapes of ship prows.

I marvelled at the incomprehensible sight of it all as Professor Ferguson welcomed me into the circle.

I expressed my surprise and wondered at the age of those remains, and more importantly, the identity of those who had brought them here. It was then that Mr. Sheridan attracted my attention to the statue of a unicorn. On its flank, I found the following words engraved:

“HMS Cutlass, Portsmouth, 1807.”

Surprise robbed me of my voice, and the good Professor anticipated my curiosity with amusement tempered by obvious worry. The island had been inhabited at the very least forty years ago, because it must have taken the hand of man to move those heavy things here. Where, then, were the inhabitants? And where were the rest of the ships?

My many interrogations were mirrored by the others. We could find no adequate answer to this puzzling mystery. It was promptly agreed to make camp here to document and explore the locale, and to climb to the base of the cliff on the morrow.

We stayed there and documented eight ships from five separate nations, the oldest dating back to 1789, but the latest being only twenty years old! Our belief that the island was inhabited only solidified from then, and I suggested that the local dwellers perhaps lived elsewhere and only came here rarely, perhaps for religious ceremonies. Everyone agreed that my theory made sense and so, at nightfall, we climbed the smallest of rocks to look at the sky.

We did not find a single campfire. Not a light, nor a hint of smoke besides our own.

We ate dinner in silence, with the Professor leading a moment of prayer for the departed. We each wished his soul a prompt journey, as did I, even if Mr. Stefano was catholic and quite a bit unpleasant.

I promptly retired to my tent afterward, but for the longest of time, sleep eluded me.

“We already lost someone,” Sheridan announces in a gruff voice. He is leaning against a trunk, looking out into the woods with his trigger on the finger of the custom needle gun I have made for him.

“Don’t mention it. I had to give Ozenne ten dollars.”

Sheridan looks positively shocked.

“I bet with him that the Prussian would die first,” I grumble as a way of explanation.

“Ariane, this man was alive just this morning.”

“And I was so looking forward to remedying the situation personally.”

Sheridan gives me a slightly disappointed, chiding look.

“You know that most of these people are going to die, right? I explained it to you.”

“This history has not been written yet!”

“It’s already half-way there. If you grab Miranda by the waist like a monkey right now and forcefully drag her to the ship, it will sink.”

We stare at each other and I do not relent. This expedition is doomed to succeed with terrible casualties.

“You can no more stop Godlings than you can stop the tide, Sheridan. Even if you manage to kill her, you will not succeed unless it makes sense from a narrative perspective. That is why I am not fighting the tide, and that is why I am stacking the odds in your favor.”

Sheridan’s coat, hat, and guns have been magically reinforced by my own hand. He could be shot in the chest at point-blank range and survive.

“Is this arsenal necessary? The coat is rather heavy.”

“I… lost your predecessor to a shot in the chest. I cannot force you to do anything, but I would appreciate it if you still wore it.”

There must have been some emotions at play, because Sheridan’s expression is one of deep sympathy.

“I am sorry. I did not know.”

“I want you to be safe.”

“Then, forgive me for asking, but why did you allow me to join?”

I stare at him, askance.

“You asked me.”

“And you said yes?”

“Vassal is an inexact term, Sheridan. We do not control you. In fact, we cannot really refuse you. You exist to challenge us and keep us human. Our very instinct will push against controlling or harming you. Even hurting a rival’s Vassal is taboo.”

I shiver at the memory of what Sinead did to that poor Cadiz vampire.

“I believe that you stand a very serious chance to make it out alive.”

“How so?”

“I have been a part of the Bingle Epic since Miranda’s father came to our shore. I am reasonably certain that there is a thinking being behind all this nonsense.”

“How does this relate to my continued survival?”

“Should you fall, I will track down Miranda and rend her limb from limb. I will also massacre the rest of the expedition and burn down their notes. I clearly said so to Isaac.”

“Errrr.”

“There is no story when there is no one left to tell it.”

“I am not certain that you should threaten a powerful being in that manner. Did you not tell me that killing a Godling was impossible?”

“Ah, but I am already a character in this story. I will take my chances. I like them better than Miranda’s chances against a grieving vampire master in an enclosed island.”

“I see. I promise that I will wear my armor at all times for my own benefit then. It’s not even that heavy. By the way, we are looking for the denizens of this island. Have you found them yet? Can you lead us to them?”

“Oh yes, I have found them alright. Or rather, Syrrin showed me. And as for meeting them, don’t worry,” I finish with a toothy smile.

“They will find you.”

Field Journal of Miranda Bingle

We woke up the next day to find out that Herr Mueller had disappeared.

114. The Lost World.

Miranda Bingle’s Field Journal.

We searched the camp first, and then around it with no result. Herr Mueller was gone. Mr. Sheridan kneeled by the empty bedroll and announced that the Prussian researcher had left on his own accord. When prompted by a dubious Mr Champignac, he explained his reasoning.

There were no signs of struggle, and the man had taken his glasses and his hat, but had he left his pack behind. His bedroll had been closed properly. Additionally, one of the helpers, who had been on guard, had noticed nothing suspicious.

Herr Mueller had snuck out during the night. This was the only reasonable explanation.

The well-structured argument convinced us all. I was suitably impressed by the Texan’s deductions. I never expected that his law-enforcement background would be so useful in the middle of the forest, and I found myself sincerely hoping that we would have no further need for it.

Mr Champignac grudgingly admitted that the American’s arguments made sense. The burgeoning rivalry between them gave me a feeling of unease as this expedition met difficulty after difficulty.

Mr Sheridan inspected the vicinity of the camp with the focus and single-mindedness of a bloodhound. He found no trace of steps outside of the clearing, which led us to only two options. Either Herr Mueller had strolled back to the base camp during the middle of the night, or he had climbed up towards the base of the cliff.

It was decided that we would climb as well. The elevation would provide us with a commanding view of the valley below. We packed up and left with six of the helpers, leaving two in the second camp. Those who had carried Mr Stefano’s body back to the ship had not yet returned.

The ascent proved extremely difficult, loaded as we were. I stubbornly gritted my teeth and endured the difficulty with all the phlegm and grace expected of a well-bred Englishwoman. I would not allow a complaint to cross my lips, the upper one staying resolutely stiff. I carried within myself the hopes and dreams of all the proper ladies whose ambitions were thwarted by ridiculous notions on the fairer sex. Every step forward (and upward) was a clear victory, and a proof that I was a fully capable member of this expedition. The fire of my determination could not be quenched!

The cliffs started a dull grey, but soon they turned the stained white of old bones as the sun of the Cretan Sea illuminated their pallid flanks. The slope was gentle, but the terrain was quite irregular, and we were forced to amble back a few times. Our progress was slow and measured, and somehow monotonous, until a cry from Mr Champignac awoke our curiosity.

He pointed at something red, and for a moment the sight of Mr Stefano falling to his gruesome fate conjured images of blood. I soon had to chide my overeager imagination. The radiant crimson came from a piece of fabric left hanging on a promontory.

Professor Ferguson exclaimed that he recognized Herr Mueller’s scarf and I remembered that the poor scholar had used it abundantly over the past few days. We were on the right track. And yet, I could not quite dispel the sense of dread that this curious omen brought to my mind. On the first day, one of us had lost his life, and now on the second day another one had lost his mind? What could have prompted the timid researcher to dare such a hazardous climb in the dead of night? What curious mania had dominated his psyche?

The mystery only thickened.

Eventually, we reached the promontory and turned around. We were rewarded with a view like no other.

Behind us, and to our left and right, the cliffs reached out towards the azure sky and its distant clouds. There were gaps between the colossal slabs that separated them in five separate mounts grasping the heavens, and below came a rich and fertile plain bursting with nature green and fecund. It was like being in the palm of god as he bestowed life upon the world, and the sea expanded into the distance to the horizon.

The strong emotion I felt could explain the embarrassing moment that followed. As we were staring with awe at this primeval wonder, I leaned back against the wall and my hand found a pole. I turned around with surprise and ended up face to face with a grinning, yellowed skull.

I admit to letting out a horrified shriek. Perhaps I scrambled back most disgracefully on my behind. Oh, the shame, but could I really be blamed for my natural reaction when facing such a grisly trophy?

The rest of the team gathered in surprise and Mr. Champignac did his best to comfort me, but I was inconsolable. Only when I realized that the skull was quite old did I finally calm down. Indeed, its brittle and faded color could only prove that it belonged more in an anatomy class than at a funeral. The morbid spectacle still cast yet another dampener on our mood.

We had found yet one more proof of the existence of local inhabitants, and their choice of welcome did not bode well for Herr Mueller’s, or indeed our continued well-being.

The mortal remains stood on a pole adorned with skulls and bright feathers at the edge of a natural, man-sized cavern entrance. The gap had been hidden during the climb behind the promontory we were now standing on.

For the first time, my apprehension turned to genuine fear at the thought of entering into the bowels of the earth after seeing such an ominous warning.

Both Mr Ferguson and Champignac agreed that it was a safe bet that Herr Mueller had entered the cave, on account of the scarf. I was less certain, but even I had to agree that there was no obvious path but down.

Mr Sheridan then proved to be the voice of reason. He extolled the dangers of blind explorations, and the risk that we were running for everyone. He mentioned the possibility that the local inhabitants were hostile and that we should return prepared and armed.

Mr Champignac scoffed and questioned the validity of such claims. He argued that the locals had to be savages, and that savages would naturally fear the white man, doubly so if the Texan would but unholster one of his firearms and give them ‘what for’. Finally, he questioned the honor and morality of leaving the Prussian to his fate without knowing what had occurred to him.

Fergusson half-heartedly sided with the Frenchman. He, too, would not leave one of our companions to a cruel fate. I believed that the Texan had grown so jaded to the loss of life that he had no qualms sacrificing the one to save the many. I understood his position as the one responsible for our safety, but we could not give up without a gallant attempt!

To my surprise and to his credit, Mr Sheridan asked me my opinion! I was so taken off-guard by the unusual question that I became flustered. No one asked me for my thoughts, not least when there were two eminent Professors who had already spoken their mind!

“I... I think that if we leave now without looking for Herr Mueller, I will never forgive myself,” I stammered.

The whole conversation made me feel terrible. Here was Mr Sheridan, who had been nothing but polite and helpful for the entire trip, and I was forced to side with the brazen Frenchman instead. How I hated my decision as soon as I had taken it. How foolish we were, jumping into unknown danger with more courage than sense and more temerity than courage!

“Very well then, let’s go.”

“Indeed, let’s go!” Mr Champignac stammered with barely contained outrage. To have one’s opinion overlooked in favor of that of a young woman! His anger was understandable, and so he took the lead with great strides which stopped about twenty feet into the open tunnel when he realized that visibility had fallen drastically.

Meanwhile, the veteran ranger had removed a piece of wood and some fabric from various pockets, and he was using twine to bind them together. He emptied a flask of oil on the newly made torch, lit it, and handed it to the flustered Frenchman without a word.

I do not believe that I had ever witnessed so much condescension without a word being uttered.

With Mr Champignac in front and the helpers closing the procession with another torch, we descended into the darkness.

The mountain closed in around us.

Soon, the sounds of the forest disappeared until only our breaths broke the silence, and the scent of sap and soil was replaced by that of damp rock. I felt that the walls were growing more narrow and that I would soon have to bend my head. The flame of the torch bobbed hypnotically in the distance and, when it disappeared around a bend, darkness returned.

Time grew surprisingly hard to judge in that underworld, and yet it could not have been too long before we came across a juncture in the tunnel and the room beyond.

We entered a cave of respectable size and all stopped, made mute by the curious sight of bioluminescent mushrooms stuck to the ceiling in a spiral pattern. Professor Fergusson remarked that this was a natural treasure, however, Mr Sheridan showed the keen insight of his peasant roots by pointing out the stuck earth out of which the growth emerged, and which had been placed there on purpose. We had found evidence of artistic creation in the local people, and by clever use of horticulture!

It was at this moment that we heard the chant for the first time.

It started low, and we could only hear it after shushing each other to silence. It went up in a ‘o’ sound, then back down again in another. It was repeated slowly and ponderously by many throats. I would have taken back my choice to investigate the tunnel then, if I had had the courage.

Mr Fegusson determined that the noise came from a tunnel that went left. Mr. Champignac marked the tunnel we had come from with a piece of charcoal in case we got lost, and we continued towards the source of this strange invocation. To my surprise, it sounded like Herr Mueller’s first name, Otto, repeated ad nauseam by a strange chorus. The intensity only grew as we moved further into the depths of the world. After only a minute or so, I was able to spot an orange light growing in the distance.

We passed ancient bronze braziers burning scented herbs to emerge into a tomb. Despite our terrible circumstances, I could not help but feel genuine excitement at the sight of a finding that I had only read about in books. Me, Miranda Bingle, uncovering lost tombs! Alas, my joy was short-lived, for we were not alone.

We fanned out on a circular cavern with four entrances on each corner. The center was occupied by a platform upon which treasures had been placed as offerings. I recognized a small shield tarnished by the years, throwing spears, a bow with its string snapped. Behind them sat a mummy wearing a mortuary mask of gold. It was holding a sword in its decrepit hands, the likes of which I had never seen before.

Contrary to the rest of the treasure, the ancient weapon appeared as if it had only yesterday been assembled by the skilled hands of a legendary smith. Its blade was not made out of metal, but out of a chitinous, black material polished to a sheen. The guard was gold and the pommel was a gem. No king could lay their eyes on that blade and deem it unworthy.

The other occupants of the cavern were Herr Otto Mueller, and the long-devined natives of this island.

How I wish they had been noble savages awaiting only enlightenment and Protestant faith, which we would generously provide. Alas, those appeared to be of a less friendly sort. They were masked with strange clay disks that gave them monstrous traits, while their bodies were pallid and naked with the exception of a loincloth. They seemed agitated, and waved around spears with metal tips that looked like harpoons. I could hardly blame them, because our Prussian teammate was currently wrestling the sword from the mummies’ dessicated hands.

We cried an alarm and tried to stop him. The poor man’s face was red and quite burnt by the sun, and I feared that a stroke had robbed him of his wits. He turned to us, his eyes manic and feverish.

‘They are crying my name!’ he said, ‘Seht ihr nicht? They were waiting for me!’ Indeed, the gravelly voices of the savage mangled the name Otto, or something close enough that our companion’s addled brain could not tell the difference.

The professor and Mr Champignac urged him to caution, pleaded and begged for him to return to our lines as more of the denizens of the cavern were pouring in, their chant ever louder. It was all in vain. With a triumphant shout, the Prussian tore off the ancient mummy’s fingers and brandished the now detached blade triumphantly above his head. He yelled in triumph, then in ignominious plain.

I must have screamed then, for one of the masked guardians had pierced the poor man’s chest from behind! Cruel fate! No sooner had the implement reached his heart that he toppled, dead.

All hell broke loose.

I remember little of the following confusion. We were beset on all sides by spear-wielding natives. I have a distinct memory of Mr Sheridan shooting one in the mask as he was grabbing me. The assailant fell dead just as I caught a glimpse of his traits, and what I saw froze my heart even further, for the man was barely human! He had pointed ears and sallow, pallid skin like the belly of a frog. Sharpened fangs glinted ominously in the flickering torches. Just as he died, he gave me one last bloodshot glare and the hatred I felt there was a thing so absolute and so deep, that I realized that we would never have left in peace.

In the following chaos, Mr Sheridan pushed me into the arms of Professor Ferguson, who had grabbed a torch at some point. We fled through one of the side corridors as fast as our feet could carry us. We ran with desperate energy, needled by terror. Terrible explosions from Mr Sheridan’s gun rang in tune with my heartbeats behind us, and I could only guess from their urgency that Mr Champignac’s belief was unfounded. Our foes had not scattered. Instead, they hounded us with frenetic rage.

We passed side passages and openings. We only stopped when our feet could carry us no further. Mr Fergusson had led us, but it appears that Mr Champignac and three of the helpers had managed to follow us as well. The darkness and wall conspired to assail my mind, and make me see eyes shining at the corners of my eyes. They suggested the most horrible fates for those of us who had not managed to flee. Visions of torture, which I will not write on this page for fear of conjuring them again, harried my spirit. The only small solace I received was when Mr Sheridan burst in after us with the calm strut of a general. He was pushing cartridges in the chamber of an engraved revolver of excellent facture, and it appeared that his caution, which I had taken as overblown, had been justified in every respect. His eyes swept the cave and landed on Mr. Champignac.

Oh, what open scorn there was now, as Mr Champignac had indeed taken the sword as it fell from the hand of our deceased colleague. I was glad that we could recover such priceless artefact, but a part of me wondered at the cold-blooded mind that allowed one to look after a prize while the blood of friends was shed so freely.

Mr Sheridan made a curt comment, and Mr Fergusson agreed that they might take the loss of their artefact with renewed anger, but it was far too late to return the blade and so we carried on after catching our breaths.

Our path ran up. We were searching for a way out, and only now realizing the full extent to which this place had been mined and turned into a warren. It must have taken centuries of efforts for the ghastly creatures we had seen to worm their ways into the mountain’s flesh. We came across only a few crossings, and attempted as best we could to stick to the flank of the mountain in hopes of finding an exit.

I almost yelped in joy when light came from an opening to the left, but the others were less pleased.

Mr Fergusson remarked that it was on the wrong side of the wall.

We all approached and peered in, and the sight shook us to our very souls.

The mountain was hollow, and in it stood an unholy city, sprawling over like an infestation. Light fell from a large hole at the top to let us witness the grotesque spectacle of thousands of male and female creatures writhing in the decrepit remains of looted civilization like fleas on the hide of a mongrel. We found the missing boats whose prows now adorned the jungle like so many grisly trophies. They had been dragged in from the back of the cave where a low opening to the sea lay, then cobbled together to form a shanty town of rotten planks held together by frayed ropes. That was not the worst. Where the sea met the land, pens and cages contained those of them who had lost their humanity.

This is when, I think, Miranda Bingle died and was reborn. I could have blamed the savage appearance of the bipedal creatures to a freak accident of nature born from remoteness and centuries of inbreeding. I could have claimed that they were still human, albeit barely so. Nothing could explain the monstrous hybrids dwelling in that sinful den, half-fish and half human, wallowing in filth and refuse.

And at the back of that pustule on the face of the earth was an autel. It was an edifice of bones upon which sat an unmoving armored figure of inhuman size. It was the statue of a god, and it ruled over its land like a demonic, primal despot.

I know not how long we stayed there, frozen in disgust and surprise both. I think I lost my mind and regained it in the space of moments, only to lose it again. One of the helpers failed then. He clawed his visage and left running back from whence we came before we could gather enough wit to save him.

And then, a procession entered the city. We saw a column of warriors emerge from a side opening, and between them, strung like boars, were the lost helpers and the corpse of Otto Mueller. The song returned then, higher than ever. The wild warriors still sung the deformed name of the Prussion researcher in a vile mockery of a dirge. The body of the researcher was sent to a large building from which carcasses of fish hung, while the others were brought to the devil statue. The first helper was then laid on an altar in front of it.

I can easily guess what happened, but I was mercifully spared that dreadful spectacle as Mr Sheridan dragged me away from the opening.

He gathered all the survivors away from the gap, and I realize that without him, I would have kept watching until the last victim had bled out.

We recovered what we could of our tired spirits and departed with Mr Champignac at the helm, pushed on by the strength of numb desperation. Horror had robbed us of speech.

Mr Sheridan came by my side as we were resting again. He took my hand in his own burly mitts, and placed it on the grip of a smaller revolver.

I was quite surprised by his gesture, and so was Professor Fergusson by my side although he was, as always, supportive. The weapon was strangely elegant with a nacreous finish. The barrel and cylinder were made of a soft silvery material engraved with beautiful inscriptions, and it held in my hand as if it had been designed for it. When prompted, Mr Sheridan informed me that I should keep it just in case, and he even showed me the basic operation. It could have been summarized as pointing it to the ‘bad guys’ and keeping my eyes opened when I pulled the trigger.

For some reason, after discovering all those horrors and witnessing the cruel end of our companions, the weight of the gun in my hand acted as a reminder of the existence of reason and of the industry that had made this pinnacle of technology possible. It grounded me at a time of intense distress.

To the professor, Mr Sheridan gave his knife, and thus armed we departed.

Hope soon returned when we found light, and not the bastardized radiance of the city, but genuine, creator-blessed sunlight. One last cavern and we would be out!

It was at this critical junction that we were ambushed. The savages, made daring by our imminent escape, descended upon us! They jumped down from stalactites and emerged from behind stalagmites, swarming us like a pack of wolves. We had to fight! I did not know what to do in the dreadful confusion, and huddled behind the form of the Professor. The wizened man showed the unwavering courage that had been the hallmark of his character from his earlier days! He dodged a spear and stabbed his foe mightily. But then, disaster struck! Another creature stabbed him in the arm and he was forced to drop his blade and wrestle on the ground. I was backed into a corner and realized, then, that I had looked down on my father’s advice unfairly.

That was right, I was the youngest child of the great adventurer Cecil Rutherford Bingle, and I would be damned if I allowed the vile creature to deprive the world of such a great man! I kneeled and pointed at the beast’s chest, two hands holding the grip. I did as Mr Sheridan had ordered and kept my eyes open.

To my dismay, the gun report made me yelp and fall backward. My disgracious landing was redeemed when the creature’s head snapped back and it fell dead on the floor. I looked up to see the fight end as the last of our foes ran and fell, shot down like the curs they were. Mr Sheridan had once more carried the day, spreading death and destruction wherever he stepped. Mr Fergusson congratulated me on my aim. To my shame, I did not admit that I had aimed for the heart.

The exit of the cavern beckoned. We only stopped long enough to bandage Professor Fergusson’s arms, and then we reached the surface and our salvation beyond.

We were on a promontory looking over the sea. To our right, steps dug into the very cliff descended to a rift between the finger-like mounds and the forest beyond. To our left, a dread chasm led back into the heart of the hollowed mountain.

Mr Sheridan went to inspect it, when Mr Champignac turned to us. ‘Do we have an agreement, gentlemen?’ he asked, and we did not understand, until the two remaining helpers nodded in unison.

“I apologize, my dear, but I received an excellent offer for an artefact such as this one, and I cannot allow witnesses to report my lucky find,” he said with a smirk.

I could not react to my surprise and watched, hypnotized and horrified, as the Frenchman removed a concealed pistol from his coat pocket, lined it with Mr Sheridan and shot him in the back.

The poor Texan, the same who had saved all of us, fell into the darkness below! I let out a mighty scream, only interrupted by another when Mr Champignac walked towards me with his stolen sword!

Mr Fergusson saved me then. He launched himself on the traitor without a second of hesitation. Just as the blade pierced his chest, he screamed for me to run, and in my cowardice, I did. I left him behind, forgetting about the pistol still held in my hand. I pushed by the surprised helpers and sprinted towards the forest below even as the backstabbing miscreant urged them after me. I ran, and did not look back.

115. Otto

Cliff camp, the night before.

After leaving Sheridan, I patrol around but find no recent traces of the natives. Most of their patrols must have retreated after I killed the first one, and nobody else tries to set up an ambush. I find quite a few watchtowers but no trace of the forest being exploited for wood, or food, not exactly a surprise when nothing larger than a mouse remains.

I make my way back to base camp shortly before dawn and find Syrrin waiting for me in my tent, by the sarcophagus.

“Yes?”

“Nirari. Follow.”

I stare askance at the tall shaman. She bends slightly.

“Nirari. Follow. Please. Syrrin begs.”

I feel a tug, the barest hint of fate urging me on, and it has never failed me yet.

Well, there was that time where it sent me on a collision course with my sire and his damned servant, but that was a necessity. Probably. It remains that her request has weight. It must be answered.

I cannot afford to ignore my instincts given Sheridan’s involvement.

I grab my weapons backpack and follow the fishwoman out. She turns only once to see if I am following, and that is after crawling through an opening into the cliff barely large enough for her muscular frame.

We are in a damp cave lit by glowing mushrooms. A rotten pile of supplies lines one of the walls. Syrrin sighs heavily. She is… tense. I can taste her weakness in the air.

She turns and leaves.

I follow her through a network of small caverns, many of those crudely excavated. She knows the path well. Even when the tortuous tunnels take unexpected turns, her slithers never falter.

Syrrin comes from here, I realize now. She is familiar with the place.

How far from her home she must have been when she found me? How desperate! I can tell now from the frantic determination of her movement that this is what she had been waiting for.

Eventually, we stop in a large circular cavern with a pond at its core. Blue mushrooms emit an appeasing radiance and paint the walls in strange patterns of color. Syrrin rummages behind a pillar and shows me a tight sleeping place cleverly hidden behind a stone.

“Nirari sleeps. Syrrin watches. Tomorrow. Nirari hunts.”

My caution screams at me not to believe the strange fishwoman, but I know in my essence that she will die before betraying me. I hide my supply backpack and my spear behind another column and tuck myself in for the day.

It is afternoon now. The cavern possesses a timeless quality that soothes my mind, even if I can feel the cruel orb travelling through the sky from beyond layers of rock. I recover my gear and follow her, until we arrive at a crossing. She goes left, but I stop her and point right. She tilts her strange, flat face. I felt another tug. This one was important, vital even.

“Instinct,” I inform the fishwoman.

She follows. There is no need for me to explain. She understands magic better than any of our own customs.

My steps guide me up until I find light blocking my path.

Sunlight is a curious thing, when it is so diffuse. The frail radiance here is but a reflection of a reflection, not the purge of direct rays that torched my side back in Alexandria. It still carries with it a hint of blister and the taste of ash.

I stop.

What now? I feel like I am in the right place.

Above, there is the bang of a discharged firearm.

“What…”

And then I hear it. Curses and the impact of armor-covered flesh on stone.

“Aw! Fuck! Shit! No! Jesus! Fucking.”

I step forward, blinking owlishly against the pallid glow coming from above. I jump and grab Sheridan before he can land painfully.

I end up on the other side of the passage with the Ranger in my arms. He is breathing hard.

“Well well well, look just what fell into my lap.”

“By God. Ariane?”

“Yes.”

“I think my back is broken.”

He would be screaming if it were. I put him on his feet and inspect the cause of his worries. I find the characteristic round mark of a shot. It must hurt like hell. That is where his fears come from.

“It is not broken,” I tell him, as I feel rage filling my heart.

“It feels broken?”

I tsk.

“Have you ever had a broken back?”

“No.”

“Then how can you tell?”

He turns around, blinking like a mole and I realize that it is too dark for him to see. He lifts one arm and waves it around, then repeats it for his other arm. He moves his shoulders around.

“Huh.”

“Who shot you?” I ask.

“That little fucking backtabbing rat. I will snuff out his sniveling life with my own two hands, I swear.”

My anger recedes. It is the Vassal’s prey.

“How do we get back up, anyway?” he asks.

“We do not get back up. Syrrin and I have… unfinished business.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

I realize what Syrrin is. She bowed. She asked. The strange fishwoman is a Supplicant.

“Lead the way,” I tell her.

The shaman moves up as if nothing had happened.

Our path is slower now, since I have to hold Sheridan by the hand so that he does not bump against every wall. My Vassal is clearly eager to pursue his vengeance and yet, he does not object even once to being left in the dark. Metaphorically.

The caverns start to widen soon enough and to show signs of passage. The light remains minimal and the silence, absolute, until I see our destination.

We arrive on a balcony overlooking a breathtaking scene that I would have never anticipated.

The mountain is hollowed out! A giant cavern of amazing size hides within its mineral envelope, and with it, the strange dwellers of the island have built their den. I watch with interest as the strange beings cobbled together anything they could find to assemble a fantasmagoric construct of wood, rock, and shells held together by faith and moldy ropes. Shipwrecks tied to ancient statues lean dangerously over edifices smashed together in one pathetic hovel of a city.

The spectacle further lowers them in my esteem. If they had spent millenia in isolation, I would have given them the benefit of the doubt, but they had seen the wonders of the outside world and decided to salvage it to make pigsties. Hah. There is not a spark of innovation, of insight, in this entire place. Not one of the precious qualities that we love and admire in humans. Those are scavengers and cockroaches, barely better than animals.

I shake my head as Syrrin stops by the opening to meditate. I cannot approach anyway. Pure sunlight descends from a crater in the city’s center. This land is forbidden to me. For now.

“Why did you bring me here, Syrrin?”

“Nirari. Grants. Life and death. We wait. Then, I show.”

She knows the place for sure. The question then is…

“Syrrin, how did you find me?”

“The Dreams show you, and the black one. You, better.”

The little Shaman is a seer as well! It would appear that they do enjoy dragging me in their games. She is correct, of course. My sire would not let time-consuming request distract him from his goal.

We settle down for a few hours. Sheridan tells me of the event of the day in a slow voice as afternoon goes on.

“Miranda ran into the woods. Do you think that they will manage to catch her?”

“Perhaps. I am not entirely sure about how godlings work with death, only that it is a possibility. I will look for her when we are done with our current task.”

“I hope she makes it. She is arrogant and stuck up, but she has courage and her heart's in the right place.”

If Sheridan had died, her heart would be all over the place by now. As would the rest of her internal organs.

“Follow,” Syrrin finally requests, and we leave the balcony behind. To yet another side tunnel.

The path leads down this time, and soon we hear the roar of the sea.

The stench is abominable.

I have had worse and merely stop breathing while Sheridan swears softly and covers his mouth and nose with a scarf. I give him credit for his iron stomach. Others would have succumbed to nausea by now.

We end up in what has to be this place’s sewers. I am thankful for my boots being so thick. The path broadens until we arrive at the lowest point of the city.

As we enter the large cavern, I notice an opening to the sea on our left, and something else that surprises me.

There are fishmen and women swimming in and out of the secret cove’s entrance. They appear… sick. Their scales do not share the lustre common to their brethren, and their postures are down and submissive. The sight immediately fills me with disgust.

Fishmen are predators and man eaters. It is an established fact. A known fact. Every interaction I have had with them always ended in bloodshed and slaughter. To see them desperate and submissive fills me with a deep sense of unease and anger. I would not mind slaughtering an entire tribe in battle, because it would be the proper order of things. I would not impose their current fate on them unless I was overcome with rage.

Perhaps that is why I have been reluctant to create cattle unless I had to prove a point.

I turn back to Syrrin to ask questions, and instead find her physically struggling. She is holding her coral armband in one hand and fights on to keep moving, her eyes glazing over before a good shake allows her to trudge on. I do not know what is wrong with her. Even Sheridan appears unaffected. He stares at the shaman’s back with worried curiosity, on hand on his revolver.

Our ailing companion guides us through the worst part of the shanty town and everywhere we see more of the same. The fish folks are occupied with menial tasks, and otherwise kept in cramped, squalid cages mired in filth by patrolling creatures that we avoid. I see sores and open wounds on their backs and limbs. Some of the older members of this tribe have been amputated.

“Jesus,” Sheridan whispers, as we see some of the primal humans drag a screaming child to a slaughterhouse.

We do not react yet. Both my Vassal and I can tell that Syrrin decides what the best course of action is to continue, for now. I wonder why they take such terrible treatment without complaint, and if it relates to the strange mood affecting our guide.

As we move further into the city, the full extent of the tribe’s sufferings becomes even more obvious, and the heart of this ignominy is the breeding pen. I am forced to avert my gaze as I pass it by, so dreadful the state of the fishwomen is. So humiliating. I have seen atrocities before, of course. What really affects me is the casual cruelty involved in the treatment of the prisoners, the systematic destruction of everything that qualifies them as people. I push away the sights and the small voice at the back of my head telling me that such things exist everywhere, and that I have just closed my eyes to it. Sheridan is to blame. He is turning me more… human.

Syrrin slithers between two sentries and goes deeper into the shanty town. As time passes, I start feeling it as well. Something is spreading an impressive aura over the entire town. It is not attuned to me, hence why it took me so long to detect it. I can still taste it in the air. Despair. Void. Apathy. A sort of drunkenness that robs the will and smothers the flame of life. It is a detestable thing. It violates the spirit of the Hunt.

Disgust is replaced by anger inside of my heart. The whole city is a sore on the face of the earth. It is lucky, then, that it would be made so poorly.

My hands contract into claws as we move on and Sheridan’s heartbeat rises in answer. We fan the flames of each other’s anger the more our exploration goes on. The betrayal. The abuse we see. The extent of the primal humans’ disdain for their prey. They mix and merge in a torrent that cascades from him to me, then back again. It takes all I have not to hiss.

We finally arrive before a cavern out of the way. The three of us kneel behind a stone looking over an opening in the sheer wall in front of which wait two primals in wood armor, their faces hidden behind elaborate clay masks. Apathetic fishmen and women lay in dejected piles around it. They stare into nothingness, overwhelmed by the powerful aura radiating from the mouth of the passage. Syrrin is shivering now. She holds her coral armband in a dead grip.

It is, I realize, her focus. She has been casting without reprieve to fight off the deleterious influence of the spell.

When she lifts her flat, ugly head to me, her eyes are filled with tears.

“Nirari gives life. And death. Please, give life back.”

Supplicant.

There is no need to bargain now. There is no need to make a deal. The urgency is too much.

“I shall grant you this boon.”

I move down. The two sentries turn to me. I slap the first one’s head off and plant my hand into the second one’s chest. His lifeblood spills from his silent lips. The scent of the red nectar permeates the air. The fish people’s nostrils flare, but they cannot fight yet. The chain on their mind is too heavy and the source is right here, behind a grate of rusted iron.

I grab the obstacle and bend my knees. I channel the Natalis and werewolf essences, pull with a grunt of annoyance. Metal moans and cracked mortar pops.

Behind, there is an old fishman attached to a rock under the malevolent glare of a smoldering red orb. A pendent adorns his skeletal chest and a scepter lays by his side. This is the source of the spell.

I can taste it better now, and my outrage only grows.

Whoever designed this was an artist, of jeweler of constructs. The weave is subtle and well-made. The delicate work was designed to subdue and calm targets based on a specific pattern of target. Another caster attuned the spell to the old one below, and now it has grown bloated, festered, a perversion of its intended purpose.

I feel it then, the pull of fate.

Magic is a fickle thing. It can be pulled and controlled, but sometimes it wants things to move and it wants cages to break. I do not believe I have ever felt my aura move so fast, nor the world respond to it quite so easily. The power courses through my gauntlet and I let it take over. I allow the will of the world to act through me and in return, I am rewarded. Power flows like a torrent. The light of the moon through the crater takes on a purple hue.

“So is the chain by hand unbound

The teeth unclenched and trident found

The mark on your head I erase

No tears to shed, and hell to raise.”

The orb cracks.

“Tide caller.”

The orb shatters, and the crimson radiance spreads slowly, kept whole for the inevitable swing of the pendulum. The old man before me awakes, fixing me with milky white eyes. A tongue darts to taste the air.

Syrrin joins me, her head held high and her emotions raw. She places a trembling hand on the old man’s jaw. They join their forehead and stay like this for a breath as the world stands on the edge. Then, Syrrin steps back and grabs the heavy scepter from the ground. The man closes his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says.

Syrrin caves his skull in.

She approaches the body as it is still wracked with tremor, and grabs the pendant. She put it on.

“Syrrin is queen now,” she tells me, “Nirari gives life back. Now, give death. We follow. We will always answer the call.”

Supplicant.

“Bargain struck,” I inform her with a smile. I know I show my fangs and eagerness, and she sees, and she does not care. Sheridan waits outside surrounded by intensely focused fish folks, two of them already bearing the dead sentries’ spears. He is unafraid and so they leave him alone.

The red mist of the orb spreads around them and their wounds close, not completely, but enough. There is a glint in their dark eyes when there was nothing before. They flick their tongues and taste blood. Syrrin stands before them and they await, but they do not cower. She opens her bag and rummages through it.

I turn to Sheridan and open my own to show the contents.

“Wow.”

I place a box of silver cartridges before him.

“Enchanted bullets with an extra shred spell. Help yourself and don’t skimp, because we are going to have a battle on our hands.”

I stare at him as he empties his two remaining revolvers, —one of them is missing— and loads the bullets with malicious intent.

“Tell me Sheridan, on a scale from one to ten, how angry are you?”

The solid ranger looks at me with grim determination.

“Lady, I’m about pushing an eleven right now.”

“You want in on the party?”

“You could not stop me from joining.”

“Alright,” I tell him. I remove the Needle rifle’s two parts from my bag and screw the barrel on, then I hand it to him as well as a belt of cartridges and a set of grenades.

“Is it my birthday already?”

“Sheridan,” I tell him with deadly seriousness, ”I need to inform you of an important fact. We vampires never fully reveal ourselves with humans around because it would attract too much attention. We hide our powers and restrain ourselves.”

He waits for me to continue, not quite yet getting the point.

“There are no humans around,” I finish.

“Oh. You are going all out.”

“Yes. Yes, I am. You will have to go with it and not let yourself be distracted.”

“No worries, I got your back. And if you see one of those heathen’s heads spontaneously explode. Don’t be alarmed. It’s me.”

We nod to each other and he finishes gearing up.

I turn to Syrrin as two burly fishmen finish tying pieces of wood together in a strange pattern. It is like a staff with a reversed triangle on top. I wonder what purpose it will serve, until Syrrin removes a roll of fabric from her bag. She sticks it to the prepared support and I realize that it is, in fact, a flag.

Made from human skin. Pirate, to be precise.

It has my sigils on it, inscribed in an ink so dark it swallows the light.

The gesture is so touching and attentive that I raise my hands to my chest in delight. Such a delicate attention! Nobody has ever done that for me yet!

Then Syrrin grabs the flag and lifts it on her shoulder. She hands me a massive conch.

“Nirari starts Hunt. We follow. We kill. We feast.”

A horn to blow to start the hunt? Aaaaaaa if she were a man and had a ring now I would be doomed, flat face or not.

I examine the nice piece as the fishmen gather around. I see a red radiance in the air where the backlash from the shattered orb suffuse their bodies. They are hounds waiting to be unleashed, though they do not know it yet.

The conch is no artefact, merely an ancient work of exquisite craftsmanship. Nothing says that I cannot use it for my own design, however.

I raise my gauntlet and call an illusion spell, in the same spirit of those I use to spread darkness or baiting lights, but this time I use it to make my voice louder. I need them to hear and feel. The tongue does not matter. The magic will carry my intent through crags and cages and murky water. I merely need to seize it. The world is still waiting and now, it pays attention too.

“Hunters of the abyss!”

The diffuse light reflects on dark eyes, like a constellation on the bleak background.

“Sharpen your claws and lick your fangs. Smell the ichor in the air. Hear the call; cast off your chains. Tonight is the night when the dream ends. A symphony of violence, an orgy of bloodshed. The Great Hunt has come.”

I blow the conch.

I did not plan for it, but the mournful sound is amplified by the magic as well. It rolls over the shanty, slams against its many walls, only to bounce back louder, stranger, until the echoes mix and a thousand angry hosts answer the call of the Hunt.

The other side answers.

Gates crash and warcries resonate throughout the unholy capital as masked, fallen men muster their own forces. Their strange cry fights back against the tide. It sounds like ‘Otto’, which I cannot get used to.

“To the cages,” I say.

We move fast. Already, fish folks overwhelm the few patrols present in the lower levels with savage fury, swarming them in great masses of teeth and claws. I barely slow down to slay those who still stand. Syrrin is by my side, waving the flag proudly and the awakened mass swells at our back in an unstoppable wave. We encounter our first pocket of resistance just as we approach the cages, with primals standing in a line with spears raised.

We crash into them and do not slow down. The violence of the slaughter is stupefying. Fish folks are stronger than humans, I find, and the defenders are slain and dismembered in moments. The ground beneath us turns red.

The cages lay in front of us, rattled by their irate occupants as the free fishmen fight guards in a chaotic hand-to-hand battle.

“Go open the cages, I’ll take care of the reinforcement,” I tell Sheridan.

“Got it,” he replies. He twirls his guns in excitement.

He did not do that before. Am I changing him as well? Whatever.

The ranger sprints and shoots off the first rudimentary lock. The enchanted bullets demolish the rusted metal with ease. He opens the first door and a sea of folks adds their anger to the conflict. I direct the bulk of our troops to a large avenue leading up, to the upper floors of the blighted mess of tied shipwrecks. Fish folks crash into the buildings to our sides, ramming through the moldy wood as if it were paper.

We meet the first real opposition very quickly.

Farther into the town, we find a plaza leading to a strange altar of bones at the back, and it is filled with natives as we approach it. There are bowmen on the walls of the nearby edifices. Sheridan angles right without a word and somehow manages to convince a tall fishman warrior to give him a lift by scowling mightily.

We are close now, a wall of scaly flesh moving forward and up. The line of spears is just before us, at least five men deep and supported by taller warriors in wood armor and more elaborate masks. Sorcerers agitate them, ancient foci held high. We cannot stop. We must not stop.

I need to find something inspiring to say to start the charge, for posterity!

“REND THE FLESH FROM THEIR BONES!”

Ah, oops. At least, it worked.

The mass of fishmen sprints forward and I cast a spell I have never used in a combat situation before.

“Shield.”

Obsidian-tipped arrows slam harmlessly into my erected defences. They would never pierce Loth’s armor, but Syrrin is just behind me and I do not want her to die.

The fish folks bleed and die as arrows rain from above and from behind the enemy lines. They scream and hiss, but they do not stop. I crash into the line of spearmen and cut three in half with a single swing.

“Flay.”

A shaman screams when the skin is ripped from his muscles. I grab the mangled form as it falls and devour it as, all around me, the melee is joined. Smaller, more agile fishwomen climb the buildings to dislodge the archers, throwing their screaming forms into the blender below. Every two seconds, a thunderous bang erupts and an officer or an archer falls with their chests skewered and their heads blown off. Our onslaught is unstoppable. I barely have to intervene.

To their credit, the primals to do not relent. More of their numbers join the fray every second, grabbing spears and rocks from the hands of the fallen and throwing themselves at us with wild abandon. Women jump on fishmen warriors to drag them down while their peers stab them both, and still, they sing their strange cry with unwavering faith. This is a battle of annihilation.

I drift across the battlefield, eliminating priority targets and supporting ailing fighters. I laugh and jeer as blood covers my armor in a thick red coat. It is inevitable.

And finally, we push them back. Their mass climbs the step to the altar and spreads left and right until I see it. On a platform of bone, atop a throne of skulls, sits a large form clad in black armor. The statue does not move as its sycophants die in droves.

“Your god will not save you,” I bellow.

Time to end this. I shall destroy that stupid effigy and break their spirits.

I move forward and sweep with my spear to cut the head off.

And then I am sent flying.

“Oof!”

Ow.

I am in the air.

Hmm.

What just happened?

I twist on myself and land feet first on a nearby ship deck. The planks crunch and groan under the impact, but they do not break and I can witness the unbelievable spectacle before me.

The statue moved.

The statue moved? No, impossible. It must be a golem then. I cannot feel its aura.

The imposing black armor walks forth ponderously and the fish folks waver. The primals now fight with an impossible frenzy, screaming ‘Otto!’ at the top of their lungs. All our fighters retreat in a confused mass.

All except for Syrrin.

She stands in her place, unmovable even as the fighters surrounding her try to drag her back. She slams her battle standard into the altar and glares up, defiant.

I extract myself from the planks and sprint forward as fast as I can manage it. The wind screams in my ear.

The golem lifts a heavy fist.

No you don’t.

“Shatter.”

I punch the descending limb with my own gloved gauntlet. The spell detonates on impact, sending shards of black metal everywhere. Syrrin still hasn’t moved.

“Second round,” I declare with a smile.

Finally.

A challenge!

I roar and kick the armor back, barely displacing it but Syrrin is smart and retreats now that I have returned. The combatants leave a ring for the construct and I to settle our contest. Blood flows on the ground, turning it crimson.

I dodge and move around my ponderous foe. I have fought large enemies before and close in on it instead of trying to create a distance, relentlessly attacking the weak points in the thick armor to get at the fragile articulations. Its plates are thick, but Sivaya’s spear tip is unnaturally sharp. I chip at the chinks piece by piece, never stopping, never getting hit. The golem has an impressive range of movements. It does not matter. I am faster, and I have sparred with the likes of Jimena, Nami, Torran. This thing does not even come close.

It finally happens. I manage to lock the blade in the weak point under the golem’s arm and push in. I feel a resistance. I feel it hit something.

The construct stumbles back on one knee. The fish folks roar in triumph, but the primals do not relent.

And then, the golem does something that surprises me.

Its two damaged gauntlets reach for the helmet, and remove it. Then, every piece of armor is patiently peeled off.

I stare in wonder at the man thus revealed.

I… do not understand?

How?

And then my gaze lowers to my spear and its tip. The deadly blade is covered with thick, black blood. The smell hits me an instant later.

The chest piece falls, revealing the lean and muscular form of a very tall man. He has white-blonde hair that falls to his shoulders, a handsome face with a square jaw and two piercing blue eyes that open and blink in confusion.

Ah.

Fuck.

“Who wakes Otto, Lord of the Erenwald?”

Huh.

That… is unexpected.

Thoroughly unplanned for.

He must have masked his aura, or perhaps he was asleep?

The glare zeroes on me. His pale lips in a fanged smile.

“A little Devourer.”

The man extends a right hand, materializing a soul weapon like a giant billhook. His aura explodes outwards and buffets us all. The primal assault renews with boundless intensity.

This is a lord.

A bloody lord in the middle of some deserted island. What in the world?

Ah dammit, I should have attacked when it was changing. I was too surprised to react and missed the window. Curses.

“Let us dance, little Devourer.”

I could no more cut and run than I could face the sun. I must kill him, or at least, I will try. Nothing to it.

I grab my spear and charge.

Our blades meet and I back out to run to the side. We have a similar reach, but his weapon is definitely heavier and I have no interest in a fencing contest. I use the movements that Nami taught me to smack his blade aside for an opening, trying to get a hit in. He is fast, but not so fast that I cannot follow and his style feels designed to fell heavier foes, with movements meant to crush and disembowel in one strike. I prevent him from catching me in his rhythm with quick attacks that he must block. Black blood still seeps from below his right armpit. Sivaya’s blade has a nasty bite.

First blood is mine when the hook slides over my shoulder armor to the man’s surprise. His eyes widen and he dodges, but I still manage to trace a dark line across his chest.

“Not bad, little Devourer. Let us see if your luck holds.”

The lord shortens his hold on the billhook and now fights more defensively. I know that one too. I move a bit farther and strike in more sweeping gestures, using my now superior range to harry him. I cannot pass his guard, but he cannot strike me either and I have time.

One mistake, and he manages to grab the tip in his hook. He slams the weapon down into the altar to crush the pole, snapping it out of my hand.

The bones give in, but the metal holds. It is made of an enchanted alloy of steel and silver that I reinforced to the brim. It could support the weight of a house.

I did not want my weapon broken again.

Lord Otto’s face turns in surprise again and I lodge a throwing knife just below his eye, missing the organ by a hair. He smirks and throws the spear away.

“Call!”

The spear returns to my hand as if dragged by a magnet.

“Your tricks annoy me, little Devourer.”

“I like it when you whine,” I retort, and the dance resumes.

The Erenwald lord pulls the dagger from his cheek and throws it back, but he clearly does not know how to use it and the strike goes wide. Our fight resumes, neither of us gaining the advantage, until he manages to hook my arm.

The blade bites into my armor, drawing blood. I turn on myself and kick the lord in the face before he can use it to his advantage and go in close. He disengages and I free myself in the same movement. During the fight, I let my instinct and my intuition guide me, avoiding tricky attacks and surprising bursts of speed at the last moment. I have to use every trick in the book, but we are evenly matched. Time is on my side.

Around us, the primals are dying. Without fear and without hesitation, but they are dying. The fish folks are still pushed forward by the spell and the years of pent-up rage. Sheridan methodically picks off their leaders and spellcasters, one shield-piercer at a time, leaving them disorganized.

I can see Otto’s eyes wander.

He pushes me back with a mighty swing and turns to Syrrin.

“Flay.”

I use the Likaean terms. No holding back.

The spell hits the soul weapon and disperses, but some of it splashes over the vampire’s pale chest and more wounds come to adorn it.

I am pressing him.

I am pressuring him, a lord!

The cold joy of battle fills my essence and my focus sharpens to an edge, because he still has a trump card and this is far from over. I will not let my guard down. I will harry him and take him down and I will not leave him a chance, because I am a PATIENT HUNTER.

The Erenwald changes once more. He attacks with very wide, very powerful swings and some of those kill my warriors. I merely place myself in a position to capitalize on the openings he provides. Syrrin has seen the way she was targeted and once more placed herself deeper into the formation. Those he slays are of no consequence to me and I punish every attack, even if he avoids mortal danger.

This lord is weakened. By what, I do not know, but he is no match for some of the fighters I have faced over the years. His wounds add and his mobility is affected. I see victory on the horizon. It will not be long now.

“You are persistent.”

“Give it up, old man. Playing god has made you soft.”

His traits twist with rage.

“You have come here with a ship. It must be intact. I believe I will take it and return, now. See how much the world has changed.”

“You had every opportunity to return before, you decrepit husk. You were either too passive or too scared.”

His fury warps his aura. I move low as the fateful incantation begins.

“You overreach, pup. You still have much to learn. Magna Arqa.”

In the center of the corner, the light flashes purple. His aura spreads out and… solidifies. I do not have a better term for it. The closer to him and the more different the world tastes.

I jump out of the area of effect as soon as I can and watch, mesmerize, as the bodies by his feet wither.

Inside of the circle, both fish folks and primal writhe in horrific pain. Branches and brambles pierce their skins from the inside and they dry up in moments. Flowers and trees emerge from between the bones, only to perish a few seconds later. An eruption of nature explodes around my foe, life and death in a ceaseless dance fuelled by the blood of the fallen.

The wounds one the lord’s body close. All my work, erased in moments.

The man sneers and steps forward, and the circle moves with him.

“Back!” I yell, “back!”

The fishmen do not need to understand my instructions to follow them. They flee from the altar as fast as they can, dragging the wounded with them. The primals care not and they die in droves.

“I believe I will take your friends now,” he says with a laugh.

I rush forth and stop at the edge of the circle. I am unaffected, thankfully. I charge and engage again, trying to keep him off.

I thrust and he… does not dodge. He barely redirects the blade low.

My spear digs deeply into his chest. To the hilt.

Only my instincts and training allow me to block the counter blow.

I scream in pain as the billhook hits my flank. Even Loth’s armor cannot stop the edge of the soul weapon and the power behind it. I let inertia carry me off to minimize the damage. I still leave a trail of blood in the air.

Ow.

Ow.

This is going to hurt.

I crash into the throne. PAIN. it does hurt. I roll on my feet and channel the Ekon essence to stand up and pull a short blade from a sheath. The enchanted weapon stops the hook an instant before it can take off my head. Otto is not giving me a chance. His smile is obvious, as the ghastly wound he just accepted closes quickly enough for me to see it.

“It is only a matter of time now,” he adds, and kicks my intact side.

I crash into his followers.

I grab one of the few remaining leaders on my way down.

I stand back up and discard his freshly Devoured body. My own wounds close ever so slightly. Otto sees me and frowns.

“Two can play that game.”

“This will not save you.”

“You will run out of pawns before I run out of fighters, fallen one.”

I charge and pull the spear to me. My foe does not notice.

I let him hook the short blade.

I roar and push the blade down, burying it into the stone where I now stand. The hook is stopped for a moment, a fragment of a second, while Otto pulls.

I grab the spear and thrust. The lord’s eyes waver. I steal a gaze down.

A black, thorny root encircles his foot. This one is not on his side, and I recognize the plant as my own. I do not know how it appeared, but I am not going to complain.

“But… how?” he whispers.

I snarl in triumph, and yet despite the circumstances, he still manages to lodge the spear higher, missing his heart by a hair.

But Sivaya’s blade still has a trick.

“Shield breaker.”

The tip flashes blue as the fae’s magic takes hold. Otto’s face shows utter shock as the powerful enchantment slices his insides. I grunt, and pull. The blade slices through ribs as if it were butter.

I touch his heart.

The lord slackens instantly, eyes wide. The last of the flowers dry up and die.

I pick him up by the throat and move him closer. He is lost. He sees me. He knows.

Around us, the primals fall to their knees and the fish folks lay into them with wild abandon. The air is rich with the smell of blood and death, in a background of screeches and cries. The hunt is over, The quarry is captured.

I have won.

I can hardly believe it. I have faced a lord in battle and won. I care not about the circumstances or his strange state. He was a lord. He called the Magna Arqa. And now, he is at my mercy.

This will taste so sweet.

I bite down.

Ecstasy.

My ship crashed on a small island after I killed most of the crews. Incompetent fools! That said, this island houses a population of natives I can bring under my dominion until the situation in Saxony calms down.

It has been two years since I arrived here. I managed to pacify a local tribe of these predatory mermen by giving a repellent to my minions, thus stopping the raids. Another ship has crashed here, beyond repair. I wonder if the strange magic around the island interferes with navigation?

It has been ten years since I have arrived here. The local simpletons built me a shrine, from which I oversee their pitiful civilization, Everyday is like the last, and I feel torpor overcoming me. I will allow myself to succumb to it and wake up later, when a way out has been found.

I pull back as the body disintegrates between my hands. The power of a lord courses through my veins and, within my mental palace, the associated essence grows further. My victory makes me feel incredibly powerful. I have slain a lord in single combat! No trickery, no explosives, no unfortunate swine set on fire. Just me, and blades. I did not even shoot him! Truly, I have grown beyond my own expectations.

I stand up and watch lazily as the last of the primals are thrown to the ground and killed. Even the younger ones perish, something that I do not condone but that I will not stop either. This vengeance is not mine, and my own rules do not apply. I use the time to consider what I learnt.

So, Otto of the Erenwald was indeed lost. Not feral, but withdrawn into his zone of comfort like an old, timid man. Encrusted. Frozen in time. How can one let themselves go so? They must have had nothing left to look forward to.

I know from my sire’s influence that slumber only lasts a decade at most, and only for ancient beings like himself for whom such an interval means very little. Otto’s felt longer. Deeper. Meaningless. Nirari had settled to plan his return, while he had simply given up on any action.

I will avoid this terrible fate.

I am not too worried.

My failings are many, but inaction and melancholy have never been one of them.

Syrrin comes to stand next to me as the orgy of blood finishes and the victorious hunters gorge themselves on the flesh of the vanquished. Sheridan joins us with a clear air of distaste. A tall and powerful fishman warrior turns to confront him. I stop myself from hissing. The proud ranger turns to the massive creature. The barrel of his gun taps against the monster’s chest.

“Try me,” he states without an ounce of fear.

The fishman tastes the air with his tongue. He slithers back with respect but not without fear.

“You always show me the weirdest shit,” he tells me when we are reunited.

“Language.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

A liver slides at our feet. Syrrin picks it up and gobbles it in one gulp.

“You may have a point there,” I concede, “we should move out. I am curious to see that our little godling is up to.”

“Breathing, I hope. What about Champignac? He’s a dead man walking if I have any say in this.”

“He was a dead man walking the moment he decided to double-cross us and the Consortium. He is your prey.”

“What are the chances that he convinces Ozenne that we are all dead, and that he should leave?”

“Less than zero?”

Sheridan raises a dubious eyebrow.

“Oh you of little faith, who cast the spell to bring us here safely?”

“Ooooh, we need you to leave as well!”

“Yes,” I drily reply, “I am glad to see that my presence is appreciated. Enough talk. The main storyline awaits.”

“Excellent, let’s go.”

“One last thing, Sheridan.”

“Yes?”

“Give me back my rifle. Thank you.”

I will have to build him one soon.

Syrrin declines to accompany us. She has much to do to save her tribe, but she gives me a complement of seven muscular old fishmen who understand Akkad well enough to take orders. They guide us to yet another maze of corridors until we go sharply up.

“I recognize this place,” Sheridan informs me, “we came through here the first time.”

We pass by a tomb, where I am told that the dragon tooth had been. The powerful sword is now in the hands of the villainous Frenchman. I will have to make sure that it is properly retrieved.

We reach a promontory overlooking the forest. I raise my gauntlet and start a simple tracking spell, searching for the enchantment on my revolver which Sheridan so generously lended to the poor ingenue.

We follow the spell for only ten minutes when we hear a discharge. I press onward, and arrive in a clearing.

Miranda is on the ground, her dress stained with mud and her lush hair in disarray. She holds the borrowed revolver in two hands and stares, glassy eyed, at the body at her feet.

I recognize one of the disposable… one of the helpers we hired for the expedition. Not only is the rogue villain dishonest, but his dishonesty is also contagious! Scandalous.

And at her back, the second helper approaches with fury in his eyes, knife held high.

This is it, is it not? The reason why the Bingles always end up gravitating around me for some of their more defining stories. Cecil’s last adventure and his marriage. His son’s loss of innocence. Miranda’s confrontation with the world as it is. Fate, or laughing gods, keep sending them my way and I keep saving them because, each time, I am given a choice.

Right now, I get to decide whether she lives or dies. Will her story continue, or will it end here, in the embrace of that cursed island.

I keep getting hassled because my answer has always been to save them.

I find the Bingles annoying and their endless shenanigans grate my patience, and yet, and the end of the day, stories are what define us as a species: the ability to lie. Nations are lies. Honor is a lie. They are intellectual constructs with no root in the real world, and yet those lies have propelled ships across the ocean deep and sent hundreds of thousands to their death. The lies we tell each other and believe in are just important as the fabric we wear or the food the mortals eat, perhaps more so. The godlings of adventure are that principle pushed to its limit. Stories that touch the world directly, instead of through our hands.

And I have always loved a good story.

I pull the trigger and the helper collapses, hands on his bleeding leg. Miranda shudders with fright, and yelps when she spots me.

“Miss Delaney? Mr Sheridan! Oh, it is so good to see you! I thought you dead! But how! And what are those creatures around you?”

“Do not concern yourself with them,” I tell the novice adventurer as my cadre drags the screaming helper back for the larder, “they will not hurt you. They obey me.”

Her eyes fill with tears as the events of the day quickly catch up to her exhausted psyche.

“But why…”

“Because they are smart, and you are not, little Bingle.”

“But… those are monsters!”

Her eyes trail on my blood-soaked armor. I grab her chin in a light hand.

“Oh, my dear. If you had paid attention, you would have found that there were monsters here…”

I show her my fangs.

“From the very beginning.”

I smirk when she screams, and wait as she stares with disbelief. To her credit, she does not faint. Her pretty visage simply turns hollow.

“All my life I always thought… But those were real. I feel so stupid now, I do not know what to think anymore. Is science missing the point?”

That annoys me.

“Science is a method, little one, not a religion. Who says you cannot take a rigorous and logical approach to monsters?”

She blinks.

“You are right, of course. Completely right.”

Sheridan helps her up. She thanks him profusely for the firearm and tries to return it. My Vassal turns to me with a question in his eyes.

I grab the hilt of the gun and close Miranda’s delicate hand on its cold, smooth surface.

“Keep it, my dear. I have a feeling that you will have a need for it in the future.

Deck of the Corbeau, past midnight.

I lean against the railing in my armor and admire the show.

“It is a horrible tragedy, captain, but there was truly nothing I could have done. They fell prey to terrible, bloodthirsty monsters. I had to flee for my own sake to bring you the tale of their demise,” Champignac claims as he climbs the gangplank. He has conveniently scruffy hair and a very tiny cut on his face, which lends credence to his tale.

His gaze sweeps the deck and narrows with worry before the sailors’ judgemental expressions. He stops in his tracks when he spots us.

Miranda crosses her arm in what must be a terrible display of raging emotions for her. Sheridan whistles as he checks the noose he prepared, and tied to the mast. He then steps down from the barrel and lowers his glare at the paling traitor.

Ozenne tilts his head in consideration.

“You see, Monsieur Champignac, those two have a much different story to tell, and the evidence overwhelmingly favors their version,” he finishes calmly.

“I demand to be judged before a tribunal, according to international laws,” the treacherous lout demands with a trembling voice.

“I wish I could accede to your demands, monsieur. Alas, it is a horrible tragedy, sir,  but there is truly nothing I can do. You fell prey to a terrible, bloodthirsty monster. I shall have to decline for my own sake, to bring others the tale of your demise. Good day, sir.”

Sheridan steps forward and socks the man in the jaw, then drags the victim behind himself like a bear bringing an elk home. I let my Vassal handle his prey as he sees fit. This vengeance is his.

After Champignac is hanged, I am approached by Ozenne as I enjoy the lights now adorning several cavern entrances, far into the distance.

“It appears that there was indeed a traitor,” the daring captain comments in a deceptively light tone.

“As we both expected,” I remark ruefully.

“And that traitor happened to be the Frenchman,” captain Ozenne continues.

“So it would seem,” I admit between gritted teeth.

Silence descends upon the ship. I sigh deeply, and withdraw a small wallet from my backpack. I grab a ten pounds note which I hand to the smiling mortal.

“A pleasure doing business with you, milady. Until we bet again.”

“You do not have to be so smug about it.”

“On the contrary, milady, I believe I do. For mankind. I bid you goodnight.”

The Watcher preserve me from sassy mortals.

116. The Tourist.

Kingdom of Hungary, a week later.

The Corbeau moors in the port of Fiume long enough to drop Sheridan and myself. The ranger is more than pleased to find solid ground under his feet after a turbulent trip through the Adriatic, and we take a few hours to enjoy the shore. I recognize Italian architecture in the tall buildings lining the seafront, and the Habsburg Empire also makes its presence known.

It takes half an hour for us to be reminded of our status as guests in these parts. We are barely in view of the Cathedral, a squat, circular building, when a tall man in a black uniform accosts us. He has a rotund face that would appear benevolent except for a pair of cold blue eyes. Our auras touch with polite reserve. He is a strong Master.

“Do I have the pleasure of speaking with Ariane of the Nirari?” he inquires with a respectful tone.

“Yes.”

“My name is Lazlo of the Dvor, it is my privilege to make your acquaintance. Please, follow me to the train. My men are already taking care of your luggage,” he says, and turns around. We follow.

Fiume is part of the Kingdom of Hungary, and Hungary lies deep within Eneru territory. Both Eneru and Masks currently undergo a period of detente as both carefully monitor the revolutions wracking Europe, so transport should not prove too much of an issue for an independent agent like myself. I still need to behave and keep my identification papers with me at all times.

We walk through the semi-deserted street, only encountering a pair of drunk men wearing a sheepskin and a bell, for some reason. The train station is a single building with a joined roof to protect travelers from the elements. Its quaint nature is made all the more obvious by the imposing convoy currently parked before it.

A massive locomotive lies there, black and shiny like a beetle. Wagons trail behind it in a long procession of grim sheet metal. The windows tower above us. They only reveal embroidered curtains and, here and there, a piece of mahogany ceiling basked in amber light.

“The first carriage is used by the staff. Carriages two and three are reserved for our companions and persons of import. I will kindly request that you leave them untouched. A restaurant occupies the third carriage, where our guests may enjoy the services of a chef at any time. You will also find willing company there that you may bring to your cabin if you so wish.”

He means food, although some prefer to feed during lovemaking.

“We request that you exercise restraint. Male vampires occupy the fourth carriage and the gentler sex, the last. You will find your cabin and a salon there for your enjoyment. We ask that you respect the privacy of the other guests, and the male fumoir is invitation only.”

“How about the female salon?” I ask. Some of these remarks could be considered as insulting, as stating the basic rules of politeness sometimes is. I want to know where he stands.

“It is invitation only, of course,” the man continues with a smart bow. The gesture might be anodyne to a mortal. To us, it shows respect beyond any doubt. A hostile train butler would not show deference.

I decide to give trust that he is honest, and nod in acknowledgement.

“You have full access to the train and so does your Vassal, within the boundaries of the aforementioned rules. The Lady Viktoriya of the Dvor and her Courtier, Jence, are already aboard. We are still waiting for Master Karoly of the Dvor.”

“I understand.”

“Before we depart…” Lazlo continues in English, now slightly bashful, “I must regretfully ask you to leave your weapons in our custody for the duration of the trip. Excepted soul weapons, if applicable, of course. Rest assured that this rule extends to every guest and is there for your own safety. Your protection is guaranteed by clan Dvor while you travel with us. I apologize for the disruption.”

I take a good look at our guest and he does something rare; he opens his aura by releasing his control over it. I feel embarrassment. If he is faking, his control matches that of Sinead and I somehow doubt it.

“Fair enough,” I reply, and turn to Sheridan to explain the situation. The tall texan is clearly uncomfortable, but he eventually shrugs when he realizes that I remain unconcerned.

“In Rome…” he comments stoically.

We climb on the first carriage with the parts of our luggage that contain our gear. The interior is cramped and spartan, with many small cabins stuck to each other. Lazlo leads us to a locker secured behind a steel door.

The entire train is enchanted, I notice, and the armory more than most. I detect nothing intrusive, just reinforcements and alarms.

“If you please,” Lazlo offers with a smile, pointing at a nearby table.

Sheridan and I exchange a glance.

He removes his belt and his personal Colt, still in its holster. I place the knife I always keep on me on the table. Sheridan grabs and deposits his second revolver. I rummage in my bag and place my belt of throwing knives, my short sword, and a secondary dagger. Sheridan drops a massive cutlass that can only be called a knife if a spear can be called a toothpick. I drop two boxes of enchanted ammunition and both halves of my spear. Sheridan reaches in his boot to find one last blade. I place a bandolier of bullets and the needle rifle’s sheath on top of that. Then, two powder charges. I finish with my gauntlet.

We wait.

Lazlo seems a bit at a loss before the arsenal.

“Is… is that all?” he asks in heavily accented English.

“Yep.”

“Yes. Are you quite alright, sir?” I ask.

“Of course, of course. I just did not expect…”

“We had a busy trip,” I suggest helpfully.

“Pirates!” the Ranger entones.

“... amongst other things,” I finish.

The poor Dvor Master finally recovers his phlegm.

“You can rest assured that your belongings will be returned safely at your destination. Oh, and please do not start any war before the train has had the time to depart for its next destination.”

“Don’t worry pal, we’ve never done anything bigger than a city-wide revolt.”

“I am immensely relieved to hear that,” the train conductor deadpans.

With our host thus appeased, we decide to split up for the night. I pass by the restaurant to find a snack. I manage to invite a dark-haired woman to join me in hesitant German. It turns out that, while they do not expect sex, all donors are ready for this eventuality. I send her on her way without taking advantage of her enthusiastic offer.

Now set up, I decide to visit the salon. Time to greet the locals.

I flash my aura to announce my presence and enter a narrow but long boudoir cluttered with couches, seats, and pillows. Warm yellow lights bathe the red upholstery. The place is gaudy, too much for my taste, and yet there is no denying that it feels welcoming.

Two vampires await politely as I step in.

I can never get tired of how poised we appear, and how predatory we really are. The two ladies sit daintily at the edge of puffy little seats around a tiny coffee table containing two books and a small bell. Their postures are straight and elegant and their smiles flawless, but their immobility reflects their true nature. I see it in the depths of their mirthless eyes. This is their territory I am intruding on, and we must reach an understanding first and foremost. I am almost certain that I can kill them if it comes to this, but it will not. I am their guest here, for they are Dvor and we are on Dvor territory.

I can be polite when I want.

And so, I smile pleasantly, and curtsey low enough to convey sincere respect.

“My name is Ariane of the Nirari, miladies. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Am I speaking to Lady Viktoriya and Jence of the Dvor?”

“Oh, no need to be so formal dearie,” the older one lies. “Come, join us! ”

Viktoriya is a dark-haired beauty. She has the appearance of a very young, voluptuous maid with an honest sort of charm. Meanwhile, Jence appears slightly older, around twenty, and has an ethereal, delicate presence. Her skin is extremely pale, and she averts her blue eyes delicately when I turn to inspect her.

I take a seat. If the customs here are the same, Viktoriya will decide the direction of the conversation.

“I seem to remember that the old monster had sired a sane child, for once, somewhere on the new continent. Are you her?”

“I am. I had the fortune of finding good friends who helped me throughout the more difficult years.”

“And modest! It must have taken more than luck to find one good friend in your position. Is this your first time in Europe?”

“It is! I am excited to visit a bit before politics inevitably drags me back to my territory.”

“Oh, you already have a city? Jence here covets her own, though it will take time before she can take ownership of one. The poor dearie dreams of taking over Vienna!”

The blonde Courtier sputters and lowers her head in embarrassment.

“Mistress! Must you tell someone we only just met!?”

“My prerogatives include the teasing of young and ambitious spawns, my dear. Ariane darling, tell the poor girl what you had to do to get your territory.”

“Nothing too bad. A bit of politics, a few assassinations, and a massive werewolf hunt.”

“Hah! Such a good method. I approve! Do you know that Budapest’s dominion was decided over poetry? Poetry! I swear, vampires these days forget how to grasp prizes with their own bloody claws. Now, they only know how to recite Byron, count money, sway their hips, and lie. I blame our training program. You know what my training was? I stabbed a wolf with a pitchfork. That caught my sire’s eye. Have you ever stabbed a wolf with a pitchfork, Ariane?”

“No, I was more a musket kind of girl.”

“Oh, that is perfectly acceptable. Just as violent and you get no blood on your dress! Jence dear, remind me to bring you bear hunting sometimes.”

“I am not sure that Wladislaw would approve, milady.”

“Pfah! If that old baggage dares complain, I shall strap him to my saddle so that he can kiss my—”

“And how was your trip over here?” Jence interrupts in a shrill voice.

“Boring. I dread the return trip. The only high point was a little incident involving pirates.”

“For a trip this long, you need a library and three strapping young lads. For variety,” Viktoriya advises.

“I will certainly prepare the return trip better. The library does sound tempting.”

“If I may ask,” Jence interrupts with a respectful voice, “what brings you to Europe? Would you like to visit Austria and Hungary?”

“As a matter of fact, I was planning on visiting Torran of the Dvor. He… invited me.”

I try to remain calm when I see the lady’s inquisitive eyes, but they, of course, narrow with interest.

“Did he now? Oh, I heard that his prowess in bed are legendary.”

Dammit. I would have blushed if it were possible.

“Hah! I knew it! That codger finally found a sheath to his blade ey? Oh, when that withered hag Nina hears about this she will be livid. Or even more livid, in any case. She had designs on that tasty morsel.”

“Ahem,” I interrupt, a bit put off.

“Oh do not mind my foul mouth Ariane dear, he is certainly a prize of a man. You cannot blame me for feeling a little bit of envy.”

“Lord Torran remains one of the Dvor’s most yearned after bachelors! It would be amazing if he finally got involved with someone, even if that person is a foreign lady with her own territory,” Jence observes, her gaze heavy with calculations.

“Yes, yes, we are glad for you, girl, if he took an interest in you. I was starting to think he had gone cold. Oh, it appears that we have a visitor!”

I tense, but then I feel it at the edge of my perception. Someone is coming, a master judging by the aura. Viktoriya smiles knowingly when my eyes drift to the side. Now, she knows how far I can detect things, although she cannot do much with this information. It annoys me that she reads me so easily. Fortunately, she does not appear hostile.

The man who knocks politely and enters is quite easy on the eye. He has sandy hair and very light blue eyes that give him an angelic aura. The power of a Master emanates from him in controlled waves. Jence’s own quivers with excitement and we all politely pretend not to have noticed.

“Karoly! So kind of you to join us,” she babbles.

“Jence, flower of my soul, you are as beautiful as always!”

Sleek bastard.

“You are too kind, sir!”

“Karoly you sly dog, stop standing there like a lamp post and sit down before you give me a stiff neck.”

“Of course, milady. I merely needed your approval. Will that be acceptable with your… new companion?” the smarmy man says, turning to me with curiosity.

Jence’s aura betrays her annoyance. I hold back a smirk.

“Since Lady Viktoriya trusts you, you have my blessing,” I cordially allow.

“Keep in mind that you defend the honor of European males, Karoly. Behave,” the lady tells him with a hint of edge.

We spend a pleasant time listening to Karoly’s recounting of his experience in Turkey. He is a fine storyteller who wields light sarcasm as well as descriptive prose. Even I, who consider him with distrust, have to admit that he possesses a sharp mind and an unusual outlook, one that he must have developed over years of travel. He apparently struggles to find a place to settle and call his own, a peculiarity for a Dvor. Most are sired already attached to a land. I wonder what happened.

After a while, Vitkroiya grabs me by my hand and kindly requests that I walk her to the restaurant, which I do. Jence’s aura bubbles behind us.

“Are you not afraid that he would have his way with her?” I ask as soon as we are out of hearing.

We walk up through the now-moving train. It rides pleasantly and smoothly with a soothing ‘kacha kacha’ sound as regular as a clock. Outside, the mountainous countryside beckons, with its ancient farmhouses hidden in craggy valleys.

“Oh, I fully expect them to be naked and pinkish within ten minutes. I do not begrudge Jence her fun, and Karoly has everything she was taught to love in men. Power, wit, money, beauty. And he is good at lovemaking, if the tales are to be believed. Better to let her get it out of her system. I cannot work with a frustrated youngling. Too much hissing.”

“Even we can be heartbroken.”

The old matriarch dismisses my concern with a wave of her hand.

“You are correct, my dear, but it matters not. How did it go again? ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than to have not loved at all. She will spend time with the man of her dreams, get properly bonked, then realize that it is not enough to make a relationship. Not without children and not with how long we live. How often did you talk about money and moving into Torran’s castle when you were together?”

“Errr. Never.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

We sit in the restaurant wagon even if Viktoriya is not thirsty to begin with. I use the opportunity to order coffee to the lady’s surprise. The human staff does not react, leading me to deduce that they played host to Hastings vampires before.

“I feel the need to warn you, my dear, I fear that Nina of the Dvor mays have plans to visit your lover’s haunt. He cannot refuse her passage on his land since she is a lady, but he will refuse her access to his castle. Do not let yourself be intimidated.”

“Any advice?” I ask, since she knows the foe.

“Are you after the favor of the Dvor and a long-term relationship with our ruling council?”

Most of us American rulers agree that we will be at war with the European factions at some point in the near future. It would be a waste of time to establish a good relationship now.

“Absolutely not.”

“Then you will do fine. Remember, Nina is no fighter. In the end, she can only do to you what you allow her to do. Stay polite enough during your inevitable conversation, then say no and leave.”

“Understood. Worst case scenario, I have not yet tasted Dvor essence.”

Her smile turns predatory.

“Just be sure to do it as part of a sanctioned duel, dearie, otherwise I would have to hunt you myself.”

“Only as a last resort. I have come for a good time.”

“Duels to the death are a good time. Ah, here comes Lazlo. Ariane dear, do you mind if I invite him over? Poor lad spends his days taking care of that big thing. Let us remind him that he is part of our community, yes?”

“I would be delighted.”

The dour train conductor turns out to be a fine conversationalist, with a dry humor and pleasant deadpan deliveries.

“Why does Nina think she and Torran will make such a good pair?” I find myself asking.

“Because, milady, we call Torran the Old Wolf, and Nina the Old Bat. She must be going for a theme.”

And so on.

At some point, Viktoriya asks me what my first years as a fledgeling were like. Seeing that most of it is public knowledge anyway, I share my experience with them, omitting anything that concerns the Likaean or Loth’s more sensitive topics. Vitkoriya immediately picks up on my grief when I mention Dalton.

“The loss of a Vassal marks us forever. I applaud you for not falling to the usual trap of control. Many become overprotective of their next Vassal, forgetting why they exist.”

“It would defeat the purpose,” I grumble, having battled those tendencies.

“Indeed. You and I know how difficult and painful it can be to fight your instincts to their bitter end.”

The Dvor lady and I exchange a glance. She allows me to touch a peculiar element of her aura and I recognize something there, a sort of...looseness. As if some chain had been broken. She almost turned feral too. We are marked, for better and for worse.

I smile and nod at her, appreciative of her sharing the experience, then realize that Lazlo is still here. He politely inspects my cup of coffee, thus giving us a moment of privacy that I appreciate.

I decide to share some of my hunts with Loth and Dalton to lift the mood.The tale of our attack on the Ascendency compound and the flaming pigs disaster that ensued leads them to share their own calamitous outings. Lazlo accidentally rammed the train into a poultry car. The staff could still find the odd feather three weeks after. Viktoriya had to distract a local Master as part of an investigation. She ended up as the referee and announcer in a naked battle where contestants had to wrestle in a mud pool. I end up smiling at those tales of shame and depravity.

We retire shortly before dawn. I realize that I had spent a pleasant moment, and offer both Lazlo and Viktoriya to contact me if they visit America. I know that we will end up on opposite sides of a war before this happens. It matters little. We have centuries.

Hopefully.

I make contact with Sheridan after. The man blushes when he sees me and I realize that he also made use of the offered company. Said company made him take a bath, for which I am grateful.

“Not staying pure until marriage, I take it.”

“I, hm, it would have been rude to refuse.”

“But of course.”

We left Zagreb behind the night before. It takes little time before the train stops at a sleepy village on the border with Austria, our destination. We step down to a breathtaking mountainous vista of tall pines, snow-capped distant peaks and vampires.

“Good evening, milady, are you Ariane of the Nirari?”

The streets are deserted. Houses here are large, with walls painted white and roofs of brown wood still close to the ground. They are squat and must get snowed in in winter, but staying close to the ground means that they will be easier to keep warm. I can spot light through windows, but no one is about. Dogs bark a street away.

The vampires are two women, Dvor Masters of middling talent. They wear rich dresses and costly jewelry, looking out of place in that remote area. No coats, and no luggage.

“That is correct,” I reply.

“Lady Nina of the Dvor requests the privilege of your presence while we wait for your host,” one of them says, making it clear that this is not, in fact, a request. That was fast.

The pair looks condescending. Smirks adorn their carmine lips. They look like two smug teachers who caught the class clown red-handed. I hate them already, but it would be rude to refuse and I cannot insult another one of Torran’s guests.

“Of course. You may lead the way,” I answer, and turn to Sheridan who bravely shoulders his luggage.

I realize that I will have to carry my own or leave it here.

This will not look good.

And then, a group of men emerges from the still waiting train. They grab my belongings and make to follow, faces grim.

I catch Lazlo through a window. He winks. I smile in return.

I turn again to find the two hags slightly put off. No doubt that this was intentional on their part. I find their level of pettiness truly staggering.

“Well?” I ask, feigning impatience. They grit their teeth and walk away.

We move in silence. I am studiously ignored and use the opportunity to inspect my surroundings. We head towards the only tall building in this hamlet besides the church. The absence of people can only mean one thing. They know. Otherwise, no self-respecting gossip would ignore two women in lavish clothes escorting one in sensible travel gear through their land. The Dvor form the core of the Eneru faction, I remember, I just did not expect them to extend their reach so far out. The village cannot be home to a permanent vampire due to its small population. Their influence reaches even here.

I know that our presence will be revealed to mankind sooner rather than later. I wonder if we could first become an open secret, a presence known to a significant portion of the population, and then make our presence official? It seems to work here.

We enter our destination, which turns out to be an inn. No staff comes to greet us, though a fire burns in the hearth and lanterns and candles provide ample light. I direct the trio to deposit my belongings near the entrance and thank them for their assistance. They lift their hats and depart without hurry. Sheridan makes his way to the bar and helps himself to a beer, his scowl a clear indication of what he thinks of our games.

I climb the stairs up to the second floor, one ‘companion’ before and one behind as if they were leading me to the gallows. They even display the proper, solemn countenance.

The second floor is right below the rafters. Some doors led to rooms, no doubt. It left most of the space free for a large table next to which three more vampires now sit.

Two of them turn out to be masters, bringing the total to four, a show of force for the lady enthroned in their midst. My guides step up quickly to take prepared seats. I am left with the remaining spot, the one with its back to the door. The one opposite the five others. One more petty insult.

“Sit,” the lady starts.

She is beautiful in a very distant sort of way. She was turned in her thirties, I think. Her heart-shape face is full, and her lips pink and plump. She has this unmistakable charm of the femme fatale, the consumate demoiselle of the court whose velvety eyes hide a thousand secrets. Her aura tastes of scheme and hidden sin.

The lady brushes an errant strand of raven hair with a dainty finger. She opens her mouth to speak as I sit.

“Thank you for having me,” I interrupt, “oh you prepared tea! How thoughtful of you.”

Nina’s eyes rest on the table, which was made with cutlery and plates. I grab a cup and fill it with lukewarm liquid from a nearby pot. The tea is horrible, but only I can drink it. I then slowly remove my cloak and hang it on my chair.

“Are you quite done?” my improvised host snaps.

“Whatever do you mean?” I ask without a smile.

This was one of Sinead’s lessons in dealing with sly remarks and innuendos. The most basic answer is to request explanations. Experienced pricks will find workarounds, especially if they are in a position of authority, but it will break their rhythm and ruin their game. I use that method now.

“I have summoned you here for a grave matter, Ariane of the Nirari.”

She summoned nothing, but it would be rude to interrupt and correct her, and she would ask me to stay silent. It would lead to an immediate argument, and I would rather hear what she has to say. I sip on the tea with an eyebrow raised.

“You must be at no loss to understand the reason for this meeting. Decency, respect, nay, common sense, must tell you why.”

“Indeed not. I was not expecting to meet you at all,” I remark, and take another sip while I recline in my chair.

“Very well, if you must choose to be obtuse then I will only act with the integrity that qualifies Dvor women. A most alarming report reached my ears a few weeks ago, one that I simply cannot quite believe, for it shows such a reckless nature that can only lead to disaster and premature doom in any civilized country of the world. For the sake of Lord Torran and that of all our honors, I had to come here in person despite pressing business and make sure that such dreadful rumors were baseless, and indeed, unimaginable.”

By the Watcher does that harlot like the sound of her own voice.

“What would that be?” I asked in a bored voice.

“A scandalous idea that our most esteemed Lord Torran, member of the council and one of the few soul smiths in existence, would invite a foreign woman on his land, one from the Frontier and without a situation here no less, to engage in amorous relationships! Although, it must be a terrible invention rife with falsehoods, for no gentleman of his stature would stoop so low as to engage in such a careless behavior.”

Silence and pointed looks. I wait. I sip more tea. Our auras are calm so far, a tribute to our collective control.

“It appears to be a question aimed at Torran himself,” I remark.

“Do not play coy with me, miss, I aim to know whether or not you have designs on our most esteemed guest.”

“Sure I do.”

My immediate answer ruffles their feathers. They did not expect a candid answer, maybe?

“I mean, have you seen Torran? Great man, great lover, great warrior. And that ass…”

“ARIANE OF THE NIRARI! YOU DARE!”

“Yes, I dare,” I calmly reply.

We do not move now. Our assembly might well be statues. Nina stood in her anger, though I suspect most of it is acting, and stares down at me.

“Let me explain the trouble you find yourself in. Lord Torran is one of the youngest and most promising members of our council, a rising star in the highest political spheres of our most ancient and noble clan.”

Bullshit. Torran hates politics.

“His position is a peculiar one. As a soul smith and a warlord, he forms one of the cornerstones of our might. His position and wealth are well-ascertained, and we already have enchanting prospects that will bring him the balance and direction he needs, though he may not know him yet. Lord Torran deserves only the best for himself and his growth and tranquility.”

“We agree on that last part,” I interrupt once more.

“Then,” she continues in a low growl, “you would do well to consider your own interest in the matter. One like you who lacks support and reputation cannot thrive in this environment, and a match would only be damaging for your own reputation. You would never obtain the power you crave.”

Heh.

Somehow, it…

Hold on.

I close my eyes and push the irritating voice into the background. I end up in the core of my mental palace and rush outside. Rooms and mazes blur as I reach the border of my domain.

There, at the wall of thorns, lilac-colored limbs of smoke snake their way through my defenses. Subtle. But not subtle enough.

I change the nature of the border, imagine the thorns turning thirsty. From passive and hard, they turn fluid. Questing. The smoke breaks. Some of it retreats.

I open my eyes to see the Master on the left flinch, one with short blonde hair and a soft face. She withdraws her hand from the table.

“You nasty little twit,” I growl.

“You forget yourself!” Lady Nina screams once more, but this time, I am done. We were done the moment they stepped over the line.

“And you forget who I am, cur.”

Five auras jump on mine to suppress it, and it works. I feel my presence crushed and a weight settle on my shoulder. I still manage to stand up to my full height with effort. Another attack. Rage pulses softly in my chest. It burns brighter with each moment.

“You still sit here as if this one had not attacked me.”

“You are delusional,” the blonde woman spits.

“You think your clan is ancient, but mine was the first and we remember the old laws. We respect the law of hospitality, which you just broke, mongrel.”

“You will regret those words,” the blonde retorts, eyes narrowed.

“I accept your challenge,” I calmly reply.

That stops them.

“You want to make me regret my words, yes? I choose the spear. You can take whatever weapon you fancy, I care not.”

“We are not in your Frontier where conflict solves everything,” the blonde says again. I cannot taste her fear with my aura suppressed, but I know it is there and I smile, fangs out.

“Have the Dvor lost their courage?”

That gets me a few hisses. Nina is next to speak.

“You may retract your challenge now, or I will be her champion,” she remarks with just a hint of smugness.

“I accept the substitution.”

More stunned silence. Clearly, they did not expect that, and I wonder why? Have the Devourers lost their reputation?”

“You overestimate yourself, Ariane of the Nirari. You are not your sire. The gap between us is not one you can bridge.”

“You would not be the first lord I kill,” I inform her, and my smile widens. The conversation took a strange turn for the worst but it appears that we ended up exactly where I wanted.

“You do not understand me at all. I care not about your court, your council, and reputation. Your threats are laughable, and your little trial, pathetic. You simply miss the point. I am here to find my lover on his own turf and spend a very pleasant time in his company. You would have realized it if you had taken the time to judge me, but you naturally assumed I was the same ambitious devious bitch that you are yourself. And now, we will meet on the field and I will drain you dry. I choose the spear and gauntlet. You can take your soul weapon, if you even have one. It will make no difference.”

I drain the glass of tea and place it back on the table. Sephare spoiled me. This tea is a tragedy.

“Do not take too long.”

I sashay out before she gets the chance to remember that she can set the date of the duel.

I barely have to come downstairs when something happens that makes me smile. The ground rumbles. I move out and stare in the street.

Torran gallops in the city atop his massive Nightmare Krowar, with his aura deployed and thunder on his brow. He looks regal in a tailored rider outfit in dark leather and a strange high hat. His long grey hair is held in a tight braid.

I smile like an idiot when I see him and, since I am alone, I jump and wave in excitement. The tenderness in his gaze leaves me breathless, but soon his attention returns to the door as Lady Nina and her entourage make their way out. His grey eyes gain the intensity of a hawk, and his demeanor turns positively glacial.

“Ariane, my star, I apologize for the poor welcome you received,” he begins in a low voice. I can feel the barely contained rage behind it. His aura fuses with its surrounding in a very peculiar way and I realize what it means. He is on his own land. He feels stronger here, more solid, and since he was already strong and solid, the result is simply awe-inspiring. I want to spar him a bit. Later.

“Lord Torran,” Nina starts with a reasonable tone, so that Torran appears angry while she is calm and composed, “we merely—”

“You were leaving when I arrived. Did you sense me, or did they pull something?” he asks, ignoring the interruption.

I have no reason to defend them.

“The blonde one tried mind magic. I was about to grab my spear and demand satisfaction.”

“A groundless fabrication, Lord Torran, this savage lies liberally. You should—”

“SILENCE.”

Torran’s aura washes over us, smashing over any defenses like a midnight tide. The barking dogs in the neighboring houses whimper and become silent. The wind dies down. Even the fluttering candles diminish. The impact extends to every aspect of reality, including the ground beneath my feet.

“Do not tell me what I should or should not do in my domain, woman. I have tolerated your antics for too long. Leave.”

“As a lady of the council, you may not deny me access,” she retorts, a proud chin lifted in defiance.

“You may extend your complaints to the council, Nina. After your prompt departure.”

The stress on the prompt is unmistakable, as is the underlying threat. Torran has reached his limit.

Nina, huffs, and turns around with the dignity she can muster.

But, I have not had my due yet.

“Not so fast…”

A challenge started must be finished.

“Ariane?” Torran asks as the women stop in their tracks.

“I would consider it a personal favor if you could let the matter drop. Please. For me.”

Aaaarrrrggg if he asks like that.

“Oh, very well.”

He had better compensate me!

I sulk a bit, but soon I forget all about it and jump on Torran when the hags are gone. I reveal my aura to him, to let him see how happy I am. I am probably as joyful as a vampire can be. His laugh is deep and full of mirth.

“Hahaha, come on, leave your luggage here and ride with me!”

“I did not bring Metis,” I tell him. “The long crossing would have killed the poor creature.”

He appears surprised.

“You do not know? Have you not guessed that they do not travel as we do?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Have you not noticed how our Nightmares always seem to be around? They travel through the forests of this world and others. Come. Try to call her.”

“Surely, you jest!”

He does not appear to be jesting.

“Oh well. Metis!”

I hear a nearby gallop.

“No way!”

The proud pony herself rounds a corner at full speed, then prances around. She bumps my chest with her head, causing me to laugh.

“Yes, Metis, I am so happy to see you too!”

“Come on, my star, let us ride!”

We do so. Krowar, his Nightmare, moves with absolute surety. Torran’s aura seems to smooth the passage wherever we go, through narrow mountain trails and deep pine forests. We ride for an hour until we stop by a crystalline spring in a lonely valley.

“One of my favorite places, even before I became a vampire. Do you know what I find amazing with you Ariane?”

I cross my arms, quite proud of myself.

“Would you like the list thematically or alphabetically?” I ask.

“Hah! No, I am serious, what was your plan for tonight?”

“Well, I thought that, perhaps, we could visit your bedroom first, then a spar?”

Ooooh I would blush if I still could. Torran only smiles.

“Exactly, this is all about us as people. We will do as you propose later. Sparring will help with your recovery.”

“You are quite confident,” I mock reproach.

“No, not with our lovemaking. With your forging! I have your measure and I have prepared well. Everything is ready. We will make your soul weapon tonight.”

117. Weaponized.

Torran and I finally arrive in a sprawling valley nestled comfortably between three mountains. Tilled fields extend all around a town of good size, its cozy wooden roofs extending far in the distance. I spot a church, but also two warehouses and factory buildings, and a pen that might contain either horses or cows. The tamed land extends to the edge of the mountains and the forests that cover its flanks.

“Errenstadt. My home,” Torran says with a smile, “I grew up here and was turned in my castle.”

“Your castle?”

Torran points up to the nearest mountain. There, a white form with high towers and vertiginous spires covered in slates clings to the cliff.

We travel on. He is impatient, it seems, and sometimes glances back with obvious excitement. He is almost… giddy.

“Are you quite alright?” I ask as we ride side by side. I have never seen him like this before.

“Forgive me, my star, when I get in the mood to create a soul weapon, very little can distract me. I knew that you would grow in power since we last met and I am not disappointed. You are more than ready. I will not manage to rest until I have given life to my next masterpiece.”

“It is unlike you to be so… hasty,” I notice with a hint of worry.

“Do not be alarmed, Ariane dear. I am an old hand at this task. I just… I have to see it.”

“Fair enough,” I reply. I find it surprising that he would be almost more excited than I am. Oh, I expected that it might happen, but I am here for him, not for a blade!

“You will not be able to calm down before we proceed?” I ask him.

“Indeed not. And the sooner we do it, the better. You will be weakened for a while after we do so. I would prefer if you stayed here, under my protection.”

“You expect trouble? With Nina, perhaps?”

“Not particularly. She had to challenge you, and the mind magic was certainly reckless and heavy-handed, but she is a schemer before anything else. That is also why I had to convince you to drop the matter of the duel.”

“I could have taken her on.”

“Of this I have no doubt,” Torran replies with a radiant smile, but soon it turns bitter.

“Unfortunately, it would bring no end of trouble. If she can choose the date, she will push it to a later time and use her clout to have you expelled from Dvor territory, thus making you forfeit by default. If she can choose the weapon, she will pick the bow or something equally ridiculous. You have won this bout, better to stop now while we are ahead.”

“There is still a debt…” I grumble. I only accepted out of respect for him.

“I will compensate you.”

“How?”

“With my essence.”

I am left speechless. I had always kept the request to myself, although I was tempted to ask him. Dvor lord essence freely given is a high prize indeed. And he is right. I have better things to do than to engage a manipulative lady on her own turf. The compensation is adequate.

We follow a well-traveled path through fields of high wheat. The road goes up, following the incline and soon enough it snakes its way around rocky outcrops and forest thickets. Torran’s aura is vibrant and powerful here. It makes one with the land.

We arrive at the entrance, and the sight forces yet another smile out of me.

A marble bridge spans over a deep chasm, leading to an island of beauty surrounded by sheer cliffs on all sides. Torran’s castle is old, but well-maintained with mossy outer walls and crenelations, but clean gravel and polished stone in the inner courtyard and the keep. The spires I spotted before extend upward, sharp and blue, like knives aimed at the sky. It is breath-takingly beautiful. Have I been transported into a fairy tale?

I turn to Torran, who wears a smug expression of triumph, and remember to close my mouth.

“I am so jealous!”

He laughs, a warm, mellow sound that rolls and sends shivers up my spine.

“Come on, let me show you where I work.”

We cross the bridge at a good pace. Torches in sconces line the walls of the courtyard we find ourselves in. Space here is cramped in a good way. The castle feels more personal and intimate than grandiose.

An old mortal in coveralls bows and caresses Krowar’s flank as Torran dismounts.

“You may leave Metis with Hector. He has my trust.”

“If you say so. Metis drinks water with bison grass and loves caramelized pig ears. Can you tell him that?”

Torran laughs again.

“By the Eye, I have missed you. Come!”

I grumble a bit at the cavalier behavior. How pushy! And yet…

A soul weapon. The holy grail of vampire armament. For free. By a Master. On the spot.

Many would kill for such a privilege.

We enter a sumptuous main hall with stairs leading up to a balcony. Doors on each side are now closed, except for one which we take. It leads down to a spiral staircase.

We follow it. First, the walls and steps are made of brick, but then they appear dug into the very stone as we climb down. We pass a few doors without stopping. The air turns wet and cool the deeper we go.

Eventually, we reach a landing and a vast natural cavern.

I am, once again, shocked at the beauty I just discovered. The cavern’s ceiling is covered in stalactites of various sizes, many of them dropping crystalline droplets into the abyssal lake that covers half of the ground. Its surface is spotless, but for the ripples from the falling water, each impact resonating in the chamber.

On the dry side, there are only two things: an incredibly complex and deep circle made of gold, and what appears to be half torture chair and half comfortable divan. I recognize the heavy enchanted manacles from personal experience.

“Errr..” I say, with some worry.

Torran stops then. His manic grin falls down, but it soon turns into a soft smile.

“I apologize, my star. So many people come here ready and eager. You must be the first one I drag in here. Stop, and come here.”

He takes me into his arms and I take a deep breath. His scent is familiar and comforting, and so is the strength holding me..

“You see me in a poor light. I am as excited as a fledgeling. I know you are afraid, and so I will solemnly swear to you on my essence, here and now, that I only have your best interest at heart and will forge you a weapon that you will carry your whole life. But not now. When you are ready.”

The vow settles around us.

“I am ready. I trust you.”

It does not matter that there are manacles here. Torran said that he is doing this for my own good, and he will. Besides, I am curious as well now that my worry has abated.

“Truly? We can delay for a few days.”

“No. There is no need. You are correct, I will need time to recover as you said. The anticipation will prevent me from enjoying myself fully. Is there enough time, though? It is already midnight.”

“More than enough time, my star. Familiarity with my partner’s aura makes the process faster, and the circle was designed to help me. It will take only an hour or so.”

“Oh, good!”

“First you must change into that slip. Your clothes might get damaged.”

He turns around to inspect the circle and I find the garment he was referring to on the chair. It is a very thin tunic that reaches my knees, little more than a summer night cloth. I quickly wear it, and inform Torran that I am ready.

My lover turns around and his focused expression turns… thoughtful. He walks to me with hesitation in his steps. A light fingers trails along my flank. I enjoy watching him squirm a bit.

“You know, you were right. We should, ah, delay everything. For a bit. Make sure you are properly… relaxed.”

We spend the next hour ‘relaxing’. He holds his promise and shows great determination to see me as free of stress as possible.

“Should have started with that,” I manage to force out as I lay on the divan. Torran chuckles warmly.

“No time for pillow talk. I shall start before you realize what happens.”

“Fine, fine,” I tell him, not caring. Our lovemaking left me in a state of contented restfulness. I do not react as he fastens the restraints over my ankles, wrists, and still waist. We are both still naked, therefore the process is more comically lewd than intimidating.

“You will fight me, and not be able to help yourself. The process is uncomfortable.”

I remember something to that effect.

“I will begin now. See you on the other side, my star.”

I groan and he laughs once more.

I watch as Torran steps into the circle and activates it. A hum starts and grows as power flows into the construct, Golden glyphs appear and disappear in the air with great speed. It lasts for a moment, and then I feel something latching onto my essence.

It is, as he mentioned, a deeply unsettling feeling. The sensation would be even worse for its intimacy, if I did not know Torran better. I am more exposed than I have ever been. My soul is undressed.

Torran raises a hand and steps closer. He crosses the circle without breaking the connection.

He places his hand on my chest, between my breasts.

Our essences link, and mine turns liquid.

“Our ability to turn essence physical and plastic is what makes us soul smiths.”

I clench my jaw and stop myself from fighting it. The treatment is not exactly painful. I would call it more… itchy, in the way that a tornado can be called an air current. Deeply unsettling. What I am at the core is now movable, and yet it is still the same, still… whole. And still untouched. The sensation of wrongness threatens to overwhelm me, and only my love for Torran and my trust in him prevent me from letting the restraints do what self-control could not. I want him to know that I believe in him.

And then he pulls.

I cannot help it, I scream. I buckle and jump. He… he is tearing my essence out of my body!

My mind snaps under the alien experience. A part of me that I had never felt of as having a form is now stretched. A new sense awakes, if briefly, only to torment me. I lose my focus.

TRAPPED.

TRAPPED.

TRAPPED.

CONFUSION.

“Ariane.”

CONFUSION.

“Ariane.”

Two grey eyes. A hand. Black matter floating in the air. Should not be floating. Should not be visible.

“Ariane, listen to my voice.”

“T—Torran?”

“I need you to help me a bit. I want you to focus on my voice.”

“Yes.”

“Remember when you last fought?”

The weakened lord. A circle of life and death. My fate on the line. A contest of skill.

“Yes.”

“I want you to remember the way you moved, the way you fought. Bring it forward.”

I do so now, and find it easy. My aggressive, unpredictable style. Fighting at the edge. The equilibrium of primal rage and precise control. My truth.

The black stuff in Torran’s hand changes shape. It becomes longer, narrower. Spines appear along its flank.

“Yes, good, very good. Your essence is concentrated nicely. Every bit of it is you, and all of you. Good. Keep going.”

What follows are harrowing moments. I want to tell Torran to stop everything, that I have had enough, yet I endure. I will not let the strangeness of the situation interrupt us. I also believe that Torran can finish with or without my help, and that he will not stop the forging for anything. My vision blurs, so that I can notice no details. I just see a blade-like form, and Torran’s focused grey eyes.

Until it stops and something of me is held in his hands. I can feel it like the extension of my own soul. It pulses in rhythm with the rest of me.

That was not so bad, I find myself thinking as he walks back to the circle. Very uncomfortable, but compared to the torture, it—

“This might sting a bit. Sever!”

PAIN. PAIN. PAINPAINPAINPAIN PAIN.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAARG!”

Agony without match. The most devastating, traumatic pain I have ever suffered in my entire Watcher-forsaken life. A scourge like no other. The bane of my existence. The memory of it will be seared into my mind for all of eternity. A divine pain, one that transcends the physical to reach realms of consciousness that I did not know I had until they started flaying my soul.

“AAAAAhahahaaaaaa…”

The scream trails off and fizzles because I lack the strength to keep going. A tidal wave washes my mind away.

I float in the recess of myself, above an ocean of red. I have to keep myself still or the pain will devour me.

I am also present on the other side of the red wave.

It is me, everything is me, but something bleeds out of that part. All that makes me a person, such as memories and thoughts, leaves it and rejoins the whole. What is left is the… the canvas. The stuff on which I exist. And the part that kills given form.

I must have lost consciousness then. I do not know how long I stay like this. I only regain consciousness when someone grabs me in a princess carry.

I open an eye through disgusting gunk, and attempt to croak something, in vain. I cannot move at all. I lack the strength. Disorientation tangles my senses. For the first time since I last lost my heart, I feel utterly defenseless.

There is a change then. It takes me some time to recognize the touch of cool water on my skin. The cocooning sensation soothes the phantom pain wracking my body, while a light touch cleans away…

I open my eyes again. This time, I can see blurry shapes, including the form of Torran above me. We are in the pool, and he is slowly cleaning me. My blood is everywhere.

I try to speak and can barely manage a low grunt.

“Here. This will help.”

Liquid fire ignites my tongue.

Tonight, I discover my limits. Torran fed me Likaean blood and I simply cannot enjoy the experience. All my senses are saturated beyond reason. I force it down anyway.

Pain.

Binding.

Humiliation.

Let me die.

I push the memories away. The impossible energy coming from their immortal blood surges into the wound in my being, giving my essence some of the energy it needs to rebuild itself. The process remains unpleasant.

Calm down, Ariane. You are fine now. Almost.

I breathe slowly and finally manage to relax as Torran cleans my face with a wet cloth and a delicate touch.

“Are you feeling better?”

I nod, then start with the simplest question.

“That blood you gave me…”

“A payment I recently received for a rush order. It will significantly hasten your recovery.”

I meant something else. He discarded such a precious treasure for me.

“Do you want to see your soul weapon?”

“Yes!”

Ah, finally.

Torran helps me up and I stand on shaking feet, now clean. I see a black blade before me.

“Call it to you.”

I do so instinctively. The weapon disappears from the ground and reappears in my hand. It is… a sword. Of sorts.

The handle, pommel, and guard fit my idea of classical elegance in thin, sober lines of twisted material. Beyond that, however, lies a strange segmented blade that looks savage and, well, a little bit impractical? One side is sharp and smooth while the other has what appears to be notches at the back of each part.

Something clicks in my mind and the segments fall limply to the ground, held together by some sort of wire.

“T—Torran? What the hell is this!”

“Do not worry if you cannot keep it up,” the old lord deadpans, “it happens to everyone.”

“This is no time for a joke! Why is my soul weapon a limp sword?”

“A truly unique and amazing weapon, just as I expected. This is a whip sword. A thoroughly impractical weapon for any human. So much that it only exists as a concept.”

“If you are trying to make me feel better, this is not working.”

“Think about it Ariane. You have learnt to fight from your vampire side. You have never fought like a human.”

“So?”

“Obviously you need a blade that reflects your fighting style, and it comes as no surprise that no human could use it. The range variation and technique changes will push your unpredictable, overaggressive method to its limit.”

“That did not sound like a compliment at all!”

“Do not be cross, my star, you know that I find your enthusiastic efforts to combat me adorable. Must I compliment you further?”

Gah!

“If no one uses that blade, no one can help me learn!”

“Not per se. I will, however, spar with you so that you may grow into it. Soul weapons are designed to serve. You cannot fail at learning how to use your own.”

“If you say so…” I mumble.

I snap the blade forward and upward. It whips the air, then another click in my mind, and the segments pull back to reform a sword.

That was… easy?

“You may be right…” I grudgingly admit.

“Incredible, my star, the centuries-old master soul-weapon smith has a passable knowledge of his craft. No one could have expected such a result.”

I grumble a bit more. He is, of course, right.

“I apologize, my love. My worries got the better of me.”

“You call me this for the first time, I believe,” Torran says in a low voice. He lifts me from the water and carries me out, towards the stairs. The blade disappears, yet it remains close. I have but to call it.

“You must rest. We can talk more tomorrow.”

My protests die on my lips as even the energy from the blood of the fae fails to keep me awake.

I wake up in a luxurious bed of smooth fabric, beneath a crimson canopy. The windows are open to the valley beyond, its tilled fields, and the yellow pinpricks of human fires. I have slept past sundown.

I remove the cover from my body and inspect my surroundings. This is Torran’s bedroom. It smells like him. A small desk lies to the side covered in documents. A massive chestnut wardrobe stands half-open, with male clothes hanging inside in tight rows. The walls are crème and covered in paintings of mountainous landscapes, except for a single painting that I recognize only too well: an undressed Torran by the Boston Harbor.

He really does look nice naked.

Hmmm.

I should look for him and make sure that he is healthy!

I stand up and find a dress left on a chair back, as well as small cloth. As expected, they are my size, and I put them on before inspecting myself.

The dress is made of cotton, white, with a black bodice. It fits snuggly. How intriguing! I have never once worn something like that.

I twirl a bit and let the hem flow. Amusing. Sadly, it shows my legs. Bah. Why should I care?

I leave the room to find myself in a dark corridor lit by candles. It angles left and right towards different parts of the castle, with closed wooden doors set at regular intervals. I flash my aura and smile when Torran’s own answers me from the left. My steps lead me around the left corner and through a larger door, which houses a large library filled with tall shelves filled to the brim.

Torran stands in the middle with a smile and a book. Tonight, he wears an old-fashioned jacket that would look at home in a last century novel, and I admit that he looks good in it. Between this and the dress, we are almost dressed for a themed party!

“I found the dress,” I tell him by way of greeting, and turn around to let him see how fetching I am.

“Yes, the dress. A garment that young women used to wear when I was younger. Perhaps a bit… beneath your station, but it is of excellent make,” he says.

“Beneath my station?” I ask with a mischievous smile, “would that be a peasant or servant garb then?”

Aw, he is a bit embarrassed.

“My apologies, my star, I merely wanted to feast my eyes upon—”

I turn around and bend to pick up a book from the ground, letting him feast his eyes to his heart’s content. I sway a bit.

“Oh no, milord, look at what you did to that precious book! However can I convince you to… pay more attention?”

Powerful hands grab my waist.

“Do you know, dear one, that no one is allowed to enter here without my leave?”

I move my hips in mock struggle.

“Is that so? Milord would not be thinking of having his way?”

It turns out that Torran did, in fact, think of having his way. We spend a very pleasant hour together, then I clean up back in his bedroom and we quickly visit the castle, starting with the third and highest floor.

Torran’s domain turns out to be a curious mix of the ancient and the modern, all brought together in a strange and cozy harmony. The roof and its many spires protect a maze of small rooms, some only as large as a cabinet. In those, Torran stored centuries of tokens and mementos. Colorful banners line the walls side by side with romantic paintings and curious astronomy contraptions. The music room conceals his organ (the music instrument) as well as a selection of sheets ranging from Gregorian songs to the latest creations from Paris, Moscow, Florence... Everywhere is art in mismatched amalgams from different eras and styles, but they all show the same love for nature and tranquility. They are all his, and not a speck of dust comes to mar them.

My lover has to drag me away from every room with a laugh, especially after I demanded a music demonstration that he said he would properly demonstrate at a later time. We go down through a stair concealed behind a golden tapestry.

We barely meet anyone. Torran only has a small staff on hand. Even counting his Servant, there are only a dozen people present, including a cook and a handful of guards. Blood is always obtained outside during one of his trips, and I am immediately invited to the next one.

The second floor contains his rooms, the library, and guest rooms including one from which his Servant emerges wearing a night shift and nothing else.

“Is our guest comfortable, Nadia?” Torran asks with a knowing smile.

The woman is still as bald as the day I met her, and the henna designs decorating her golden skin are slightly… messy.

“He is pleasantly asleep. I made sure of it,” she answers in a syrupy alto.

Everyone is having a grand time, I see. Forget castle Errenstadt. This place should be called castle Gottleid.

Torran drags me away before my mind can torture itself with another dreadful pun.

The main floor consists of the entrance and a ballroom, which also serves as a banquet room during special occasions. Staff quarters are on this level, as well as the kitchen and other functional rooms. We leave through the grand entrance and onto the courtyard, where Metis is currently trying to nibble on a placid Krowar’s ear.

“No, Metis, no teasing our host!” I reprimand her. Hector stands by the side, looking amused. Torran greets him warmly in German while I inspect my surroundings.

Worry had prevented me from appreciating it yesterday. Cobblestones cover the ground while the walls of polished white stone, strangely clean, float in my mind images of fairy tales. Only, with Prince Charming being the monster and unicorns replaced by flesh-eating warhorses. My kind of fairy tale!

I climb on Metis and follow Torran out. He leads me down the trail, the only path out, really, and then onto a nearby plateau where a field has been prepared. A line of wood mannequins stands there, planted into the ground.

“Tonight, we shall test basic movements,” Torran announces as he climbs down.

I imitate him and call upon…

“Rose,” I say, and bite my lip in embarrassment.

“You cannot go wrong with a classic,” Torran comforts me with a smile, “your sword shows both beauty and thorns. Rose is an appropriate name.”

“Rose is a bit… naive, perhaps?”

“Nonsense. Jimena called her blade Justice, did she not?”

“My sister is not exactly the paragon of mature decision-making. Anyway, it is done now. The blade is my rose, and my thorn. Let us see what she can do.”

I slice the first mannequin with a bland overhead attack. Rose goes from shoulder through the waist with the ease of scissors going through fabric. I did not even need strength.

“Sharp,” I remark.

“All soul weapons are. Now, try the other side.”

Rose’s segmented blade has two sides. One is smooth and sharp, the other shows small spines at the back of each section. I slice with what would be the back of the sword, the movement a bit unnatural. Contrary to the other side, this one shreds through the wood as if it had been mauled.

“The spikes are too short to lock in a foe’s blade. They are here for damage. Now, try extending her.”

I lunge and push at the same time. Rose’s segments separate and pierce through the mannequin’s chest like a spear. I realize that my reach has not diminished at all! In fact, the flexibility should really help me incorporate techniques from a variety of people.

I pull the blade back. On a hunch, I twist my wrist. The blade takes a snaking motion and tears the mannequin asunder.

“Erm.”

“Not to worry, my star. I have prepared many more targets. Even if we run out of victims, I shall fetch a boulder for you to hone your skills.”

“How about a spar?” I ask teasingly.

“How do you feel?” Torran asks me instead.

I consider the question seriously. I feel… tired. Even though I woke up after night fell, I have little wish to move.

“The blood of the fae still courses through your veins. Once it is spent, exhaustion will settle over your for the next few weeks while you recover from your ordeal. We will have plenty of opportunity to try our mettle afterward. Now, try whipping motions.”

I extend the blade mid-swipe once more. Unfortunately, the edge gets stuck into the wood this time, and I must forcefully pull it. I immediately realize my mistake and make sure to keep the blade in a state of momentum, snapping and retracting it before it can become immobile. Immobility will kill me.

I massacre one target after another, then try a few moves like striking as I retreat. My Rose answers me beautifully, but I am soon faced with a serious issue. I can dance around all I like. Only sparring will shed light on whether a move is merely esthetically pleasant, or if it can be employed in the thick of battle. Unfortunately, I soon feel weary. My limbs grow heavy and awkward. Torran notices in moments.

“We should stop there, my star. We will have time later.”

“I hope this weakness will abate quickly. I would not want to be caught unaware.”

Torran grabs me by my shoulders, and lifts my face to his with a touch under my chin.

“I realize that you have been fighting for yourself since the day you were reborn, that from the moment you emerged from obscurity, you have moved from one battlefield to another. I would like you to stop and take a deep breath, for I am Torran of the Dvor, councilman of the clan, soul-smith, and warlord, and while you have met more terrible existences than me, I assure you that there are none here. While you live on my land, you are under my protection. My sword is your sword, my castle is your shield, and anyone who comes here seeking trouble will find death. This, I swear. So sit back and relax. Enjoy this precious moment. Forget about your duties as I hold you in my arms, and enjoy your well-deserved holidays. The Watcher knows that you deserve them.”

118. Break

The next few nights pass in pleasurable relaxation. First, I add the Dvor essence to my collection. I am not quite sure what it does, but I do feel a presence far away to the west. Perhaps the effects will be more obvious when I get back to Illinois.

Second, Torran gives me full access to his communication mirror, and a short call to Merritt reassures me. My allies have not yet faced anything that they could not handle. With my obligations safely taken over by someone else, I can let go of my worries.

I attend my first private concert, with Torran choosing the next pieces according to my requests. He is as talented as expected. Moreover, he still holds to that spark that animates me when I draw, the small core of emotion that we have lost on other pursuits. The difference is flagrant. Where other vampires remain mechanical and contrived, he allows himself to play. To breathe. He interprets while others perform. I love him all the more for it. One of the rooms is made available for me to draw, and I do so while he works by my side.

On the third night, we descend into town.

Errenstadt extends around us, its streets calm and clean. Only the inn and its surroundings still resonate with raucous laughter. I follow my lover to the largest building, the only one made entirely of yellow stone, where I am invited to attend Torran’s weekly meeting with his domain’s notables. I greet the Burgermeister and priest in ‘Hochdeutsch’, much to my host’s amusement. I was assured that this version of German could be understood across all states.

The cause of his hilarity becomes manifest as we are joined by landowners and factory heads. The town speaks a dialect I have trouble following at all. Thankfully, the meeting concludes quickly and we are soon on our way.

I remark that when Torran focuses, his expression grows cold. Silvery hair, grey eyes and his slightly rugged face add up to form a severe expression. His curt questions send the other attendants to check their notes with hasty zeal. Only I have the privilege to see him smile, it seems. It pleases me.

I reserve my questions for after we are on our way back.

“How much do they know?”

“That I do not age and that I am not to be trifled with. I make an example every seven years on average, as they tend to forget.”

“You kill them?”

“Worse. I bankrupt their families.”

Oooh. Nasty.

“If they know you are unnatural, how can you have such a good relationship with the priest?”

“You noticed? He is the only one I do not challenge, for the salvation of souls is not my concern. I also fund the repair of the church and quite a few projects besides.”

“I see.”

“How did you handle your priest?”

“The first one liked submissive women with bountiful bosoms, such that I could provide at a discount. The second one is meek enough that I need not bother. Funding religious projects is also one of my favorite methods.”

I stop to consider the implications.

“Are we one of the biggest patrons of the Protestant Church?” I finally ask as we leave the village behind.

“And the Catholic. Their secret inquisition leaves us alone for a reason. That, and they have their hands full with doomsday cults.”

Wah.

On the fourth day, Torran comes to see me as I finish a swim in his underground grotto.

“An opportunity has arisen to seek nourishment, my star. Would you care for a little outing?”

“With pleasure. Who are we eating?”

“I shall tell you on the way. We will be spreading fear in the hearts of mortals.”

As it should be.

“Would you like to dress up for the occasion?” he finishes with a ghastly smile.

I swim to the shore and rest my arms on the smooth stone.

“Do you mean, ‘I am rich and powerful’ terrify or ‘I shall mount your head on my mantlepiece’ terrify? I can do both.”

“Oh, yes, you have your armor!”

He almost looks… giddy.

“The gibbering wreck terrify.”

He turns around and races back up the stairs. I take the time to dry and braid my hair, then return to my own quarters.

Time to impress.

I wear under cloth and Loth’s armor in its shiny dark perfection. The holes made by Otto have repaired themselves, but there are still spots where scales shine a darker hue. My war mask is also dented. Their heavy use only makes them more threatening. They say that some have tried to slay me and failed. I add knives to their sheaths, fasten my spear to my back, and clasp the black gauntlet on my eager hand. I bounce excitedly out and almost walk into Torran who was doing the same. We inspect each other.

He wears a black plate armor with a Watcher-damn dragon on it, as well as a heavy cape. A polished sword hangs to his side in a silver-engraved scabbard so polished it reflects the lantern light. Even his presence feels heavier, somehow.

He takes a step forward and the impact of his metal-clad foot echoes through the air. He actually is heavier!

“How much does this weight?” I exclaim in wonder.

“Not nearly enough. I am using my aura to increase my presence. We Dvor can do that.”

“Hehehe, your armor even has spiky bits on the shoulders. How adorable!”

“It pleases me to garner your approval. Do you believe us intimidating enough?” he jokingly asks.

“Wait, wait. Watch this. Nu Sarrehin!”

Let there be light.

I realize too late that I spoke in the Likaean language. Thankfully, Torran is too absorbed by the effect of the spell to comment, for my eyes now shine with a cold blue light. The glacial radiance spreads from the mask’s hole like the gaze of a wraith.

“Marvelous…” Torran whispers, “can you do me as well?”

“Of course, my love. Nu Sharrehin!”

The magic likes that. A lot. The dancing lights of lies and trickery turns his grey orbs greyer until he, too, appears ready to harvest souls.

“You know, my star, I was tasked with punishing a sergeant in the imperial army. He raped a woman, then used his connection to escape justice.”

“Oh? And what does your Supplicant require?”

“Death for escaping his fate and laughing at the family’s plea. I was going to do so discreetly, but now I believe that a more… heavy-handed approach might be more entertaining.”

“You want to ride in like the heralds of the apocalypse? Would it not be too overt?”

“Nonsense, we have plenty of legends about riders dragging souls to hell.”

He stops and tilts his head.

“It will also remind the soldiers that a uniform is not a shield, at least not on my lands. Let us depart!”

I practically jump behind him as we enter the courtyard and scare the life out of the poor groom. Metis and Krowar prance through the portcullis and over the bridge, then into the forest at breakneck speed. The trees close in behind us. Their embrace settles like a cape on my shoulders.

We follow a snaking path that I could have sworn was not there the day before, and Torran does his thing again. He feels heavier, more impactful. His aura twists the land. The vacarm of hooves stomping on wet soil joins the other sounds of the forest in a rhythmic and primal melody. Time ceases to matter.

I am fairly confident we are still on earth when Torran finally slows down. In front of us, our path joins a well-travelled road leading to a sad village. Three farms surround an inn from whence emerges poorly played music, the lights of their windows pale and wan. Two soldiers in dark blue tunics stand guard next to a vine-covered fence. They look bored out of their mind.

“Time for our grand entrance?” Torran whispers.

“Wait! Let me set the mood first!” I cackle.

“Tongue of cat, hair of a dog,

Seeking tendrils of the fog

Hide our cruel deeds.”

Smoke-like plumes expand forward, drawing the small clearing in mist and shadows. The two sentinels frown, feeling that something is not quite right.

“Nu Sharran,”

Let there be darkness.

Those are quite a few spells in quick succession and I can already feel the drain on my depleted essence, but the night is ours and the magic is willing. Eager. It wants us to play.

Darkness creep on our unsuspecting victims. Light loses ground quickly before our onslaught.

“Act one, scene one,” I tell Torran.

My lover smirks and walks forward, so that every step Krowar takes resonates like drums on the fabric of the world. The two guards huddle close to each other.

“Wer — wer kommt? Hallo?”

And death incarnate emerges from the abyss. I can see exactly the moment when they spot the immortal horror bearing down on them. I can see their frown melt into expressions of sheer, delicious horror. I can taste the tears raining down their pallid cheeks.

“Nein… bitte.”

Torran rides to them. He leans to the side and he is enormous. His shape has grown so much that the soldiers appear as children in comparison, pitiful toys of cloth and bones. His hand, clad in a gauntlet of black iron, fastens around one of the men’s neck and pulls him up as if he weighed nothing.

“Wo ist Anton Friedman?”

One of the poor souls points a shaky hand at the inn. Torran lets him drop and dismounts as his informant crawls away like a worm. By that time, all signs of merriment have disappeared from the nearby building. I hear a voice whisper:

“Was ist los?”

What is happening? Oh, do not worry, you shall soon find out.

Torran crashes in, sending the remnants of the door tumbling down, hinges still attached. I follow him in and we find ourselves in a common room. Groups of soldiers huddle around tables, cluttered with cards and beer steins.

“ANTON FRIEDMAN!” Torran bellows.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAH,” the assembled mortals reply.

Torran seems to hesitate then, and I point at a heavy-set man trying his best to hide behind a panicking waitress. Other soldiers also looked at him when my lover spoke his name.

“Ich habe ihn gefunden, Teufel,” I whisper. ‘I have found him, devil.’  A hint of magic carries my words through the crowd. The culprit mewls piteously.

Torran stomps his way through the room and grabs the man by his foot as he tries to escape.

“Jetzt kommst du mit uns, Sünder.”

Now you come with us, sinner. Torran certainly has a proper sense of decorum. I like it.

My lover stomps away, dragging our prey behind him. His captive shrieks and scratches the stained ground on his way out. I hiss one last time to terrify our spectators, then we ride away, herr Friedman hanging upside down from Torran’s grip like a plucked chicken. Panicked screams and howled prayers offer a pleasing background to our exit.

“That should satisfy my supplicant,” Torran mentions as we trot back to the forest.

“Perhaps? I hope you were not tasked to make it mysterious, because I believe people may have noticed our presence.”

As soon as we are far enough, I thank Torran for the meal and we drain the prey. We head back in comfortable silence until I remember something.

“How come you hesitated back in the room?”

“My Supplicant described the villain in ample detail, and she spent a good minute on his moustache.”

“But…”

“Yes. He had shaved. That threw me off.”

I cannot help it, I guffaw, and Torran soon joins me. Our intimidating display, almost undone by a lack of facial hair. For shame.

“I did not even know that you spoke German,” Torran remarks.

“I started to study after you left. As fate would have it, I had to spend some time south and realized I should have taken Spanish instead.”

“There is still time. They are both wonderful languages. By the way, have you ever seen Faust? By Goethe?”

“I have not had the chance.”

“Then listen well, I will recite it for you!”

And I tread through the deep woods of the world, listening to my lover recite his favorite play.

Ten days after making my soul weapon, I have finally recovered enough to start practicing in earnest. We head to the training field where Torran predictably gives me a sound beating.

“Oof!”

“You are too static, my star. Do not try too many tricks yet. Add them progressively to your style, or you will lose your rhythm.”

He is right, of course. I stand where I am trying to perform fanciful moves while my style is mobile and aggressive. What frustrates me is that I can feel the deep variety of unexpected twists and vicious counters lying in my Rose, waiting to be unleashed. I am simply unequal to the task of using them yet.

We continue our spar, and I am finally able to include a few small improvements. One of them is the way the blade can curve as it extends, thus reaching flesh that was previously out of its range. The added amplitude forces Torran to adapt and parry earlier, adding to the pressure I can place on him. Soon, other techniques join the first one. By varying the range, I can launch attacks at unexpected moments, closing in then escaping without stopping the flurry of blows. My movements grow more graceful as time goes on. The highlight of the session comes when a overhead strike pushes Torran back and covers him in dust.

“Haha! It seems that the student will soon overtake the master,” I tease.

Torran merely gives me the most condescending of smiles.

“Is that so? Does my little star feel strong and deadly? Are you ready to take me on?”

“I will show you the might of the Devourer, old man,” I claim with pretend arrogance. I brandish the Rose before me.

“Oh? Let me put you to the test then. A real one.”

And he is gone.

And right in front of me.

His blade smashes into my guard, pushing me back, and the battle resumes. This time, Torran is fighting seriously. His style is still direct and indomitable, a walking disaster advancing slowly but relentlessly. He is considerably stronger than before, stronger than he was in America. This is a Dvor lord on his domain.

I am helplessly pushed back.

“Alright alright! Maybe you are not so rusty after all!” I allow as I dive under a devastating sweep.

“I will show you rusty, little star.”

Torran drops his sword, and another one appears in his outstretched hand, as black as the night. Its blade is large, too large to be practical. It looks terribly heavy.

Torran’s next swing sends me crashing against a nearby tree.

It is heavy indeed.

“Fine!” I croak, “you w—”

“Magna Arqa.”

Eh?

WHAT?

Torran’s eyes flash purple as reality twists and moans around him. He starts growing, and growing, and growing. Obsidian rocks bleed from the ground to encircle his body and form a midnight armor of jagged spikes. The last few form a crown on his brow, close around his face so that only two grey orbs remain. He takes a step forth and the world trembles.

I jump to my feet and sprint off in the other direction. The tree branches smack me, my feet slip on the ground. Rocks move to smack me aside as I pass them by, and from behind me comes the booming sound of a titan treading the world.

“CAN WE TALK ABOUT IT?”

Torran does not answer.

Whelp. Time to run.

Torran ended up squashing me like a bug against the side of a cliff, following which I sulk for two days. Our next spars are more intense as a result. I progressively include new ranges of motions in my style and, I have to admit, the Rose’s unexpected moves make for some amusing and devastating maneuvers. I only had it for a few weeks, and I do not think that I can get back to using only a spear or a sword. Obviously I could. It would not be the same. A soul weapon really makes a word of difference.

All together, I manage almost three weeks of uninterrupted holidays. Torran is, of course, a delicious host, and we spend our nights sparring, doing art, and making love. I even get to visit Vienna to attend a rendition of The Magic Flute by Mozart. The difference with L’Elisir d’Amore is significant, and yet I end up enjoying myself almost as much. The air of the Queen of Night, in particular, provokes a strong emotion in me. I had no idea that the human voice could be pushed to such extremes, and that the result could be so breathtaking. Jealousy does not even rear its ugly head despite my own shortcomings in this specific field.

The end of my respite comes from an unexpected source. As we come back from a hunt, I am informed by a maid that a message had come during my absence. Reading the hand-written note brings back memories, as I recognize this style well.

“Ariane dear,

I learned that you were in Europe, and that must be some damn stroke of luck or the hand of fate itself, because I could really, really use your help. I can only beg that you come at your soonest convenience. Just tell the other bloodsuckers that you are on a diplomatic mission to the Dvergur or whatever. Please.

I apologize for the secrecy. I trust the Rosenthal to get this to you. I cannot trust your peers not to take a peek. This is a personal matter where discretion is paramount.

I hope to see you soon.

Your friend, Loth.”

It appears that I am going to Sweden.

119. Välkommen till Sverige!

Torran is understandably upset by my decision. At the same time, he understands honor and loyalty, therefore he never officially voices his regrets. My lover helps me plan my trip to Sweden and we spend the last three days being thoroughly unproductive. Our farewells are short and tinged with regrets at the station.

“Until next time, my star. We will meet again. We will always meet again.”

“We will. And it is now your turn to come and visit!”

Torran makes a face at that and I bump him on the shoulder. If I have to compare the current state of Marquette and Errendstadt, well, I can hardly blame him for his obvious lack of enthusiasm.

One last kiss, and we board. Sheridan looks dejected. I believe that he has enjoyed the local hospitality to its utmost, since his bed was almost never slept in. We spend some time together in the train restaurant, talking about our respective experiences.

“She even taught me some Magyar!” he claims.

Yes, I am sure that he is familiar with her tongue by now.

I allow Sheridan to enthusiastically massacre the language, not even reacting at one of the waiters’ painful wince. Poor Vassal. He is showing interest in other languages, he who had not even made efforts to understand Spanish. I must show my support.

My Vassal soon goes to bed and I take out the first book in my list. I used to read a lot, back when I was a human. Under Loth’s tutelage, my studies had focused on technical manuals and essays. Besides Jimena’s raunchy novels, I had neglected this delicious pastime. I intend to remedy the situation, especially since the trip back by boat will take quite some time. I immediately dig into Dumas. His Count of Monte Cristo is a riveting story of long-planned revenge and I find myself sympathizing with the main character, who has the grudge of a vampire and still the squishy, weak heart of a mortal. Adorable.

There are other books as well, such as the Three Musketeers from the same author. I also obtained some bizarre work by an author called Mary Shelley, which I reserve for later. Isaac mentioned that it was intriguing, and I am eager to see what all the fuss is about. Hugo, Dickens, and Bronte have joined the ranks of my to-read list.

I completed my collection with the Iliad and a few fairy tales, as well as a few more… audacious titles. I should be set for a week or two of idleness, and will complete my collection before boarding the ship back to America.

The next two days are rather boring. Except for nightly stops that do not give me enough time to visit anything, there are few distractions. The conductor of this train is a polite but distant Roland obsessed with propriety and timeliness. We are joined by a Hastings for a few hours, but he does not get out of his own room. I can finally breathe when we reach Danzig.

Under the watchful gaze of an Erenwald master, Sheridan and I walk the streets of the city. The architecture here is ancient and beautiful, with ornamented facades and strange additions of towers that give each building a personality. We walk the “Long Street” to our enjoyment. Our host also humors us by explaining what we see. They even have a torture house! I should get something similar in Marquette.

Our visit is short, yet pleasant. I do not know if I am accompanied out of politeness or caution. The master herself displays no signs of hostility, only polite distance. The intricacies of European power politics escape me. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explore them, not if Torran is not around to justify it. Oh, I already miss him. I wish I could open a magical portal between his land and mine. Perhaps, one day, I will.

A few hours of exploration later, we board a Rosenthal ship to Sweden. A steam ship! I have not boarded one of those since I last descended to New-Orleans a few years ago. This one is considerably larger. The large dame leaves great puffs of smoke in her wake like a cigar afficionado.

Sheridan’s mood dampens as the temperature drops and he experiences dried, salted fish.

“You don’t know how good you have it, not having to eat.”

A pointed glare and a remark later, and my insensitive Vassal mumbles in apology. He is right, of course. I just want him to remember to be careful with his words. We are in neutral territory, at best. Who knows how easily the Dvergur could take offense? I would not want to damage Loth’s prospects as a new king due to a simple faux-pas.

A day later, we arrive in view of the Stockholm archipelago.

I expected much from Loth’s home country, and the first approach does not disappoint. Stockholm is not a single landmass, but a series of islands dotting the space between a lake and the Baltic Sea. The few buildings I see from the top of my steam ship are pale and austere, reflecting a classic approach to architecture. The rest, however… The closer we are and the more I spot signs of poverty in the surrounding homes. I smell death and filth in the air, as well as the general air of despair I had perceived from Alexandria. The city is in decline.

I dismiss it. Decline is a temporary human concern. Loth’s people will have different circumstances. I must not judge too hastily.

I left the Rosenthal to arrange the details of the transport, and so I am mildly surprised when we do not stop at the largest pier. Instead, the ship heads inland for another hour, passing through complex systems of sluice gates, before stopping on the shore of Lake Mälaren. The pier there is old and made of stone, well-lit, with a small warehouse at the back. A dense forest of pine trees masks the rest of the view. The land is deep green and cold despite the approaching summer. Compared to the Mediterranean, the weather is positively frigid. I am wearing an armored dress of midnight blue with a nice little cloak for the occasion. I need to impress if he brought people with him.

A trio of figures await us. I recognize Loth, of course, tall and majestic in a fashionable dark suit. A tall woman stands by his side, just as nervous as he is. She is dark blonde with brown eyes and a powerful build, made obvious by an elegant emerald dress. Gold shines at her ears and neck. I find her beautiful, if a bit cold.

The last man is vigilant, and he is the only one not to stare forward to try and pierce the cover of darkness. His eyes drift with the passive attention of the vigilant sentinel. I recognize him from the scar covering the right part of his handsome, clean-shaven face. He was the man I fought at the top of the inn where Loth was ambushed by his now ex-wife Leikny. I had to drop a barrel of rainwater on my head because he had set me on fire. A cat had peed in it. I forgot his name. I focus on the Rosenthal essence, and I remember the name Skjoll. Handy.

Anyway, it matters not.

It’s Loth!

Aw, it is so good to see him again. I could fly! In fact, I believe I shall do just this. I turn to Sheridan.

“I shall see you on the shore.”

And then, I jump.

Power easily carries me over the water and to the edge of the pier, where I land silently.

“Loooooth!” I say with delight, as I grab the knife the bodyguard had reflexively sent mid-flight and jump again, this time into my friend’s waiting arms.

“Loth! Teehee! It is really you!”

Loth’s roar of delight shakes his massive chest. It rumbles under my grip, warm and solid. He returns my hug.

I look up to see that he has mirrored my ecstatic smile.

“Ye have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this. You, here. And so strong! How you have grown.”

I drop from his chest and take a few steps back. I toss the knife back to a mildly annoyed guard and curtsy. Loth taught me rudimentary Dvergur ages ago, so that I could work his runes. My command of the language is terrible, but I managed to dig through my notes and remember enough to at least offer polite greetings.

“Lady, and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to meet you. I am Ariane of the Nirari, vampire master,” I greet in their own tongue.

Loth claps excitedly and his female companion offers me a wan smile. Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. Loth knew that I was a master, of course. I suppose that my aura must have surprised him.

“Ah, Ariane. Allow me to introduce you to Kari, my fiancée.”

“Ooh! Congratulations to both of you. I am delighted to hear that! When is the celebration? Is it soon?”

A Dvergur marriage!

“Well, about that. That’s why I asked ye to come, yes? By Tyr, what a mess. Anyway, you remember Skjoll?” he continues, pointing at the slightly miffed bodyguard.

“Oh, yes, I remember you. You set fire to my dress and I thrashed you, did I not? Such a pleasure to see you again all alive and kicking.”

Hehe.

“Yes. You were a worthy opponent,” the taciturn man replies with obvious respect, to my surprise.

“It was kind of you to come to us so quickly,” Kari continues in a smooth alto. She is still a little wary of me. I cannot know for sure if it is due to my nature, or my past. Only a dimwit would believe that a healthy man would shack up with a beautiful vampire for ten years without some shagging taking place.

“Anything for my friend,” I answer while trying to look harmless. “So, can you tell me what this is all about? You seem… anxious.”

“I suppose we can do it now. We have to wait for the ship to unload anyway,” Loth answers. He gestures, and the four of us pull to the side, at the edge of the warehouse.

“Remember the night I confronted Leikny?” Loth ask in a conspiratorial voice.

“Hmm, yes? Mostly?”

“Remember what I told Leinky at the end?”

“Consider yourself divorced!” I declaim in a low voice, my face a mask of affronted pride. Kari smiles at my antics, and so does Loth, though he also looks embarrassed.

“That too aye. The main thing was, she asked me why I favored you over her.  I answered her and she, ah, relayed my word to the court.”

“I do not see the problem?” I retort, now slightly annoyed that they tiptoe around the problem.

“Weeeell. According to Dvergur tradition, I claimed you as my wife. Kind of.”

I wait for him to laugh and tell me that it was a joke.

I wait a bit more.

Kari raises a brow.

Whelp.

“I am sorry, could you confirm that? We’re… married?”

“Not married, but fiances. Or at least, we are considered such under Dvergur law until you can state that this is not the case.”

“By the Watcher, Loth, does that make me a Dvergur princess? Royal concubine? Do I get a crown? A circlet, at least?” I start teasingly, but Loth only turns red as a boiled lobster.

I raise my hands to indicate that I am dropping the joke.

“My apologies, I had not realized that the matter was so serious. Do you need my testimony that we are not, in fact, bound by the promise of matrimony?”

“Indeed.”

“Then you shall have it. My lover would be rather cross if I eloped without his knowledge. I am afraid that he might challenge you to duel!”

“Hah! Been a long time since I got into a good scrap meself.”

“Perhaps not against him though. Oh, I so wish he could have come so that you two could meet, but he had other engagements.”

Loth crosses his muscular arms over his imposing chest.

“Looking down upon me already?”

“With all due respect, my friend, I have seen both of you fight. I would bet on the angry Dvor lord. Forgive me.”

“It’s favoritism, is what it is.”

I place a hand on his arm as a gesture of conciliation.

“Oh, I so wish I could have introduced him. You two would have been the best of friends, I am sure.”

Kari clears her throat to attract our attention.

“Perhaps we should pursue this discussion in the carriage? It would be safer.”

Safer? I frown, but do not comment. If safety is a concern then explanations can wait.

A few workers emerge from the warehouse to help the ship dock while we walk away. I hear a sound of impact, and see that Sheridan also jumped from the ship. He joins us as we walk away.

“Marshall Sheridan, retired ranger and my Vassal,” I introduce.

Loth shakes his hand with enthusiasm.

“A lawman, eh? Nice to meet ye, lad. We’ll catch a drink inside later, I have so much to tell ye about yer dear mistress.”

“Hey! No collusion!”

But wait, in the face of slander, one has to go on the offensive. Balance of terror!

“Kari…” I sweetly start, as I turn to the now very attentive bride-to-be.

“There is no need for that,” Loth interrupts hurriedly.

We pass by the warehouse and come into view of a dense forest of deep green pines, as well as ‘the carriage’. Truly, the term does not do justice to that crossbreed of a royal coach and a bank vault. To the mundane eye, it looks large and expensive, the private means of transportation of a prince with far more money than sense. I, however, can discern the multiple latticed layers of hardened material, as well as an excessive amount of protective enchantments. I could not force that monster open in one night. That thing could bounce back a cannonball without moving an inch! It should shine in the dark.

“Are we expecting an attack?” I ask in jest.

The grim expression of my hosts gives me all the answers I need.

“That bad?” I ask with surprise, and my good mood falls. I turn my attention to my surroundings and open my senses. Just in time to hear the distinct ‘click’ of a cocked gun.

“Down!” I scream.

I push Sheridan and Loth to the ground, while Skjoll jumps on Kari. The sound of a discharged firearm echoes through the empty night, and I hear the sound of a bullet scoring a hit.

Loth. Sheridan. No armors. I panic. I sniff the air and taste no blood. They are under attack, my friends and my precious Vassal! And they were caught OFF GUARD. NOT READY. CRUSH THE THREAT. KILL. KILL!

“ROAAAAAAAAAAR.”

"Vad fan var det?!” comes a voice from the side, hidden behind a dense thicket of ferns.

Stupid PREY. Wind in my hair. I appear by their side. Two humans in hunter garb, with powerful rifles. They stand. More gunshots from the front. Need me, need me. No time.

I worked so far to use the Rose smartly that I forgot its brute force potential. The mighty weapon appears in my hand. I swing from back to front, blade fully extended. I put all my strength and fury and instinctual response in the blow.

‘HSSSS!”

The mighty strike devastates everything in its path. The forest is cleared in a cone before me while splinters and gore are sent tumbling to the ground in a shower of debris.

I taste essence.

I stare in awe at the Rose for an instant. There, on the blade, blood disappears. The amount of strength I receive is negligible, barely a tenth of what devouring would grant me, but it is still significant.

The Rose drinks blood. Literally. It appears that I gained an extra fang, and now is the time to put it to good use.

I steal a glance at my allies. They are crouching behind the unbreakable barrier of the carriage, except for Skjoll who snuck low and approaches the enemy firing line from the side. They are humans in the same dark clothes as the ones I dismembered, as far as I can tell. They look local.

I examine this as I rush forward and past Skjoll, then to the side of the line. Screams in their strange language echo across the herd, “å helvete”, “å jävlar”. I can guess the general meaning.

The scent of blood and powder wakes me up in a way only the sweet liquid can. Yes, I am back in the world of intrigue and slaughter.

In a way, I have missed it.

I sprint forth, killing everything in my path, then stop as the assaillants drop their weapons and run. NO MORE DANGER. Does Loth want prisoners?

“You cocksuckers!” the man himself bellows. I turn to see my friend wearing a battle mask and a strange cylinder. It thumps loudly, and a small explosion rocks the underbush. Two men fall to the ground holding bleeding wounds. No prisoners then.

I run after the few survivors and devour the first one. Then, as I grab the next, I feel something in the distance.

I am now inside of the forest. Pine needles cover the ground and there are no more ferns. The visibility is improved and I can see a small rocky elevation in the distance. I felt something coming from there. The barest hint of magic. Interesting!

I stalk closer, runners forgotten. I think there are only two terrified survivors anyway, and they do not interest me as much as this. A small thicket tops the large stone. I see nothing.

I close my eyes and smell the air. Pine sap, soil, humidity, the distant tang of blood and the caustic bite of spent powder, but there is something underneath. Fresh sweat. Coming from the front.

“I can smell you…” I hum with amusement. A muffled curse comes from the empty space before.

“And now I can hear you as well,” I note with a smile. I focus the Herald essence in my claw and… the Rose turns blue.

My claws are crystallized essence. The blade is crystallized essence. Of course, it can carry the magic-breaking effect as well.

“Perfect.”

I jump to the side of the elevation and stab the air, being careful not to get too close. I guess that concealment magic is at work, but if it were up to me, I would have added an unpleasant effect if someone tried to force entry.

My eyes widen in surprise when the charm falls to reveal a Dvergur in the process of standing up. This one has dark brown hair and a bushy beard like Loth, though he looks younger. He holds in his hands a rifle of complex make, the barrel engraved with many runes. It is now swerving towards my head.

The man shoots as I duck. He would have caught me between the eyes. Pretty good reflexes for a mortal creature.

“I see you, little rat.”

I punch him in the chest. What I took for a leather armor turns out to have reinforced metal underneath. Enchanted as well. There are so many spells weaved in his gear that I have trouble tasting which is which.

His torso may have been protected, his head is not. He falls backward and cracks it against a pine trunk, bark flaking under the strain. I pick up the gun, then I catch him by the foot and drag him down the rock and towards my allies. Time to show them what I caught!

I hear the click of a cocked pistol. I turn and grab the firearm aimed at my neck. The Dvergur has dark eyes and they are very close now. He smells of scrumptious terror, and shows signs of shame as well. Tempting, tempting. But no, there will be time later.

My little rat presses the trigger with all the strength he has, in vain. My index is on the hammer.

“Oh, feisty! It appears that you do not need this hand anymore.”

The snap of broken bones. I did not break too much. That can lead to internal bleeding that the mortals may not survive. I do not know how hardy this specific morsel is.

I resume my walk, with my captive now too busy moaning in pain to offer much resistance. I find them still hiding behind the carriage, whose horses did not move at all during the altercation. Humans mutter on the other side of the warehouse.

I approach the coach from the side, Dvergur in tow.

“Look what I found!” I exclaim with pride. Loth turns from his argument with Skjoll, and he becomes furious at the sight of what I brought back.

“Should have known, damn Isvalir.”

Sheridan looks a bit lost, arms crossed in a typical gesture of annoyance. Kari’s skin is pale and she smells of vomit.

“Do you want to question him, then can I eat him after we are done?”

“Where was he?”

“Hidden above the other attackers, with this,” I tell him, while handing the gun to Skjoll.

“Probably to catch one of us in case the assault fails and we come looking for proof. With that caliber, he would have gone through heavy armor.”

“Would you really have gone to check?” I ask, surprised by his recklessness.

“No… I would have sent Skjoll.”

“As you should,” the bodyguard replies, eyes fixed on my docile prisoner.

“Is… every battle like that?” Kari finally asks. She is staring behind me. A quick glance shows that the lights of the warehouse shine on what remains of the first pair of foes I got my hands on. Their remains are… graphic.

“That’s more of a vampire thing, darling,” Loth replies with a comforting hand on her shoulder, “glad she is on our side, ey?”

“It would certainly be better than the alternative,” she says. There follows a series of curses in Dvergur and Swedish that I do not quite catch. Skjoll takes the prisoner from me to bind him while I go check on Sheridan.

“Are you quite alright? I could swear I heard the bullet hitting.”

“Check your shoulder,” the ranger replies with a grin. Indeed, I find a silver lump stuck against my heart protector’s harness. For once, I was lucky. It would have been quite painful.

I still grumble and removed the offending thing. The bullet burnt my dress at the point of impact! One more dress lost in the line of duty. When will this ever end? They are not exactly cheap either…

“To answer your question, I admit to being terrified. I thought I had lost the fear of death after our Mediterranean adventure. I was wrong.”

“Good. The moment you lose it entirely, you will place both of us in danger. The armors I provide will not defend you from falling off a cliff, or being poisoned in your sleep. Caution will serve you well.”

“You do not seem afraid of death, however. Not with the way you run at danger.”

“I respect the possibility of death. It boils down to the same principle: do not act in a manner that could pointlessly make you lose your life. You did well by taking cover since you were unarmed and undefended, and I did well engaging an inferior foe to cover you.”

My brave Vassal frowns at the reminder of this unexpected piece of entertainment.

“Yeah, what’s the matter with that! I thought we were on friendly territory!”

“I suppose we will find out shortly.”

“You find out. I’m going to get my guns.”

I admit to being curious. The trio of Dvergur now stands before the prisoner, who glares at the ground with shame. They talk in their native tongue so that I can only glean fragments of speech. Forbidden and objection are spoken several times. Eventually, Kari throws her hands in the air in frustration.

“Have you reached a decision? We should not dally,” I tell them.

“Skjoll and I believe that the information we could gain from a thorough interrogation justifies the pain of leaving one of our race to your tender care.”

“I can leave him unbroken. Mostly.”

“Operatives such as him are trained to resist mind techniques.”

“No training will ever be enough to stop us,” I declare with confidence.

The two exchange a glance.

“Besides, I have not tasted Dvergur essence since—”

Kari perks up, and Loth shows the first hints of distress.

“—you saved my life, back in the blood cult base,” I casually finish.

Loth smiles and Kari settles down. Do not worry, you old dog, I have your back. I must not let Kari think that we are anything more than friends and comrades-in-arms. The slaughter I just committed should also make me appear as more monster than woman.

“I still think that we should conduct our inquiry in private.”

“Aye. I don’t think that anyone else is gonny show up. Kari dear, ye should go back to the carriage and I’ll let ye know what we find oot. Skjoll?”

“I will make sure that the perimeter is secure, then supervise the loading of Lady Nirari’s luggage.”

We all agree, and I drag our prisoner with me to an empty storage room selected by Loth. He closes the door behind us, and I drop my charge on the ground.

“Right. Time to tell ya what this is all about, I suppose.”

“That would be nice.”

“Aye. By the way, impressive display. I had forgotten how it felt to have you by my side. Nice sword too.”

I smile, because I can tell that guilt overcame him as he suddenly realized that I was attacked upon landing on his land following his invitation, and then proceeded to single-handedly save the day. Or night, in this particular example.

“Enough, my friend, we will have time to talk later. For now, we should get into the… meat… of the matter.”

“Right. So, I am king of the Skoragg clan. My wife is from the smaller Isvalir clan, and they enjoyed playing a bigger role in our politics. I just took a series of measures to get them to fuck off, starting with the divorce, and they’re being prissy twats about it. Problem is, they still got loyalists so they can find oot where I go to do that sort of shit.”

“Language.”

“Augh, not this again!”

“Ahem. My apologies. Is he from the Isvlalir clan?”

“Him? Yes, but he was banished if I remember correctly. Vanr the Cruel, his name is. Right prick. I’d bet my right bollock that they offered him a pardon if he could off me but no way to prove it in court. They will say that we rewrote his memory with vampire magic.”

“Hmm.”

“I just want ta know about other traps, and anything he can tell me about his clan’s plans. Oh, and can you spare his life?”

“Can I still drink his blood?”

“Aye!”

“I foresee no difficulty then. I will work on making him more...pliable… and you prepare your questions. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Now, Vanr,” I tell the panicking man on the ground, “I trust that you will offer more of a challenge than you previously did. You do not want to fail twice in the same night, do you?” I ask menacingly.

“That was good lass, but I don’t think he understands English.”

In Vanr’s brown orbs, I only see anxiety and incomprehension.

Dammit.

Well, nevermind. It would be nice to practice my manipulation skill if I had the patience or spoke the language. Instead, I bite his throat.

Dear Vanr is succulent. He tastes of fear and regrets, with a deeper magic made twisted by appetites he took no efforts to control. The power rushes through me, making me stronger once again. I stop too soon for my taste and stare him in the eyes.

A barrier protects him, a mental discipline of sorts. It does not matter. I am already inside after biting him. His fall is simply a matter of patience. Patience, and relentless efforts.

Slowly, carefully, I erode the wall he erected around his core. My mind seeps in the cracks. It peels off protective layers one by one, and dissects metaphorical locks before tearing them apart. Vanr’s face grows slack as the last of his willpower crumbles to dust.

“All yours.”

“Mind working fer the crown full time? I can pay ye well”

“I am sorry, old friend. I already have my own kingdom.”

“Heh. Had to try.”

Loth grabs the husk I left and asks questions in fast, angry Dvergur. Vanr’s answers are slow and mechanical. He offers no resistance at all. I pick at the hole in my dress out of boredom.

“I am done,” Loth finally says, “ye want to finish yer meal?”

I consider the offer. I gave the would-be assassin as an offering to my friend, so that he could partake. In a way. Draining him now would feel strange. Besides, I am sated.

“Let’s give him to your bride. Sparing his worthless life will please her peace-inclined mind.”

“Oh, right. And maybe I can get him publicly executed later. Do you mind if I anesthetize him?”

Hmm... what?

“Be my guest?”

Loth grabs Vanr by the collar again and throws the most devastating, jaw-shattering hook I have ever seen. The other man twists on the side and crashes against stacked crates.

“I think he is asleep, now,” I remark drily.

“Damn, that felt good. Let’s return to the others.”

I grumble and grab Vanr from the ground. Loth has returned to his old habit of having me carry heavy things! Chivalry is dead.

We come out to see that the luggage has already been secured, and we are ready to go.

“Where do you want him?” I ask.

Kari lifts a finger and speaks in a slow and purposeful tone. Like a politician.

“Despite the anger we feel, we must respect the rules of war as stated by—”

“Just toss him on the roof, I’ll grab the chains,” Skjoll interrupts. The pair exchanges a murderous glare as I follow the bodyguard’s recommendation. I understand rules. I also understand brevity.

The carriage’s insides amaze me by offering the most comfortable seats ever to grace my posterior outside of a salon. They cradle my butt in their velvety embrace, soothing and welcoming. I find myself repositioning just to make sure that they are real.

“Nervous?” Sheridan asks, as he comes in.

“No, just…”

“Wow, these are some comfortable couches.”

“I know! Incredible.”

The red upholstery. The enchanted oil lamp and their soft red glow. Thick curtains. A silent Thirst. All conspires to push me into a state of relaxation, briefly interrupted when we are joined by Loth and Kari. The four of us fit comfortably inside despite the Dvergur’s heavy frames.

“Like it?” Loth asks with a smile.

“Yes, an amazing arrangement.”

“The inner part is shielded against sunlight as well, a necessity during our travels.”

“Wait,” I ask, suddenly worried, “is our destination far?”

“Indeed, for we are going to the Scandes, the long mountain range that runs the entirety of the Scandinavian peninsula. And since it is summer now, night will only last for a bit over six hours.”

“You cannot be serious…” I say with horror.

Alas, he was.

The trip to the Skoragg mountain home lasts for four days, four bloody days during which I remain mostly cooped up. At least Sheridan gets to visit the local woods. Only my books and Loth’s company saves me from insanity.

“Leikny tried to remarry with my brother, but he cast her oot. He was fed up with her bull… her nonsense too. Anyway, I showed up and got reinstated in less than three months by the old guard. The Isvalir really went too far recently, what with all the factories they tried ta take away from us. We recovered a lot of stuff already. Firebombed a few others. Cousin Okri was sitting on enough explosives ta blow up a mountain just for the occasion.”

“Did you manage to catch up with everyone and survive the subsequent hangover?”

“Aye. By spreading it over four years. My liver will never be the same.”

“Is there an end game with that clan? How are they still trying to mess with you?”

“Lots of oaths taken, have to disentangle by proving misconduct to the council. It’s just a gaggle of old farts who oversee the application of laws. No real power, but everyone listens to them all the same. We are winning now and when we’re done, I’ll make sure the Isvalir have just enough money left for a one-way trip to Canada.”

What did the Canadians do to deserve that?

“Anyway, after your testimony, we’ll visit the land. I got some amusing things ta show you as an apology.”

“I will look forward to it, and do not forget to provide snacks.”

On the fifth night, I wake up to a comfortable bed covered in bear skin, and a vaulted ceiling of grey stone. A fire burns in a nearby hearth. Tapestries on the walls depict scenes of hunts.

Skoragg, home of Loth’s clan.

120. The Hall of the Mountain King

Loth did not give me a room, he gave me a full suite. I enjoy a long bath in a smooth cavity dug into the very rock, then realize that Loth left me something to wear. I pass my hand over a long blue dress and corset of a very thick fabric over a long-sleeved white shirt. It looks practical and feels nice.

A part of me remains bothered that Loth knows my exact dimensions up to and including my breast size. It feels strangely intimate, in a way, but this part is silenced when I put on perfectly made boots. They are deliciously snug as they wrap my toes in their loving embrace.

Now dressed and ready for battle, I search the room for a message, which I find on a night table by the bed. Finding where I am before leaving is paramount when walking out of the wrong door can turn me into an extra crispy pile of charcoal before I can say ‘sun’. The message is laconic.

“Lass, join me in my office. Get out of your room and turn left, then the first right. It’s at the end of the corridor. Your Vassal is fine by the way. He is out hunting elk with my cousin Rollo. The one with the hairy arse.”

Thank you for keeping me informed, Loth, much appreciated.

I follow his directions through dim corridors lit by lanterns. The walls are sheer rock decorated with ancient tapestries. Hand-woven, I believe.

I knock on a massive reinforced door decorated with steel, and politely wait.

“Ah, you’re awake! And so early too.”

Loth wears a comfortable long jacket over a simple shirt and brown pants. He looks much like he used to when we lived together. The only change is a large amulet encircling a large ruby dangling from his collar.

“Would you mind telling me why your door is trapped with explosive runes?” I ask.

I did not trigger the spell, of course. It would have roasted a good quarter of the alley.

“The entire fortress is trapped to the gills. But don’t ye worry yer pretty head, it’s all under the control of old man Erikur.”

“The one who punched a bear?”

“And did it again when some cunt said it was bollocks. He was off his tits both times too.”

“I feel safer already.”

“Say, why don’t ah show you ‘round my gaff.”

“Careful, your Scottish is showing.”

“Does it, aye?”

I roll my eyes, but I trail him as he goes by. The Skoragg complex can only be referred to as massive. It is practically an underground city carved from the very rock, both solid and surprisingly cozy. We inspect a massive foundry where hairy, bare-chested men work in sweltering heat, a common room where people are already feasting, and even a hospital! As we move, those we come across salute him and smile at me.

“They don’t know that ye’re a bloodsucker. We kept your coming all hush hush, and the claes help as well. You look local.”

Not really. There are Swedes, who are mostly blonde and tall but with slightly different features so that I still look like a stranger. The Dvergur are easily recognizable from their heavy-set frames, both men and women. Some Dvergur are more easy to discern than the others, and I wonder if they are mixed bloods.

“Wait, why are they always smiling at me then? Do they think I am your, ahem, side business?”

“What? Nae!”

Silence.

“Well, yes. It’s a common practice here. Lots of kids with mixed ancestry, myself included. Sometimes the Dvergur blood reemerges in surprising places. Take Ibn Arfin for example. Here he comes. Hey Arfin!”

“Alaikum Salaam, boss man.”

We pass by an arabic Dvergur.

“Lad had a hard time finding us, I tell ya. But probably not as hard as Li Hua. Anyway, we have a lot of kids with humans so it’s nothing shocking.”

“You are not going to get married soon? Should you not remain celibate” I ask, scandalized.

“Bah! I’ll knock Kari up good in no time, don’t worry about it.”

“But surely… is this normal?”

Loth turns to me and, this time, his expression is serious.

“Listen lass, there is one absolute rule for, errr, living arrangements for our kind. It’s: mind yer own business.”

I raise my hands in surrender. I am not here to judge.

“‘Course, it stops at violence and the like. You get my meaning.”

“How do you raise the kids by the way?”

“The clan has a reliable support system. Let me show you the nursery,” he tells me with a smile.

This one is rather close to the surface, so that the children can have easy access to sunlight. He has the roof aperture closed before I get in.

Inside, I find a nicely decorated room with rows of cradles hosting an army of toddlers under the watchful gaze of a human nurse whose smile appears to be glued on. I channel the Hastings essence to look like a mortal myself. Some would react poorly to a vampire around their kids.

“Oh, it is so nice to meet you. How do you like Sweden?” she asks me with a heavily accented voice.

“Hmm. Delightful so far. So… you take care of the children?”

“Until a parent returns, yes. Many have tasks to complete that require utmost concentration! Our facilities are designed to provide a relaxing and stimulating environment favorable to a healthy growth!”

Behind her, Loth rolls his eyes, but then he soon turns and smiles at the occupant of a cradle. Aw. I cannot wait for him to be a new dad.

“You are expecting then?” she asks as she happily jumps to conclusions, “Here, this is Mathys, he is my six months-old nephew!”

Arg, no! I react immediately and hold the toddler properly, one hand protecting the neck and head while the other supports the butt. He smells of Dvergur magic, though it is still nascent.

Loth turns and looks at me with horror. Ah, he does not know that my experience as a madame gave me some experience with spawns. This baby looks healthy, Hmmm.

For one moment, I consider how pliable they are and how much my kind could achieve with more intervention in education. The little one turns his gaze to me.

“Aguu.”

“Burp on me and I will eat your mom,” I singsong.

“Oh, you already know how to handle a babe! You do not need my help at all!” the nurse states. Is she constantly upbeat?

“I helped raising kids in my previous position, but I never had one of my one. I am sure it will be fine, but you know men. Always worried about things they do not understand,” I tell her.

Behind the nurse, Loth blinks, flabbergasted.

“Oh yes, he’s a worrywart I’ll give you that. Oh, you are visiting, yes? Go and finish your tour then come and see me sometime, we will exchange tips.”

I nod and bring a little more red to my cheeks. The Hastings essence does not make me more human, it shows me how to act like one and I find the results hilarious. Especially now that Loth drags me out into a stone alley with a mighty frown on his brow.

I immediately drop the essence and make myself cold and immobile.

“Oh, that’s more like it lass, ye had me worried there for a moment. All bashful and delicate like a normal person.”

“Hey!”

“A true vampire would have said that the baby would make a fine sacrifice, haha.”

I keep my expression neutral.

“You… did not think that, right?”

“He did have a nice, potent essence.”

“Oi!”

I smile, he smiles, and we chuckle.

“I still abide by my code, Loth. No children.”

“I know.”

“So, where is your throne room? Do you have one? Is the throne made out of the skulls of your enemies?”

“Naw, we are not like that. We have a council table. Though, if you want to see the seat of my power…”

He winks suggestively.

I am not fooled.

“It is your workshop, is it not?”

“Got it in one! Come on, let me show you what I have been working on.”

Compared to before, Loth’s pace is faster and more excited than regal. We retrace our steps to the private quarters where my suite is, and I think I get a general idea of the mountain base’s layout. The heavily defended main entrance leads to barracks and the mess hall, with several wings branching out in every direction. The royal quarters are only one of the many complexes snaking below the skin of the earth, with many openings letting in the sunlight. We avoid those. Loth still informs me that they are made out of a crystalline substance that could block artillery shells.

I admit to being impressed. They even have a massive greenhouse. This place could stand a siege almost indefinitely.

Finally, Loth leads me to a vault door the size of a carriage. He removes a massive key from the recess of his jacket and inserts it in. A rumbling later, and the steel obstacle rotates on oiled hinges with nary a sound, revealing the treasure within.

I admit to being impressed.

I admit to being very impressed.

“Wow.”

“Right? Come in, come in.”

Loth’s workshop occupies a circular room with a high ceiling, and walls of sheer rock. Illumination is provided by a set of enchanted lamps giving off a powerful white light. Rails dug into the very ground lead to a pair of gates on opposite sides of the place, perpendicular to the entrance we took. You could fit a sloop in there.

In accordance to its owner's bubbling mind, the workshop is neatly divided into subsections.

Vertically.

Even now, slabs and constructs and armors and tables hang suspended into the air at various elevations by heavy chains, each one being a work in progress. I see a magical cannon like the one he made for his home back in Georgia, but twice the size. His black iron armor hangs on one side and another delicate cuirass his size dangles at the opposite end. Racks of axes and swords take an entire wall. The current setting shows that he was working on something that looks like a bathtub, but I suspect might be some sort of metal coating technology.

“What is that thing?” I ask, eyes filled with wonder.

“A self-heating bathtub.”

Oh.

“Let me show you something amazing.”

Loth lowers one of the many levers covering the walls, this one tucked snugly between sheafs of notes stabbed with a spear tip, and a coffee table with a half-eaten sandwich.

The beautiful work of art lowering down like an angel from heaven sends me into a state of pure delight. It has eight long barrels at the end of a rectangular body with a thin bar at the top. It shines with cooling and reinforcement enchantments.

“Is that…”

“A work in progress, for now. Repetition is not so much a problem as weight, recoil, overheating and so on. Now, with an efficient framework, we could get something that could fire a hundred bullets a minute… for five minutes.”

“Amazing.”

“It would be fixed, of course. Unless… the wielder had unnatural strength.”

Wink wink.

“By the Watcher!”

“Problem is that it’s too heavy for me, and I have to turn it all the time. Mind giving me a hand? Just like old times?”

I even have issues unsticking my gaze from this breathtaking piece of glorious engineering.

“Spare apron?”

“Behind you. Third shelf.”

One hour later.

“It’s Raz, then Mir, then Ko,” Loth explains in the calm voice reserved for those touched in the head.

“And how do you expect to close the outer circle then, genius?” I hiss. I balance the hundreds of pounds of steel on one hand and point at a circle near the firing mechanism.

“That’s not the outer circle. It’s the primer. The outer circle links to it via an Ogham conductor inside the casing.”

I open my mouth to reply and realize that… yes, it should work perfectly.

In fact, he just provided a brilliant solution to the energy efficiency problem I had seen coming.

“Fuck it, you’re right. And do try not to look so smug, no need to be an asshole about it.”

“Language!” he squeals in a comically high voice.

I point a claw at his chest.

“None of that. What I say in the workshop stays in the workshop. Or else.”

Loth crosses his massive arms over an equally muscular torso. He gives me a slow nod.

“Fair enough. Help me turn— oh, bollocks.”

I hear it too. The entrance door opens with ponderous slowness. Kari walks in, looking quite fetching in an elegant forest-green dress. Her dark blonde hair is held in an elaborate do that highlights her aristocratic features. Her brown eyes smolder with barely contained fury.

She takes the scene in. Me with an apron and protective mitts holding the gun barrels in optimal position; Loth in a similar gear, with a helmet on, right eye covered with a magic detection lens. He holds a brush and a pot of scintillating paint.

She crosses her arms and takes a deep, rage-tinged breath. The kind that starts every screaming session. It does not happen, though. She blows it through her nose with the sound a forge bellow as her anger turns cold. She pointedly takes a watch from a pocket at her flank, and shakes it on its chain. Then, she turns around and departs with affronted dignity.

Another Dvergur woman pops her head through the opening and frowns at us, before shaking her head in disgust and leaving as well. The vault gate shuts with the clang of a sealed coffin.

“Something you forgot?”

“I, ah, we were supposed to join her in her office after the visit. So she could prepare you for the testimony.”

“Really. When was that?”

“Hum, what’s the time, lass?”

“Nevermind.”

Loth and I manage to finish the circle we were working on, then race to Kari’s personal chambers in record times. The lady of the house waits for us in a throne-like leather chair with the attendant we saw earlier, a stern woman with greying brown hair. She snaps a fan close as we come in.

Loth stands awkwardly with his hands behind his back like the big goof he can be sometimes. I, however, am a mighty vampire who does not need to justify herself so I stand with my arms crossed and looking at the side because I did absolutely nothing wrong and definitely do not deserve a scolding, so there.

“Honestly, I am unsure as to how I am supposed to react to the two of you.”

I frown. I am here to assist at the request of a friend, as a favor. I do not answer to her.

Kari must have felt something, because her expression softens.

“I apologize, Ariane. You are our guest here, and we have not been equal to the task. If only there was a thousand years old adult with a good knowledge of the situation who could act responsibly…”

“Alright, I get it,” Loth grumbles in turn.

“Good.”

Kari’s anger finally leaves her. Her attendant, whose name is Erva, brings chairs and we sit around a low table loaded with dried fruits and snacks. The Dvergur help themselves while I drink my host’s favorite infusion. Her room is much less cluttered than Loth’s space, with modern furniture made of dark wood. I notice that green is ubiquitous in her choice of decoration, clothes, and jewelry. A clan thing, perhaps?

“Ariane, the reason why I wanted the pleasure of your company today was to prepare you for the examination that you so kindly agreed to participate in. While we are grateful for your selfless help, I have to regretfully say that the council of clans will make no effort to be accommodating.”

“What she’s saying is that they’re a bunch of nasty old twats,” Loth adds helpfully as he skewers a meatball.

“I do not need translation dahling,” Kari hisses, finally out of patience. Loth shrugs.

“In any case, we have made the formal request to have our marriage certified. Normally, this would not be necessary, but the Isvalir will have no recourse if we have the council’s backing. They will be pushed out for good. This is where you come in. The only serious objection they made was that Loth was betrothed to a vampire.”

“That sure sent the old cunts foam at the mouth squealing about treason. Pure rage.”

“It would have been against tradition,” Kari continues, “and the council embodies tradition. Your timing could not be more fortuitous. My point is that they will ask questions with little regard to propriety.”

I take a sip of the warm liquid to give myself the time to think. My instincts are inherited from a man who normally repays insults by pulling the offender’s spine out of their own ribcage while they are still alive.

“You do realize that there are limits to how much I can tolerate?”

“The council itself is no monolithic body. If one of them goes too far to provoke you, they will be censored by the other six. Or five. You only have to clad yourself in contempt while the offender reaps the consequences of their own actions.”

I have to ask.

“What if they do go too far and I eat them?”

Kari’s expression turns pained.

“If they insult you too openly under our roof and you attack, we will side with you. It means bloody war, however, so please keep it in mind?”

“Oh, and if ye do start killing, leave me that old cockless bugger Ragnar, lass. I want to strangle him myself,” Loth adds helpfully between two bites.

Kari massages her left temple with two fingers. Next to her, Erva sighs.

“I promise to do my best. I am here to solve problems, not create more,” I say.

That gets me an appreciative nod from both women.

“That is all I can ask. Now, what are vampire councils typically like?”

“In terms of what?”

“Everything.”

Why does she ask? Ah, I understand, she wants to manage my expectations.

“We gather with our seconds in a secured underground vault, around a modular round table of obsidian. The Speaker animates the reunion and addresses the issues one by one. We vote on decisions that do not reach consensus.”

“So, well-ordered and mostly silent?”

“An understatement. We do not move, nor breathe, and we are expected to remain unfailingly polite at all times. That includes a perfect control of one’s aura. Arguments are a rarity, because negotiations occur before the meeting starts.”

“No one raises their voices?”

“It has not occurred yet.”

They look impressed. Loth drops a chicken bone in a nearby trash can and cleans his lips. He is back to serious.

“The council is going ta be very different then. The decrepit old baggages will convene in our own council room around a table. Kari and I will sit there and present our case. Observers are allowed in benches on the side. Thing is, we have all known each other for a long time and we all have some faraway cousin who shagged their own faraway cousin and stole their chicken while they were asleep. Ye get the gist.”

“Is this a trial or a family argument?” I ask as a jest.

Alas. They do not laugh.

“Ye’re spot on. It’s both. And it can heat up fast. I was joking earlier, lass, I would also like it if blood were not shed. And they will insult you. At least some of them will.”

Dammit.

“We are perhaps overstating how offensive they will be. What matters is that you are prepared.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now, Erva?”

“I suggest that we retire to bedroom,” the brunette says in thickly accented English, “I take measurement for new dress while you teach customs?”

“Yes,” Kari replies, “that would work nicely.”

Loth is smart enough not to tell them that he already has my measurements.

We three leave Loth to gorge himself on snacks, and move to a side room hosting a palatial bed, as well as a small separation behind which I change into a shift. Erva then assaults me with a marked band while taking notes on a small book. Kari handles the Dvergur culture cramming session. The council consists of seven very old Dvergur, the oldest ones alive. I am taught their name and personalities, which can apparently all be placed somewhere on the ill-tempered and short-fused spectrum. One in particular attracts her attention: Ragnar. He is close to the Islavir. He is also the kind of obtuse, rude jerk who has a very strict idea about everyone’s place in the world, especially his own. Anything that goes against his opinion is dismissed as false, or, when evidence is overwhelming, staged by his opponent to ridicule Ragnar’s genius.

I hate him already.

Our meeting finishes with dinner, where I join my hosts and Sheridan in the main hall as a guest of honor. Someone found half-decent coffee for which I am grateful, and we are entertained with music and beer. Soon, the festivities pick up in the expected fashion: everyone gets roaring drunk. I even consent to play a knife-throwing game, which I win handedly to everyone’s amusement. Sheridan gets his own attention after bagging an elk at three hundred feet in one shot. He soon leaves with one cute Dvergur lass under each arm.

He will definitely have much to say about European women upon his return.

As night goes on, I finally isolate myself to practice with my Rose. I would consider myself almost recovered, and my new style slowly takes shape. I am almost at the point where I wield the whip sword better than the spear, though it will take a few more weeks of practice. I simply have too much to play with.

For the next two days, I mostly stay indoor. I help Loth around his workshop during the afternoon and roam around after night has fallen. The Skoragg fortress is set deep in the Scandes, surrounded by a dense fortress that the clan spent lots of efforts keeping uninhabited. While most of the complex is far below-ground,many facilities keep close to the surface to offer sunlight to dwellers and plants alike. The flower greenhouse offers a perfect moonlight-drenched setting for a good reading session. Sadly, the other ones use manure as fertilizers.

On the third night, I leave through a set of massive gates to run for an hour, and climb atop a massive pine to look around, finding not one single light, one column of smoke to indicate the presence of humanity. The howling wind and creaks of evergreens form a melancholic melody to match the scent of sap. I enjoy this small moment of serenity before getting on Metis’ back to hunt something. The big girl is just happy to be running around without constraints.

On the fourth day, I wake up inside of my sarcophagus.

A curious thing. I trust the Dvergur hospitality without doubt, and so far I have slumbered in the bed they offered. And yet, the mere thought of one of them dropping the dress and seeing me laying there defenseless creates an instinctive response that compelled me to relocate to my trusted haven. They cannot have access to my unconscious form. No. Never. They do not deserve it. I only allow Torran to do so.

On more quirk to add to the list.

One smooth slide of a massive rail-mounted slab of reinforced steel and I am free to glare around for intruders. There are none. Instead, I am greeted by a new addition to my room: a dummy dressed in an extravagant dress.

Oh, it is lovely.

Erva must have made it with my nature in mind. The cloth is royal blue, my favorite color, with long sleeves and rather form-fitting. The fabric is thick and decorated with leaf patterns in mesmerizing arrangements. The crafty maker added a black cape with a white hermine fringe, giving a slight viking nobility feel paired with courtly charm. I am impressed. And I try it on immediately, to discover that the part is not just comfortable, it is also armored around the chest. Perfect.

A small envelope has been felt for my attention, directing me to ring a bell to call for Erva, which I do. The attendant immediately crashes into my lair as if she had been set against the door for the past hour. She starts fussing with my hair and manages to put it in a small braid which she ties around my head, freeing my neck. I am finally lent jewels for the occasion.

I should really get my own; I could hide some nasty enchantments in those. Practical and elegant.

Finally, we are done.

“You look very good and very fetching. Go impress the old wankers!” she says.

I should probably tell her not to quote Loth, at least not unless she feels like screaming insults. Ah, well.

The walk to the council chamber is short, but crowded. Gaggles of gossiping adults line the wall. They recognize me from the feasts and greet me with polite encouragements.

“Don’t let them push ya around!”

“Tell Ragnar he’s a flea-ridden bitch.”

Not the most diplomatic people around.

Eventually, I run out of stone corridors and find my destination, a heavy-double gate with the Skoragg name in Dvergur runes engraved on. Skjoll guards it with all the pleasant attention of a prison guard.

“They are in session. You can come in whenever you want.”

“Then let us get this over with.”

I am let in.

The council room is much more solemn that I expected. Tapestries depicting significant historical events line the circular walls in thick formations. Rows of candelars provide a clear light for the large round table occupying its center, an ancient wood construct entirely covered in scars, burn marks, and scrawls. A few seats have been placed at the corners for observers. On the left side, of course, I find Loth and Kari holding hands in an adorable fashion. On my right, however, comes a surprise. Leikny provokes us with her presence as Loth’s divorced wife. A man sits by her side in a vision of affronted pride, clearly a relative.

All four of them are silent. The humdrum of conversation comes from an assembly of ancient, wizened, bickering folks dressed in rich clothes too busy invectivating each other to realize that I have come in. I stand there, not knowing what to do. A glance at Loth reveals that he himself is quite lost, and more than a bit irritated. It takes a good twenty seconds for one of the two women present to raise her eyes to the ceiling after an ancient codger yelled at her in their tongue. When her gaze descends, it lands on me.

“All of you, shut up, you are embarrassing me in front of the cold one!”

One by one, the grunts of conversation die down until I find myself under the collective glare of centuries of stubborn hostility.

I feel at home already.

Following Kari’s instructions, I curtsey low enough to show respect, but not submission. I greet them in their tongue with the sentence I was taught. I am, unsurprisingly, interrupted halfway.

“Yeah yeah, come sit your butt, girl, we don’t have all day!” the oldest one complains in a voice broken by age, and probably spirit abuse.

I recognize him as Yngvar the Red-handed, the oldest Dvergur alive. He is almost two thousand years old.

“You claim to care about tradition, but you interrupt the child as she greets us?” the woman who had first noticed me now complains. They bicker. It has to be Minttu, his wife.

The others inspect me as I sit down with all the grace I am capable of, which is quite a lot. I present myself as graceful and harmless. To do so, I merely need to move slowly and fluidly while doing a few useless things such as repositioning my hands after I am seated. I have spent enough time around mortals to know how to appear demure.

The members of the council lower their guard somewhat, with the exception of a man with red and grey hair, who glares with barely contained outrage. That must be Ragnar.

“Enough of this!” Yngvar finally erupts in English, “We will proceed as I say. First, the cold one does not speak our language properly, so we will use English.”

Some grumbling.

“None of that! You all know the tongue, even you Sigvald don’t try to piss me off again. We all know you eloped with that Essex girl!”

More grumbling, especially from Sigvald who bellows in Dvergur something along the lines of ‘brief’ and ‘divorce’. Yngvar ignores them.

“We get to ask questions one by one, starting with me. Also, this is an official event so I will ask an oath. Lass, what’s your name?”

“Ariane of the Nirari.”

“I shagged an Ariane once, in Greece,” one of the men announces, eyes lost in dreamy recollection.

“Nobody cares, Rolf, get those tits out of your mind!”

Rolf seems to consider the request for a moment, then he rests his head on a fist and a beatific smile blooms on his face.

“And we lost the old pervert. Fine! Ariane of the Nirari, we are here to determine if those two can get married without breaking some oaths. Waste of my fucking time, but what can you do? Anyway, can you please swear that you will say the truth, the whole truth?”

I expected it, and prepared an answer.

“I will swear to be entirely truthful, but I cannot promise to say everything, as I am bound by previous agreements.”

The Accords prevent me from revealing too much to rival political entity, and their council is one such group.

“Well, fine, that works too. But no empty words!”

He removes a monocle from a breastpocket and puts it on, inspecting me critically. It has to be magical.

“I, Ariane of the Nirari, swear on my essence to be truthful to this assembly for the duration of the council.”

The oath takes hold in a way that leaves my chest feeling cold and vulnerable.

Yngvar nods and places his monocle back in his pocket.

“Out of curiosity, what happense if you lie now?” Minttu asks.

“If I break my word knowingly, my essence will fracture. I would suffer the worst pain in existence for the brief moment that I still live.”

“Is her oath worth anything?” Ragnar insinuates with a soft voice, the snake. Yngvar dismisses the argument with a frown.

“The vampires are even more magical than us, you cauliflower-brained dunce. I saw the magic take hold on her with my own eyes. Now shut up. I ask first. Lass, are you betrothed to Loth?”

“No.”

That one was easy, and it should suffice to prove that the couple can marry safely. Of course, that unruly pack of codgers will not be satisfied until they have fully explored our relationship. They interrogate me one after the other.

“Were you ever betrothed?”

“No.”

“Have you two fucked a lot while you were in America?”

“I have never engaged in sex with Loth,” I say between gritted teeth. So… rude! Agh. I must remember that their culture is much more loose with physical intimacy than we are.”

“Really? Why? Is he not good at it?”

Pah, are we really doing this? I stop and look around, thinking that the person asking (Rolf the pervert, of course) would get the righteous talk down he deserves. Alas, it does not happen. They all await my assessment of Loth’s sexual prowesses with detached attention.

Is it that serious?

“Come on lass, don’t leave us hanging! Not good enough for you?”

I sigh, and speak in a low, deliberate voice.

“Numerous widows of the town we lived in mentioned that he was, and I quote, a god. I believe that they were honest with their own assessment, and they, ahem, smelled and sounded like they meant it.”

By the Watcheeeeeeerrrrrrr get me out please.

The council aligns for the first time, in proud approval.

“Alright then. Next question!”

That one comes from Ragnar. He smirks, very pleased with himself.

“Would you mind explaining what you were doing on Loth’s territory to start with?”

Oh, implying that I hunted him down for my own benefit. He could prove that Loth is unfit, perhaps, or polluted somehow.

“No, I would not mind.”

They wait. I wait. We all wait and I find myself smiling.

“Next question, please?” I sweetly suggest. A few of the members guffaw when they figure out what I did while other complain. Ragnar erects himself from his seat, red with anger.”

“You dare disrespect—”

“Sit the fuck down Ragny boy, afore I give you a proper walloping. She got you good. It’s your fault for trying to sound like a posh asshole. ‘Would you miiiiiiind’. Who the fuck are you, the Prince of Wales? Piss off, you’ll get your turn again. Next!”

“How long did you live together?”

“Around ten years, I could not tell you the exact time without some calculations.”

“Were you threatened into coming here?” Yngvar asks, since it is his turn again.

“Here, to the Sweden? No.”

“Will you receive compensation for appearing here?”

I consider my answer for a while. Compensation is such a vague concept. I had better be thorough.

“I was not paid or promised services, or even a favor. I did receive hospitality, and I expect that I will be offered nourishment some time soon as well.”

“Do you have shares in businesses owned by the Skoragg clan?”

“Not to my knowledge. Some of my investments are through funds that I do not manage, so it remains a distant possibility.”

I am seeing a trend, here. They are not satisfied, will not be satisfied until they understand us.

“Why were you on Loth’s land when you met him? Why did you seek the King of Skoragg hall?” Rganar asks again as his turn comes.

Those are two questions!

“Answer them lass, so that we’re done,” Yngvar asks, out of patience.

Fine.

“We did not meet on his land. We met by accident during a hunt. And he was no the king of Skoragg hall at the time! Your understanding of our circumstances appears tenuous at best,” I coldly state.

“Perhaps, then, you should enlighten us,” the next member asks before Ragnar explodes. This one is the only other woman. She smiles kindly. A request, not an order.

I do not make a secret of my situation at that time. I guess I could share a bit, at least so that they do not hound us anymore with their ceaseless quest to find out the origin of our friendship.

I look behind me at Loth, sitting on the side. He is serene, and gives me a subtle nod. He supports my decision, no matter what.

I turn back and inspect the council. They are curious now, so curious, in fact, that they are silent.

“Oh, very well then.”

I take a deep breath. Sheridan is out there, making me more human, otherwise I would never agree to share my own feelings for the sake of a friend, not matter how precious he is. Even now, frustration at the perceived audacity of the council still whispers in my ears that they know enough to make a decision, and that I would be well within my rights to inform them that our friendship is none of their business. Alas, Dvergur are passionate and emotional creatures, and if I truly want to help Loth, I must address them in a language that they can understand.

So I swallow my pride and the distance I create with strangers because, in the end, I am here to assist someone I hold dear. Friendship are not always meant to be easy and free. It is quite telling that I would rather open someone’s ricage than open my own heart.

They are waiting.

Enough procrastination, I take a deep breath and try to forget my surroundings, I go back to those days decades ago when I was not free, mighty, and tightly woven in dense network of allies and friends. I bring myself to remember those few hours of consciousness I had every night, that I had to spend finding blood and walking some distance before torpor inevitably made me defenseless. I can see her vividly, the younger Ariane. The one who endured only because of her unwavering belief that things would get better, if she only lasted for another night. I call upon her now.

“When I met Loth, I was dirty and wet. It was the end of summer in Louisiana. I had come to a swamp to hunt an alligator as part of a deal to get enough blood to last me the night. I had recently escaped from abuse and torture by feigning my own death. My torment had lasted for six months and I was six months old. Twenty, if you counted my mortal years.”

The silence helps me focus. I close my eyes and I can see him, clad in his iron armor. He looked like a giant bug, and his sudden appearance gave me quite the freight.

“Loth was there too for the same prey. From the moment I met him, I expected him to betray me and I prepared myself to fight or kill him. I was so distrustful that when the alligator did attack, it caught me completely offguard. Loth, of course, killed it in an instant with a bolt through the eye. After that, he… made a casual advance.”

Chuckles around the table. I do not look. I am almost there.

“I reacted badly. My captivity had been… a harrowing experience. Loth saw that. He did not ridicule me, or threaten me. He did not run away. He saw that I needed help and he offered it. He saved me, I think. Perhaps not my life, but certainly the heart of what I am.”

Silence has returned.

“In the following months, Loth was there for me. He was my first friend. The very first one. Even Jimena, the woman who helped me escape, became closer after a lengthy correspondence. Loth did not not just host me, he helped me grow. He taught me how to have a personal code, and how to handle mortals. He created a system to allow me to feed as a fledgeling without hurting the townsfolk. I owe much to his mentorship, including my love for design and smithing, especially if it relates to explosive ordinance or ways to deliver said explosive ordinance to faraway people I dislike. He taught me runes and forging and taking life with a grain of humor. There is only a handful of individuals on this planet that I regard with the same admiration and… love, as I regard him. All the questions you have asked me only showed one concern. Who is this cold one, and what is her game here? I play no game tonight. I am here, because Loth asked me to come here. He could have asked for an assassination or a bombing run or plain old piracy and I would have obliged, but he just wanted me to talk to you. So, I do. Loth is a friend in a world of politics and ancient horrors. It is enough for me.”

I do not believe that the councils has remained silent for so many consecutive seconds for at least a decade. Of course, it ends quickly.

“Say, girl,” Yngvar asks, “what runes would you use on the base of an artillery gun barrel?”

“Circled Tir Ko Og for reinforcement, unless you are going for single use and feel a bit adventurous, then you can go for an imposition glyph.”

“Sacriledge! Who would do this to a gun?” a man by his side asks.

“Shut up! I use those on Turkish bronze bombards so I did not have to wreck them when we left!” Yngvar retorts, spit flying over the pitted table.

“And how do you make proper black powder, hmmm?” Rolf asks, his mind finally away from whatever erotic recollection it had dwelled on.

“Three parts salpeter, then for the rest three-fifths softwood charcoal, either willow or buckthorn, and two-fifths sulfur. Mix and grind to fine dust, and add liquid so that it can form granules. I prefer pure alcohol and water, but I drop a pinch of my blood for special bullets. You can add graphite aftwerward to prevent it from getting too wet.”

“What about adding runed bones from magical beasts?” another asks. I roll my eyes. Loth bored me enough with this ancient controversy.

“It was proved not to work in a conclave of the clans two centuries ago. After lengthy experiments, I might add.”

“Hah! Even the vampires know about it, you decrepit fool!” another exclaims triumphantly.

“No respect for tradition!”

I let them bicker, but I clearly gathered their attention.

“Special bullets? How do you mean?” Yngvar asks with excitement.

“Silver and steel alloy for the body. I personally engrave each and every casing as well.”

“What do you use them for?” his wife asks with naked curiosity.

“Shield piercing and big game hunting. Either werewolves or my kin.”

“What runes do you use for piercing?” Yngvar asks in turn.

“You must be dreaming if you think I will share my recipe for free,” I retort, but with good humor.

“Hah! Hahaha, indeed! Alright. Enough questions. Sigvald, Aarne, enough with that conclave spat, it is time to decide!”

His gaze turns cold and cunning as he turns it to Ragnar, who was fuming in silence, then to Leikny and her relative.

“I cannot believe that I let you sponge-brained milsops talk my ears off with this purity and influence bullshit. You morons got it upside down! It’s not Loth who got vampired, it’s Ariane of the whatever who got Dvergured!”

The council is shocked by this strange revelation. As I am. I remember to close my mouth with a click.

“What do you call someone with honor, strength, and a propensity to apply scientific knowledge to blowing things up?”

“A friend!” Rolf roars.

“That’s right. Case fucking closed. Let’s get it over with so I can get myself a beer. All in favor of letting those two younglings bind themselves together through sacred matrimony?”

“Aye!” five of them answer, though Ragnar now turns red.

“Are you all mad?” he screams, but in vain.

“Then your union is approved by the council, may you regret it every day of your life like I do!”

Minttu socks him in the jaw and the poor fool falls backward and out of sight. Rolf leans to the side to remove pewter mugs from the Watcher knows where while another stands up to bang on a nearby service door asking for booze. I… supposed the council is over then?

Or not, because a shrill female voice soon pierces through the party preparations.

“I demand my last recourse!” Leikny screams, and to my surprise, the entire assembly grinds to a pause. No more screams or signs of merriment. They even stop moving as they look on with the mix of horror and fascination normally reserved for gruesome accidents.

“What?” Minttu asks, aghast.

“I am serious. I demand trial by combat! Ariane of the Nirari, I defy you!”

What?

121. Folly

I hesitate as to how to react. Yngvar does not.

“Absolutely out of the question! Have you lost your mind? Erikur, you better talk some sense into your daughter!”

He then proceeds to swear in Dvergur. Erikur and he get into a screaming match, with the rest of the council complaining in their language as well.

I inspect the rebuked ex-wife. She will not meet my eyes, and wears powerful mental protections under her fancy coat, whose blurring effect I can feel at the edge of my persception. I can still taste her emotions from her rapid breath, and the sweat pearling on her temples. Frantic heartbeats and nervous movement do not betray fear, but eagerness. She wants it. She wants it very much.

“Well?” she finally asks, shivering with nervous energy.

“You are a schemer and a scoundrel, Leikny. I have no reasons to believe that you would not choose dawn as a duelling time to kill me while I sleep.”

“You call me a schemer, but here you are, a stranger in our clans,” she declaims in a louder voice, one designed for an audience.

“You can stop that nonsense right now, child, we have been buttered by much more eloquent politicians than you throughout the years. Your theatrics bore us,” Minttu spits.

The rest of the council backs her with hostile glares and angry mutters. They have seen it all. The stern rebuke takes the wind out of Leikny’s sails, but Minttu is not done.

“You have no standing. The rite of combat was designed when an objective decision based on evidence could not be achieved. It is a last resort, a way to place the ultimate decision in the hands of fate when we admit our failure to discern what is good and what is right. I watched two parents kill each other for the guardianship of their child. You… defiling this sacred and horrific tradition disgusts me. The council’s decision was based on an oath-verified statement. Even your unlikely victory would not change that.”

“Our position has always been that Loth was not a suitable king for the illustrious Skoragg clan,” Leikny’s father interrupts, “my daughter wishes to prove that his decision to cast her out was ruinous and self-destructive. She is worthy to be a queen, and she will prove it by taking down the creature in our midst, one who does not deserve to be here.”

“A waste of time then, Ariane of the something something has no obligation to answer your puerile challenge,” Rolf notes while pouring schnapps from a pitcher.

I want to kill her.

But she is a sneaky little thing and she clearly expects to trap me.

I turn to the father. The council is over, I have no need to keep the gloves on, nor do I have to show respect to likes of those sniveling, cowardly rats.

I release my aura, make sure that its cold depth conveys my annoyance and patiently reorient my seat to face them, in complete silence. I owe Loth my friendship and the council, my patience. I owe nothing to those two. They are fair game.

Finally, the time has come to make things clear.

“The play is over. You have lost,” I start, ”completely so. The marriage will take place. You will lose your influence over the Skoragg clan, and the enmities your greed created will hound you for the next century. Now you have come here at the eleventh hour with a flimsy excuse for a duel, one that follows rules that you will undoubtedly twist to their very limit because, in the end, you are just dishonorable pricks looking for a way out. I refuse.”

Silence and surprise fill the room, especially coming from the two Isvalir clan members. Perhaps they expected me to be hotheaded?

In fact, I should be. I am surprised by my own reaction. I expected my instincts to push me to answer with arrogance, but they remain silent. The cause, I think, is the fact that the Isvalir are insignificant gnats in the grand scheme of things. Loth is successful, as was my wish. This challenge is merely the desperate yap of those who do not know when they are defeated. They are too far beneath me to cause anger. Of course, I cannot let this offense remain unpunished, but I have many other tools in my arsenal to retaliate. I am not some mindless, prideful idiot to jump head first into the first ambush.

Or at least I try not to be.

Leikny made the mistake of standing and requesting, while I sit and refuse. I am in a position of power. My aura fills the air. It smothers hers in its frigid embrace.

“You refuse to face me? Are you scared?” she tries again. I chuckle, and she shivers once more.

“Your taunts are worthless. What does a queen care that a beggar curses her name in an alley? If you want to play again, you have to put something on the table. Entertain me, little thing. Make it worth my time.”

Only after I am done do I register that Leikny is centuries older than I am. I have grown used to being the eldest among those who walk under the sun. Only the Dvergur escape that rule.

Oh, and the most aggravating people on the planet, but they do not count since they are technically from another world.

Leikny turns to her father and they talk for a little while. Minttu and Yngvar also formed a huddle with another few elders, possibly discussing a common resolution. I seem to remember that they can veto the duel if they reach a consensus. I look at Ragnar, sitting with an air of utter arrogance, and know that they will fail. He will make sure of it.

Leikny’s proposal comes a few moments later. Her voice drips with fear behind a haughty facade.

“We will meet in glorious combat within the dome of the Ancestors’ Stellar Dome, at six in the evening, which I believe will be late enough for you to catch your beauty sleep? Any weapons and magical devices are allowed save for heavy explosives.”

Aha! All magical devices…

“Should you win, the Isvalir will transfer ownership of the Ice Palace to the Skoragg clan.’

Collective gasp.

“I believe this is proof enough of our commitment.”

“Indeed. I shall first reconvene with my friends as this concerns them,” I reply without missing a beat.

I stand up and walk to Loth and Kari, who are still recovering from Leikny’s outrageous offer, and drag them to an isolated corner of the large room.

I learnt quite a bit.

“Why are they so desperate?” I ask.

“You can tell?” Loth answers, “the Ice Palace is the seat of their power. Their ancestral home! They must be absolutely confident that they can take you down.”

“No,” I answer, “there is more to it.”

“Indeed,” Kari continues, “they did not hesitate, which means that they consider this a minor issue. Even the most rigged duel has several fail conditions, especially when both sides are intent on winning.”

“But… you are implying that…”

“Yes. The Isvalir already forfeited the palace,” she finishes.

Loth shakes his head in amazement. He steals a glance out, still struck with disbelief.

“I find it hard to believe...”

“Perhaps they made a deal that did not account for your return.”

“Perhaps… listen lass, those are all good ideas but we have no way to confirm them. They could be arrogant and absolutely certain of their victory.”

“Not that old snake Erikur. He has ice in his veins,” Kari interrupts

“Fine! We should still refuse. No matter the cause, ye do not want to fight a rat backed into a corner if ye can avoid it.”

“Oh, but I do want to fight her.”

“What?”

Both of my friends look on, nonplussed.

“I want to find out why they want to kill me. And I know how they intend to do it.”

“How then?” Kari asks.

“I can shield against fire and I am not the only master capable of that. My use of magic is no secret. Therefore, there is only one surefire way to kill me, and that would be…”

“Sunlight. Of course. But to recreate sunlight is an impossible feat...” Kari says

“I saw it done once, through a golem.”

“It can be done,” Loth confirms, “although it is both incredibly difficult and prohibitively expensive. You need an amberstone for that, which will be destroyed in the process. Do you believe that this is the case?”

“Most likely. What matters is that they really want me dead, and I would like to find out why. The main question would be, is there gear that can stop sunlight? I am asking you, Loth, as one of the world’s greatest smiths. If you do not know, then I will decline.”

“Do they have any way to kill you besides sunlight?”

“One on one, on open ground and where I have access to all my equipment? It would take another vampire. Or an incredible archmage, which Leikny is not.”

I would feel it in her aura.

“There is something, aye,” Loth immediately replies, “something I have considered for a long time. A mirror armor.”

“A mirror?” I ask with some doubt.

“Yes. You see, vampires have been defeated before by using mirrors to redirect sunlight deep into their lairs. Ergo, mirrors deflect sunlight. I believe that a shield made out of a mirror will efficiently deflect an attack ray. Just have to make sure it’s not too big.”

“How likely is it to work?”

“It will work. We just have to make sure that the thing is thick enough to count as, well, being hidden. Your sensitivity to the light is a capricious thing. This rule works in a strange fashion.”

“How valuable is the Ice Palace anyway?”

“Very, very, very valuable,” Loth grumbles, eyes filled with visions of gold.

“Extremely valuable,” Kari adds. “It sits at the top of precious deposits of magically charged materials, and the glacier around it has taken on interesting properties over the centuries. Even if we displace the Isvalir clan as part of a war, the council could decide to step in to have its treasures shared communally by our race. Through this challenge, the Skoragg clan would become its sole owner peacefully and irrevocably. It would… by Tyr.”

“It would make us the richest clan in the world.”

“Wait, what?” I interrupt, “that easily?”

“You do not understand the ramifications of adding such a treasure trove to our already existing wealth,” Kari states with excitement.

It comforts me that she considers herself a member of the Skoragg clan.

“We would be able to develop that much faster. Ariane, I know you are taking a risk, and so I will tell you now. Loth has been floating ideas concerning our future plans for the clan and our race in general. If you get us that prize, I will wholeheartedly support his idea.”

I turn to Loth, who blushes. I shall never grow tired of the centuries-old bearded muscle-bound colossus acting all bashful.

“Aye, see, we want to leverage our expertise to build a manufacturing empire. We cannot innovate like the mortals do, but we are good at improving on pre-existing concepts. We want to open a Dvergur-led factory in the new world, to get access to more patents and rare talents.”

“If you give us this boon, we will give you an exclusivity contract. We will settle in your lands and pay tribute, against protection. Your land only. For a hundred years,” Kari babbles. She has entered my personal space, and though I do not mind too much, I have a few reserves.

The first is that we have not won the duel yet. In fact, I have not accepted it.

And second, what am I, a supernatural collector? I got pet mages, pet werewolves, a pet vampire in the sense that Melusine is a sort of cat, and now pet Dvergur? I should have picked a land by the ocean so I could get better access to my pet fishmen. I would have built a small city with a sign that says: Ariane’s collection of wondrous creatures, where the food is you! No, seriously.

“Seven point five percent of our income after tax,” Kari says.

By the Watcher, count me in.

“Eight, I abhor decimals.”

“Fine!”

Kari looks away and smiles, eyes lost in balance sheets and cash flows. I turn and take a peek at the Isvalir.

They smile ever so slightly, studiously ignoring us.

They got us and they know it. To lure me, they dangled a prize that could not be ignored, even by one who knows that there is a trap.

“Very well, I will accept their conditions, but we need to check the duelling grounds beforehand for surprises. We also need to dig into why they are so set on killing me.”

Kari crosses her arm as she considers the situation.

“I would not be too worried about the Stellar Dome. They would not dare tamper with it too outrageously, as it is a sacred site to our people. A long time ago, the clans cooperated to create an observatory to map the stars. It has not been used in a long while since the project completed successfully, at least not in its original design. Nowadays, the central circular space serves as a theater or as an arena, depending on the situation.”

“We will still have a look, in case they try anything sneaky. Don’t ye worry lass, if they booby-trapped the building, Yngvar will have their livers for breakfast.”

“So, I agree?”

“Yes, but ask for three weeks so that I have more than enough time to create an armor.”

“Fair enough.”

I return to the council and calmly address them. The Isvalir smile and leave first, with us departing soon afterward. Their trick certainly ruined our mood. The council, however, does not let that affect them too much as beer is brought in casks. As for us, there is much to plan and scheme.

A week later.

I regret everything.

“It will be fine, lass, I promise.”

“You do not know that. Your confidence is born from nothing but STEP AWAY FROM THAT LEVER!”

Loth lifts his arm in surrender, and returns to the center of his workshop. I clonk away in the heavy plate armor specifically designed for me.

Now, I had considered sunlight to be my bane, one that no amount of finagling could ever hope to contravene. We are creatures of the night. We remain hidden. We cannot enter houses without invitation. In a way, all those limitations prevent us from ever truly taking over the world by strength. No matter how unstoppable the lord, there will be a time, every day, in fact, where he is as helpless as a babe. No matter how defenseless a mortal is, huddling in their house and praying will deflect all but the most determined of assaults. I always accepted the status quo as set in stone. My sire’s ancient mind has molded his spawn into respecting the ancient laws, and now, I am toeing the line of the most undeniable one there is.

I am to step into sunlight.

Well, to be honest, I am to pass an armored gauntlet through the hole of an isolation booth and into a very meager ray of twilight sun. It does not matter. It is… THE SUN. I am to stay away away away AWAY….

“Ariane.”

“WHAT!”

“If you want to give up…”

“No! No, it’s...  fine. I am doing it.

I carefully place my left hand into the booth. The armor remains unwieldy despite its marvelous engineering. In normal armors, the articulations are thinner in order to conserve mobility, so that even knights could dance or climb ladder with the strength of their arms if they were fit enough. Here, we cannot afford the risk. Loth is confident that a one-centimeter-thick plate will do, and so the gauntlet is the first we test. If it passes muster, all other components will.

“Ready or not, here we go, lass!”

Clonk.

I breathe hard and fast despite not needing the air. I am just… panicking.

Something happens.

I… cannot feel my hand! By the Watcher, I cannot move it at all. I need to… It will hurt any moment now, an excruciating pain that will rob me of my senses because of THE SUN.

Clonk.

I drag my hand back with mighty strength and find… the gauntlet intact.

Sensations return to my hand.

It worked. I am not feeling much better.

The armor is so polished that its unblemished surface reflects its surroundings in a warped portrait, making me frown, because… the armor does not reflect me when I am wearing it. It shows an inverted image of the room, and only the room.

I feel deep unease, not just because the armor itself looks like someone with a twisted mind messed up an illusion, but because it skirts the rules in a way that bothers me on a fundamental level. And yet, I am committed now. I wish to succeed. I wish to cheat fate as I know the Isvalir will attempt the same. I just… wish I had not taken this decision. It goes against every instinct I have. In fact, I have not fought my instincts this much since I almost turned rogue. I find the entire situation disconcerting.

“I can always shoot the woman from afar, you know?” comes a voice from the side.

Sheridan looks on with worry, one side of his moustache twisted by the repetitive application of nervous fingers.

“No! The fight will happen,” I reply.

Nobody answers. I suppose that they want to leave me an exit door. As if I could cut and run now, after publicly accepting the challenge. I can only twist my own nature so far without it snapping back with indomitable revenge. Teasing the limits of my body is a thing. Running with my tail between my legs after a confrontation is another one entirely.

“Alright lass, I will finish adjusting the armor and we can conduct a few more tests, just in case. They cannot use amberstone rays for more than a few seconds in any case, so your suffering will be short.”

“Yes,” I reply bitterly, “one way or another…”

“Stop whining.”

I am about to reply that he should go and stand under the radiance of the purifying orb, but he does it all the time and only gets a light tan. Unfair! Scandalously unfair.

“Alright, we will test the entire armor at once. Give me an hour or so to check if everything works, then we get it over with. Please do tell me if you experience any burning sensation.”

“I am not one of your lady friends!” I spit with bad humor.

Sheridan coughs in his elbow, but Loth remains unfazed.

“You can be a bitch when you are stressed.”

“Hsss!”

In the end, I experience no discomfort besides the oppressive promise of my fiery doom ravaging my psyche until I am a paralyzed wreck, my mind flooded by a numbing fear of THE SUN, THE SUN!

I consider this a win. Given the circumstances.

I promise to myself here and there that I shall never, ever, ever repeat this process after the duel. I can survive sunlight if protected by an armor. Good. I cannot move if the rays touch it. The experiment is conclusive. Now let me ouuuut!

With the armor ready in a week, I now have free time to pursue another project: learning why the Isvalir are so hell-bent on taking me. I turn to Kari for this, as she is the one in the ruling couple in charge of the spy network.

“The rats are abandoning ship,” she finally informs me as we take a late afternoon tea together.

“Meaning?”

“The Isvalir are leaving their Nordic strongholds. Some are taking ships owned by an interest group that we cannot identify. And no, before you ask, those are not Rosenthal ships. They belong to a third party. I hired human investigators to dig deeper. Unfortunately, they were disposed of while checking ship records back in Stockholm.”

“Gone without a trace?”

“Yes, and nobody remembers a thing.”

“That… sounds like vampire work.”

“It certainly does…” Kari grumbles above her cup with a glance that says ‘you would know’. Well, yes, I would. I personally send a ‘cease and desist’ letter to the perpetrator’s personal address as a final message, usually. I know that some of my kin prefer to remain mysterious all the way.

“So, the clan has made agreements with shadowy partners and my life is the price?”

“I suspect that the cost might be higher. The Ice Palace is being emptied as we speak, its ancestral treasures transferred to unknown destinations. They never planned on staying, and rightly so. The Skoragg clan as a whole is coming to terms with how much they abused our trust. Our retaliation would have crushed them. In any case, your demise was very likely commandeered by whoever now helps them in their exile. I have no way of learning the identity of your mysterious enemy in the short time we have available, not without sacrificing a number of irreplaceable assets. If you insist…”

“No need. I know exactly how I will find out.”

My confidence surprises the Dvergur princess.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I will extract it from Leikny’s addled mind as I eat her.”

My ghastly smile forces her to shiver.

“Sometimes, you act so human that I forget what you are… and then your words remind me of the truth.”

Yes, that would be our entire identity.

“I have an inkling as to whom it might be. I suppose that we will find out soon enough. Better to make sure that we have covered all our angles,” I continue.

I return to Loth for some minor adjustments, and we soon realize a major problem as I try combat maneuvers.

I cannot use my focus.

Of course, the black gauntlet would cause my hand to roast at the first sign of sunlight. In the end, Loth manages to engrave a few symbols on the inner side of the gauntlet so that I can at least cast shield. This oversight worries me, and I decide to forgo holsters entirely, which only leaves me with a mirror sword that Loth creates at the last minute, just in case. It should not matter too much as the ray may only last for a few seconds.

Now with all tests completed, I can confidently say that I am ready. The armor is reinforced so that even a few light shocks will not damage it. The sword is sharp and deadly. I can stop fire. I can stop sunlight. I can, in theory, block explosives, although I doubt that a squishy mortal would resort to that. I am well-trained and significantly stronger than Leikny. All the angles are covered. And so, with time running out, we leave the Skoragg compound.

The Stellar Dome of the ancestors lies deeper into the vast mountain range of the Scandes. We depart in a caravan to climb our way to the sacred site.

With summer in full swing, nature is out to play. Fields of lush grass and seeding plants alternate with patches of forest, with the white and blue peaks covered in eternal snow always in the background. They form a wall that stretches to the horizon.

On the second day of travel, we come across a nomad village. I exit my sarcophagus to rows of knit tents, as well as men and women wearing blue cylindric hats and fur coats. They part to let me through without a word as I move to find Loth. His aura guides me to the top of the hill where the village is situated, near a small gathering. I find my friend in deep conversation with a bearded man wearing a vest with strange metallic ornaments around the collar and down his chest. How quaint!

“Evening lass, meet mister Luobbal. He is the head of this Sámi gathering. He knows the best path to the Stellar Dome.”

“Should you not know the best path to the Stellar Dome?” I retort.

“Aye don’t embarrass me in front of him, aye? I don’t know every square inch of Dvergur land. The Sámi live in the area and they know all the right paths. They will guide us there.”

“Fine. Hold on, I should be polite.”

I turn to the old man, whose expression has remained glacial during our exchanges, as well as the rest of the group. I asked Kari to teach me a little bit of Swedish. It is now time to put it to good use!

“Ahem, god kväll mina damer och herrar. Mitt namn är Ariane Nirari, vad trevligt att träffas.”

There, I am properly introduced. I stated my name and told them that I was delighted to meet them. Ariane, queen of diplomacy!

The answer, unfortunately, is not to my satisfaction. The old man turns to his friends and scratches his head, before turning back to me.

“Jeg er ikke så god i norsk. Kan du si det en gang til, saktere?”

Loth laughs. I cannot recognize a single word of what the old man just said.

“Sorry lass, they only speak Nowegians on top of their own tongue…”

All of this for nothing. Pah!

In the end, I do not mix with them as they do not seem all that interested in foreigners. I instead spend some time walking around the surrounding forests in an attempt to dispel my worries. I fed on a volunteer just before we left, and I will remain sated for a few days. We are ready. My intuition does not scream of doom, and yet, I cannot manage to rid myself of the nagging worry.

I am being greedy and overconfident by walking into a trap.

I always promised myself that I would not succumb to overconfidence. I believe that my preparations show that I am not so arrogant as to think myself invincible, and yet I am once again skirting the limits of what I believe in. This entire endeavor puts me in a state of unease. It was a mistake. I will not agree to such terms again, unless I have no choice.

If I live.

No amount of running allows me to relax, and I retreat before dawn to read.

The trip to the Stellar Dome lasts another day, and I exit my sarcophagus in the early afternoon of the duel to a decrepit room held together by crumbling mortar. Sheridan waits by the door, which looks more recent and was reinforced with basic spells. I am already wearing the gambeson I will use under my armor.

“Ah, you’re up. Loth told me to get you to the council room where the old geezers are doing their pow-wow. There will be a ceremony, then we fight. I mean, you fight. I watch.”

I stand up and take a few moments to comb my hair. My luggage was placed in the room, but the armor was not. I follow Sheridan outside and through a dusty alley of aged bricks with no windows. The Stellar Dome compound has not been used in a long time, it seems.

Sheridan wordlessly opens a final door guarded by a pair of armored guards, and we enter the Dome proper.

My worries fade for a while as I take in the impressive vista before me. The room centers on a circular arena, around which rows of seats have been placed to create an amphitheater. The ceiling is quite high and it is, I realize, natural. Stalactites hang over us like so many swords of Damocles, while a cupola tops the arena proper. Even from here, I can spot intricate star carvings that the passage of time has not ruined yet.

A small assembly has gathered in the middle of the room, in an open space, between rows of seats. They stand in a circle around two carpets covered in gear. I recognize my armor on the right, even now reflecting the viewers on its immaculate surface. On the left is Leikny’s gear, and I admit to being impressed.

Of course, I expected the daughter of the clan head to come clad in layers of ancestral treasures. My anticipation did not do her regalia justice. I can feel the power radiating from here, over the auras of the assembled Dvergur.

I see a conical helmet with a protective visor that will fit her eyes to perfection, a thick breastplate of shimmering metal engraved with countless runes over glittering mail. Light cuisses, greaves, and sabatons complete the custom set. She bears a round shield with a sun symbol on it, one I highly suspect of harboring the foreseen amberstone, and a thin, rapier-like sword shining a dull red in the semi-darkness. Yngvar inspects every piece of gear one by one to make sure that no forbidden explosives have been hidden in their recess. When he is done to his satisfaction, he turns to us.

“Can’t say I approve of this, but you younglings are free to kill each other if it doesn’t condemn the future of the clans. So get to it, I have better things to do.”

The rest of the council grumbles their assent. Loth pulls my gear in my direction and we put it on piece by piece as, on the other side of the room, Leikny does the same.

“We checked the building and the arena. Had the council run some tests. There’s nothing we can see. No traps or anything.”

“Hmmm.”

“I’ll be staying outside, just in case,” Sheridan adds.

“Why, do you anticipate something?” I ask the experienced lawman.

“Nothing specific. Most charlatans and cheats have I handled had something in common though, an accomplice. Better safe than sorry.”

“Fair enough. Just be careful.”

“I am wearing my armor and I’ll take Skjoll to watch my back, if he’s willing.”

“He will be,” Kari says.

It only takes us a few minutes to get prepared, then Leikny and I both walk down to the arena proper.

This one is different from the one I fought in, back in New-Orleans. There is no sand on the ground to absorb the blood, for starters. Instead, the ground is naked stone marked by hundreds of years of usage and combat. It is quite dusty, and smells empty and abandoned. This place has not been used in a long time, years at least.

My intuition flares to indicate imminent danger, enough to put me on guard. I am as ready as I am going to be.

Yngvar steps on a podium overlooking the arena. He intones a few angry words in Dvergur, then says something that even I recognize.

“Fight!”

Leikny is already slamming her shield on the ground and I immediately dodge right and away from the spectators. I run perpendicular to her.

Anytime now.

Leikny’s shield shines in radiant orange. I feel my faceplate growing denser as light intensifies. It will be fully opaque when the light becomes strong enough, temporarily blinding me.

A semi-circular shield dome covers her kneeling form.

I expected… more? My intuition still screams of danger.

Leikny smirks, and I hear a dreadful clank.

From above me.

I dodge back and raise my eyes to see a thin blade of light. Fragments of shattered ice rain from the roof.

Oh.

Oh!

No way.

I back up again as the red gash of late afternoon sun slices the arena in two, mostly in front of me. I am separated from the spectators. It slowly widens into a blinding crescent.

They never planned on bringing amberstone, they planned on subjecting me to the real thing.

The Stellar Dome cupola was originally a functional observatory. It can open.

Fully.

Behind Leikny’s smirking figure, the council is in full blown arguments. Ragnar clearly supports this ‘brilliant interpretation of the rules’, while the rest are screaming their heads out. I see Loth running outside, probably to put an end to those shenanigans while Kari added her voice to the quarrel. They will be too late.

The shield is probably quite strong. I have to try to break it. A part of me pushes me to action while the other is the reason for my indecision.

The sun.

The fucking sun.

THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN

No! No, calm down. Try to attack. I can do it.

I move forward at mortal speed, not quite able to control myself properly. My sword smashes into the shield with little effect. Put strength into it, but I cannot. Because of THE SUN! Leikny is still smiling as the crescent turns into an oval that lights the spectators. Every passing moment makes the room clearer, as more debris fall into the arena. I ignore the argument and the woman in front of me and the sun closing in the sun CLOSING IN.

Hit it, just hit it. Bang bang bang. Break the shield. Break the woman. I can live. I can still live.

Years of practice help me dodge reflexively back as an overheated blade almost shaves off parts of the mirror. Leikny is standing now, she walks back into the light. I cannot go there. She is in the light of THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN.

No! No, I just need to… perhaps Loth will help. I cannot do anything if I die, and I will die if the mirror is damaged. Sword in front. Light hand on the grip. Light on my feet. Calm.

More light as a full half of the arena is now basked directly. Leikny is here. She moves forward with the wave. It hurts my mind to look at it. I can no longer see clearly.

The point of her sword shines red and something is sent. I drop to the ground and roll on my side to avoid a superheated missile. Magic. I stand back up. Roll and dodge in the other direction.

I cannot see.

I cannot see the light.

Everything is dark now with my visor fully blocking the view. There is just me, and my panicked breath because I breathe when I am scared, and one thumb of flimsy material between me and fiery death.

Close eyes. They are useless.

Magic in front, flaring. I roll to the side again. Footsteps getting closer. No real sun on me yet. Indirect ray only. Ignore it. Ignore what is outside. There is only me, and her. Sword up.

I hear a whistling sound and swipe a broad arc. I miss. I swipe again and deflect something that hisses and sputters. My sword made an unpleasant sound. I back up slowly, stumble a bit. The armor is getting warmer. Ignore it. I deflect another attack. I can taste the magic in the woman’s gear right in front of me. I can barely use it to deflect the hits, but now it changes. She attacks my mirror sword. She strikes it again and again, but every time I manage to place it back in guard position so that it does not cut through the armor to expose my flesh to it, the thing coming closer with every moment. It carries death. It is here. It is the sun! THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN.

Sword breaks. I clamber back. I hit the wall. I am trapped. Almost here, the SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN.

THE

SUN

Bang!

I hear… something? A discharged firearm. A noise of snapping metal. The roof above me shakes and groans. The two half-spheres close like eyelids over us. Darker. Darker. Darker.

A deafening sound.

D

A

R

K

YESSSSSSS.

I swat Leikny’s blade aside with a hand. My intuition sends me a quick vision, overloaded by my urgency.

A Dvergur looks aghast at the snapped chain disappearing in the opening mechanism, now broken. Someone shot it. The aperture is slamming close.

A vice-like grip on his shoulder. A voice in his ear speaking through gritted teeth, by a man fueled by incandescent anger.

“You done fucked up now,” it whispers in a Texan drawl.

I drop my molten, shattered blade to lean into Leikny’s next attack, one of Nami’s favorite tricks. I punch her in the chest.

The mirror’s surface of my gauntlet cracks under the power I use. She is sent flying, then crashing down on the ground a bit farther. The council is mute.

Slowly, I remove my helmet as Leikny crawls back to her feet. She is no vampire to recover instantly from the most grievous of wounds. She is a warm, fleshy thing, full of spite and secrets. I am going to crack her open.

“That tickled,” I growl.

I have given a rather poor account of myself. Reeling. Flailing. A mess, really. I need to imprint upon the locals that I am not TO BE TRIFLED WITH.

“Hssss.”

The Rose appears in my hand just as Leikny manages to get upright. She casts the shield again. I let her. It shines a bit less now.

I strike and let the teeth on the back of the blade dig into the transparent wall. I could channel the Herald essence. There is no need to use it on such a weakened construct. I pull, and the teeth shred the spell in a bright flash.

The enchantment on top of the round shield flickers. Lekny casts it aside and bellows. The voice is low and powerful as she seems to inflate and occupy more space. Her aura blasts out in furious anger and she charges in.

Pointless. I dodge and strike, dodge and strike. Her blade and fist come nowhere near hitting me while the articulation of her armors are hit again and again.

The first piece of equipment to give up is her right elbow. A thin trail of blood drips on the ground and I can taste the woman’s essence. Just a sip. An appetizer.

Next to break is her right leg at the back of the knee. She stumbles and falls, her rage spent in pointless movements. I accelerate then. The Rose peels her protections off glyph by glyph.

She stumbles and falls.

I approach, and she launches a last, desperate charge. I grab her raised fist and crush it. I hear a sob. A second later, her helmet is torn off. I bite down.

Today is the most beautiful day of my life! I am to become queen of the Skoragg clan, and through our union, usher both our lines into a new era of prosperity. I will be a great queen, I know it.

Loth does not love me, and he makes no secret of it. Our lovemaking is rare and cold. He refuses to grant me the powers I seek in the name of tradition and autonomy. I want more. I need more. If he will not work with me, then perhaps—

I pull back. I do not care about her story. What I need is too subtle to appear in visions.

“You were compensated for killing me.”

“A promise,” she answers in a broken voice, “your death in exchange for better conditions. We would have kept more in our exile.”

“Where are you going?”

“South Africa.”

They are going nowhere close to my lair, therefore, I stop caring.

“Who asked for my death.”

“We do not know for sure.”

I increase the pressure on her weakened essence.

“But I suspect. From the names of the ship come to evacuate us.”

“Tell me.”

“L’amoureux. The Blue Rose. The Saint Louis.”

Something breaks my trance. Her answer is not what I expected. I expected… who? Ah, yes, a certain Dvor lady. Instead, I get Mask.

Someone in Mask wants to kill me.

Hmm.

Later, this is a thing for the calm and refined me to consider. Now, to finish this on a high note.

I ignore the cries and the requests. I believe someone is begging me to spare his daughter? It does not matter. The game was strange and unpleasant, but the conclusion is all the more worthwhile.

Leikny tastes of mountain, ice, and betrayal. She has the sweet accent of despair as she dies.

Delicious. Loth always did have good tastes in women.

I stand up and discard the body, then walk out of the amphitheater with a confident step. Sheridan is here. He is armed to the teeth.

“I know that you saved me. Thank you.”

“Any time, Ari, any time.”

The fear of the sun and my predatory response to Leikny finally fade from my mind, and I have only one thought.

I am going to get a Dvergur weapon factory on my land.

This is going to be great.

122. Disheartening Moments

I thought that we could bring this incident to a close and use that opportunity to rush to the Ice Palace to take ownership of it. I was dead wrong.

The observatory was never meant to open fully. In fact, the mechanism had been disabled and laid covered in ice until the day of the duel, or so Yngvar and Loth had thought. The extent of the Ysvalir tampering gives the council a collective apoplexy, especially from the rigid Ragnar who had supported their clan until now. Such a violation is apparently unthinkable. So, we have some excuses for having approached the entire problem with such a high degree of incompetence, apparently.

The old coots’ collective ire falls on a grieving Erikur who is still reeling from the loss of his daughter. He was the most vocal in trying to get me to offer mercy. He could have brought me the moon on a silver platter; it would not have mattered. I have brought this hunt to a satisfactory conclusion. I would have it no other way.

Erikur kills himself in his cell a day later.

With this, the council’s wrath peters out and cold tensions arise. I care not, although I can tell that this entire fiasco weighs on the mind of my Dvergur friends and affects their mood. One would think that the death of their enemies and the acquisition of a massive prize would soothe their feelings, but alas, the whole disaster leaves a bitter taste on their tongue. I do not understand why they would feel depressed, nor do I have to. It is enough for me to know that they are and respect their pain.

We eventually make our way back to the Skoragg compound. Loth insisted on leaving for the Ice Palace as soon as possible. His initiative is firmly denied by both Kari and Skjoll. The dedicated bodyguard reminds Loth that his new acquisition could be trapped, and that he has a responsibility to preserve his life as the sovereign. Skoragg scouts later find the stronghold abandoned, though not sabotaged.

I use this opportunity to pursue a few more projects with Loth. First, I am offered the mirror armor, which I accepted. I do need the reminder of how reckless I was to accept a duel during daytime in a place I could not personally check. My greed got the better of me. I will remember this lesson for the rest of my life.

Second, the pair of us forge a new gun using the technology I brought from the United States, with a twist.

“Ye think of firearms as a mortal weapon that’s just for flexibility, not something ye would use in real combat.”

“I would use it on a vampire.”

“But ye don’t believe it would take one down. Ye need ta think bigger. You are not restrained by the limits of mortal bodies.”

And so we end up making an absolute beast of a revolver, with a rotating cylinder and a massive barrel with an enchantment-laden counterweight. It fires a custom caliber bullet the size of my thumb. With that enormity, I would have no trouble killing werewolves at any range. I could blow a wall through a fortress gate.

The acquisition of such a marvel of engineering leads to the next obvious consequence.

I ask for another gun.

I express my concern for secretive work, and we end up with an opposite firearm: a tiny one with a pearl handle that could fit in a handbag. I collect both with giddy anticipation.

Finally, we go to our next project, the most promising yet.

Metis has always been by my side in the thickest battles, and while she is resistant to mundane harm, bullets can still hurt her as the battle with the Order of Gabriel had demonstrated. We now must work on giving the old girl an armor worthy of her talent.

The issue is two-fold.

First, we need to create a piece that can reliably stop bullets.

Two, she must be willing to wear it.

And here lies the crux of the matter. While the haughty Nightmare tolerates a light harness with relative grace, carrying hundreds of pounds of enchanted metal is simply out of the question, at least on a regular basis. I have no need for her rejection to understand that. Restraints of any sorts simply go against her nature.

If we want a practical set, we must juggle between functionality, and designing a piece of art that she will tolerate in battle. In order to guarantee success, her input is required.

I have negotiated with soldiers, merchants, mayors, and whores. I have made deals with mages, half-naked werewolves, fully-naked werewolves, and grumpy Dvergurs. I have held meetings with vampires to decide the fate of hundreds of souls. And now, finally, at the zenith of my diplomatic career, I must contend with my greatest challenge yet.

I must negotiate with my horse.

“How about this one?”

“Nay!”

I might be interpreting her neigh a bit here. We now stand in the Skoragg fortress gardens as I submit one design after another to the grumpy flesh-eater. Even the materials are problematic. Simply put, they need to match her nature as an otherworldly creature of the forest. In the end, Loth just gives her every piece of exotic material in the Skoragg vaults to sniff one at a time. Just as we are about to give up, Metis’ ears perk up at the sight of a very peculiar piece of black leather. I take the dark fabric from Loth’s hands and run my fingers over it. Smooth and scaly.

My friend smiles.

“I should have guessed that she would love that one.”

“What is it?”

“The skin of the alligator we slew for the Choctaw. Out first hunt together.”

“What? I thought it had been destroyed with your house?”

“No, I decided to keep it when we evacuated, and I was right. This will offer good protection and camouflage with a few correct enchantments. Besides, it holds significance for you as your first successful takedown of a magical beast.”

Successful takedown? The alligator caught me off guard and almost tore my arm off. Loth killed the beast before it could eat me. I was merely bait.

“Your contribution was important, even if you did not land the killing blow.”

“I am over it, Loth, do not concern yourself with my feelings.”

“Or your self-esteem.”

“Or my self-esteem. Everything is fine. I am fine.”

“Huh huh.”

“Moving on! Leather. Can it really stop bullets?”

“When I am done with it, it will. You will also find that your illusion spells extend over Metis more easily. Now, to find a proper design. Try to gauge how she would feel about adding a spike on her forehead. She could look like a unicorn!”

Metis’ answer is swift and unambiguous.

“Thankfully,” I remark, “we are already in the garden so it is just more fertilizer.”

Loth and I finish the armor in a week before focusing on his repeater gun. We take much more time for that one, and I believe that Loth considers it more as a project of love to distract him from his many duties rather than something practical he really wants to finish. We spend another few weeks together, but soon September comes and, with it, Kari’s ultimatum. Loth is late on many of his other projects and needs to up his game. I, too, have postponed my duties for too long.

My inquiries about Mask have not led to anything, especially from the Rosenthal who warned me against engaging in dangerous activities so far outside of my support structures. I agree with their sentiment. My decision made, I pack my belongings, including the tiny revolver, which I have named the Accessory, and the huge one, which I have dubbed the Big Iron after a suggestion from Sheridan.

Time to head home.

We soon ride back to Stockholm, then from there take a ship to Copenhagen where the vampire train network is active. I find passage aboard a transport leaving from Le Havre a few days later, and we resume our travels.

I meet a few Erenwald and Roland vampires during my trip through the German states. Unfortunately, I learn very little as they gang up on me to ask questions about the New World and its many opportunities. While they always remain polite, I can feel a certain distance between us that indicates that my traveling companions have little interest in getting to know me better, or even for longer. I do not know whether it is caused by my image as a provincial frontierswoman, my sire, or the inevitability of conflict.

The train puffs its way through sleepy hamlets and larger ones, but never long enough for me to visit. It appears that it is merely a means of transportation, while I would prefer a more leisurely pace. I also realize that I would be annoyed if I took the train back home, only to stop for twelve hours here and there for tourism. Unfortunately, staying in any place for longer than necessary would generate curiosity in people whose attention I would rather avoid.

The first real setback of my European trip (if I do not count the unexpected battle with a lord)  occurs in the Lille train station, in the north of France, where we stop for an hour. Delighted by the building and its august skylight supported by a complex structure of wrought iron, I make the mistake of ordering a cafe.

In French.

“Pfffft, c’est quoi cet accent?” the plump waitress scoffs with amusement.

“Un probleme, Marceline?” her employer asks from behind a polished counter.

I lean back into the dainty wicker chair and listen to her hasty apology, but the deed is done.

I have an amusing accent.

My… mother tongue’s pronunciation is that of a bumpkin of unknown provenance!

Ugh!

I have never felt so mortified! The realization that I have sounded like a clod to worldly French  speakers every time I have opened my mouth sinks my mood to new depths of shame and despair.

Oh, rage ! Oh, désespoir ! Oh, vieillesse ennemie ! N’ai-je donc tant vécu que pour cette infamie !

I should eat the waitress to wipe the memory from her mind. No, no… No! I shall only speak English or German from now on, at least until I can absorb the local intonations. But not here, in Paris, where we will have a short stay.

Sheridan feels my dismay as we climb back up.

“Something the matter?” he inquires.

“Have you ever had the daunting realization that you have spoken a language all your life, and then you travel, and realize that everybody thinks that your way of pronunciation is that of a hopeless redneck?” I ask the Texan who grew up in a hacienda in the middle of nowhere.

“Huh?”

“Nevermind.”

Our journey continues, through the dense fields of the French countryside, now quiescent and bare after the recent harvest. The air is dry and pleasant, for now, though I can already smell fall in the air. We are crossing through a colorful little town with dark blue tiled roofs when the train slows down for an unexpected stop. I frown as I look down through the tinted glass of the restaurant wagon, where I had settled with a book and a cup. My eyes confirm what my aura detected: we are being hailed by a group of vampires. Six, if I count correctly. At least two of them are masters.

“Stay here,” I order Sheridan.

I stand up, before realizing that all my weapons are in the usual secured locker. In fact, with the addition of two revolvers, just Sheridan and I occupy more than two thirds of the total available space. It matters little, as I still have my most powerful asset. No one will ever be able to strip it from me.

I stop in the next carriage as the train leader, a tiny Roland woman with short auburn hair, runs to me. Although she betrays no signs of nervousness, I can feel the tremor in her aura.

“Yes?”

“Forgive me, Ariane of the Nirari. Those gentlemen outside would like to speak to you. I have no authority to refuse them, but I must insist that this is quite irregular and that I will be sure to forward a complaint!”

And a fat lot of good it will do the both of us. Well, nothing to it. I rush to my bedroom to retrieve my official documentation, then walk down on a deserted platform. The six unknown vampires gather around me in a half-circle that is decidedly hostile. I tilt my head in wonder, and adopt a defensive stance.

Those are Roland fighters. The four courtiers are non-entities if this turns into a fight, but the two masters are unknown. They wear black coats over dark suits, with white shirts, and red ties. There are only minor variations between each. Their bowler hats, however, are all identical. I feel like I am being robbed by a mob of pretentious ragamuffins.

“Are you Ariane of the Nirari?” the head lout asks with a valiant attempt at conceited arrogance, though I can taste the apprehension underneath. He wears a brown moustache and a scowl.

“Yes.”

I do not demand when I know that my requests will be ignored. Let them make the first mistake. Let them dig their own graves. My transit has been approved by both Mask and Eneru representatives long before I set foot on the continent. To aggress me now is to create a serious diplomatic incident.

“We were warned of possible illegal entry. Please provide your proof of passage.”

I do not react to their daring, ARROGANT demands. They are legally allowed to do what they are doing, for now, even though the most naive of fledgelings could see where this is going. I must be patient. I must let them commit the first mistake. And so, I calmly hand them my passport, now heavy with stamps and notes.

The leader makes a token effort to consult the hallowed document. A vampire passport is a magical object, making tempering not just incredibly difficult, but also incredibly illegal, and therefore, dangerous.

“I do not see an authorization to enter Mask territory.”

“Then look better,” I helpfully suggest.

“I do not believe that…”

I move and, with an explosive gesture, grab back what is mine. I open it at the right page as they grab weapons from pockets and sheaths. I am now faced with three shortswords, a gauntlet and dagger combo, and two maces. How quaint.

“Here,” I interrupt with calm, “on this page. Here it states: passage approved by the Boston embassy, valid until eighteen fifty-one. Yes?”

The leader picks back the document with deliberate slowness.

“This page here?”

I do not answer. He rips it out.

“I do not see the page you refer to.”

Big mistake.

“I think you should come with us, just to clarify the situation,” he tells me with a smirk.

I think not.

“I have little reason to comply with someone who just violated to European Accords.”

“You refuse to comply?” he says, quite pleased with himself.

FOOLISH CUR.

I let the aura of my anger explode outward as I materialize Rose. They think they have me? They think THEY ARE SMART? If they were smart, they would have brought more goons. They would not have forgotten what I am, and what I can do.

My first strike severs their leader from shoulder to heart. I do not finish him off, however, and punch the nearby courtier in the chest with a single finger. His face spasms and he starts to collapse. I have already moved on.

I lunge to the other master and the Rose’s blade extends, penetrating his heart through his hastily erected guard. The next two fledgelings fall in moments. For them, I make sure not to damage their heart too much. A mere puncture is all it takes for essence-rich, dark blood to spill on the ground.

Only the mage is left, and I duck behind the falling form of his comrades to avoid the building spell. Alas, at the moment of the cast, I realize my mistake.

A red flare takes off the platform and explodes hundreds of yards into the air, basking us in its scarlet radiance. The magical call that emerges from it dwarfs even the most powerful of beacon spells. Only Semiramis’ summoning came close in terms of sheer power.

Ah…

“Now, everyone knows you are here,” the pathetic courtier informs me with triumph in his gaze.

AMUSING.

I grab him by his throat and bring him close to my face, so that only a few fingers separate us. Bones creak under my unyielding grasp.

“Tell me, little one, do you feel victorious?”

“P—please… I had to!”

Tsk! I wish I could kill all of them, but that would be going too far. The moment I slaughter an entire group, I pass the point of no-return on a land filled with short-fused battle lords and ladies, and so, I must content myself with the tiny prize that the Rose fetched for me.

A broken spine later and recovered passport, I am moving back up to the train. The conductor stares at me with obvious horror.

“Milady… Forgive me, the protocols are clear… In case of attack.”

“Silence. Just lead me to the weapon locker, I am cutting this trip short.”

“Oh. I can do that!”

We run back to the front when I come across Sheridan.

“Here, take this,” I inform him as I hand the passport and ripped off page, “keep it safe, as I may need it depending on how things go.”

“You need covering fire?”

“Not this time, my friend. Stay with the train, and make sure that the luggage reaches the ship. And keep the passport closely. It will clear me of wrongdoing if I do get caught. I shall meet you on the embankments.”

“Understood. Don’t you die on me.”

“I do not plan to. I must go.”

“Hey, give them hell.”

I nod, but I sincerely hope that it does not come to that. I do not wish to start a war.

As soon as the locker is unlocked, I ditch my dress to reveal the small cloth underneath, to the obvious appreciation of the conductor. I decide to take everything but the rifle, as it is too unwieldy. I end up with my armor, mask, throwing knives, spare dagger, the Big Iron, and a spare revolver, all loaded with silver bullets. And my gauntlet, of course.

“Thank you for your company, and I am sorry that we were so disturbed,” I tell the petite woman.

“Oh, think nothing of it. Not your fault! I will be sure to express my stern condemnation of their careless actions. To hijack a train! Why, they will certainly be heavily punished. So, huh, take care of yourself and stay alive. Perhaps we can meet again later in Paris? I know this place…”

“This all sounds very tempting, but right now…”

“Oh, right. Off you go then, and please be careful not to get killed!”

“I promise to do my very best. Make sure to recover the bodies and place them in a secured spot. I did not spare their worthless hides for the sun to finish them off.”

“Naturally. I shall have to remember to delouse the carpets...”

I jump out on the platform after a last farewell, then onto a nearby roof. After that, I sprint out of the village and into nearby woods.

So.

That happened.

I suppose that my unknown enemies in Mask have made their move. It just feels so incredibly brazen. Not only are they creating a diplomatic incident, but it will certainly split their own ranks. Mask and Eneru are more groups of interests than a firm alliance united in purpose. Except for wars or exceptional ‘cas de force majeure’, their members have no obligation to act on behalf of each other. Such is not the case now. I am not important enough that Mask would reach a consensus to dispose of me, at least not yet. The only explanation I can think of is that someone committed a blunder, as there was little incentive to act in such a heavy-handed fashion.

Now, for my options.

I could try to run to Le Havre, but I sincerely doubt that I can manage it. That flare they sent means that they prepared something in the eventuality of their failure. I will face heavy opposition. More than I can handle, certainly.

No, the best I can do is to be taken into custody by someone who is not part of the ploy to arrest me in the first place, and they are bound to come and see what is happening if I resist long enough.

I think that this is the most likely outcome. I will have to strike a delicate balance between defense and mercy. Ugh, to play with stupid rules. I hate politics, but I hate dying even more.

Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the forest at full speed only to feel a spell ping against my aura. I am even now wearing Nashoba’s earrings, however, the enemy construct is not a proper tracker, but something different. It expands in a wave and returns the presence of anything with an aura. Truly, they are well-prepared. My time is short, and I realize my predicament.

I have spent so much time developing spells and techniques to find someone that I have neglected countermeasures against being found. I know what I shall focus on next. That is fine. I did not expect to escape without fighting anyway.

I run across an empty field and past an ancient stone house with a baying dog. The next forest is thick and old, with roots popping out of the packed earth like ancient bones out of a ruined grave. I weave my way between bulbous trunks and gnarly branches, barely slowing down.

Something is coming.

“Nu Sharran.”

A thin layer of darkness spreads from the gauntlet to cover the entire area, more fog than impenetrable wall this time. I am improvising. It seems to be working.

“Damnation. We lost the quarry,” a voice whispers to my front and right. Other tracking spells fuse from behind me, and far to the left. Multiple search parties? So soon?

Time to learn more. I rush to my assailants. The other groups will soon converge on the cloud anyway, so I might as well attempt some defeat in detail.

“Did you feel that?” the same voice asks.

I jump up a trunk and then from one tree to another like the planet’s most elegant chimpanzee. Predators always forget to look up.

I stare down.

Three masters stand back to back, covering each other. This time, they are clearly decked for war in light armor and powerful heart protectors. They carry an assortment of weapons and, surprisingly, nets.  One of them holds a shiny golden globe with a single ruby jumping on its surface. It looks like a powerful tracking device. I kind of want it.

“Nu Sarrehin,” I barely whisper, and a suspicious radiance pulses away from me, near the ground.

All three of the foes react by instinct, brandishing weapons at the distraction.

The fastest one immediately realizes that it is a trap, and already turns around with a sweeping motion. Unfortunately for him, I come from above.

“Hello, boys.”

I stab the slowest fighter in the clavicle, through the thinner armor covering the shoulder, and all the way to his heart. Hahaha, YES! I dodge above a counter strike by bouncing off the falling body and launch a knife, which my opponent deflects by twisting to the side. They are already attacking as I touch the ground. The left one drops his device and takes a sword and dagger, looking like a musketeer with his curly brown hair and sharp face, while the other brandishes a short spear. That one is weirdly plump, with a frizzy dark beard.

I lunge, but do not manage to extend it as the swordmaster smartly locks it with his two weapons. The bearded man takes a step to the side and attempts to stab me. I disengage by using a lot of strength and pulling with the shredding part of my soul weapon. The ghastly grinding sound surprises the first one who stumbles forward. I punch him in the face as he is now very close and his companion drives me back with a flurry of blows before I can capitalize on it. They resume their attack.

I angle myself to place the swordsman in front of the spear-wielder, and am surprised when the first simply goes low to allow the second to strike above him. They really fight together well.

“Cedric, I don’t think that she is a rogue,” the fat man remarks as he reels from one of my strikes.

“Why don’t you ask her nicely?” the first one retorts.

I smile as I back up against a trunk. I can tell the moment where their eyes widen with the typical ‘gotcha’ expression that I myself convey. Unfortunately for them, it was planned.

I press two feet against the solid base and barrel forward with an extended overhead strike.

The Rose cracks as the tip of the blade whips forward and down. The swordman collapses with half of his head split in two while the fat man falls to his knees, yelling in pain. Their essence is rich and the fight makes it all the more tasty. It is unfortunate that I cannot devour them. Perhaps they would tolerate A DEATH OR TWO. No! No. I shall stick to the plan.

“I am not rogue, thank you for asking,” I inform him pleasantly.

“Wonderful,” he replies, eyes fixed on his companion. He returns his gaze to me after realizing that I will not kill him.

“Kill or capture?” I ask.

“What? Oh, disable. The standard procedure. Don’t suppose I can convince you to surrender?”

“I took out the train station group because they illegally destroyed my travel documents. Would your group guarantee my safety?”

“Can’t talk about safety, but it would be better for you to allow yourself to get neutralized. We don’t know about any document thing. We just track wayward souls. Just let me spike your heart with a thin shard, it will just be shortly unpleasant, and you don’t want to wait until the cavalry arrives. They do not ask.”

“I would rather talk to someone in charge, like civilized beings. Can it not be done?”

“Sure, lady, after you are placed in custody. We are not to negotiate beforehand. Reputation and everything.”

“That is unfortunate… for you,” I hiss. I am not just letting someone put me in chains AGAIN. NEVER AGAIN. NOT THIS.

I resist the temptation to dishearten the bearded man. I must stick to the plan and KILL THEM ALL. No! Just… disable and force them to… I do not know. Negotiate? Yes, negotiate. I am not GETTING BOUND, FINGERS CUT. NEVER AGAIN. RUN. RUN!

“You should… make sure that your teammates are brought to safety…”

“Ahem, yes, thank you. I, Baltasar, owe you one.”

“Hsss.”

I leave and run, now feeling a distinct pull on my presence. They know where I am. I have to keep moving or I will be corralled. My instincts are rising to the surface with frightening speed at the thought of captivity, and yet, they feel more fluid than usual. They lack their previous indomitability. As if the experience of briefly going rogue shielded me from succumbing again.

More forest to hide me. I avoid the empty fields. A see a small elevation in the distance with the gutted remnant of a stone fort, but do not go there. Visible. Useless. More fields, which I cannot avoid now. Pine trees. Danger.

Intuition makes me dodge left as a dark arrow digs in, then through, a nearby trunk in a hail of splinters. A woman with a bow, in metal armor. Five other masters with a variety of weapons. Keep running.

I dodge again as another arrow drills through every obstacle before smashing into the ground in a shower of dust. The woman swears behind, and I slow down to allow the fastest pursuers to catch up.

And then I turn around, dodge under a thrown net which shimmers with enchantments as I avoid it by a hair, and stab forward. The lithe fighter was not expecting that. He parries with a foil but my strength cannot be denied and I mash him against a nearby tree, which cracks under the strain. An elbow to the face and my spare knife in his chest, pushed in with Natalis essence. One down, many to go.

A halberd smacks me in the shoulder. I roll with the blow and allow the armor to absorb the impact of the heavy enchanted weapon. I kick a heavyset man with an axe as he appears from behind a ravine. A spear and halberd strike together.

WORTHY PREY.

“Flay.”

The spell strikes a tall woman in the arm at point blank range. She screams and drops her spear as the skin of her arm peels off, leaving behind grey, dessicated flesh. She tastes nice. The halberd wielder, I repulse with a sweep, then catch him by surprise with a return strike. The Rose curves nicely around his guard to dig into his extended leg. A twist of the toothy side, and the limb is lopped off. Black blood on the ground.

“TRY HARDER.”

I reverse course and rush back. The archer is here with two companions.

“Nu Sharran.”

Darkness spreads over the forest once more. A projectile zips over my head. Good try. My turn.

I take out the Big Iron from its holster on my back and level it at the archer.

“Purge,” an older-looking gentleman whispers. The illusion dissipates. My PREY sees the gun and crosses her arm over head and chest.

I shoot her in the gut.

The poor girl screams when half of her abdomen flies out of her back. Gonna need a bigger armor, dearie. UNPREPARED. ARROGANT. I should punish them for daring to go against me.

The need to kill has faded somewhat. I am no longer here to destroy, but to teach them a painful lesson.

The next bullet pierces a quickly erected shield, but the mage manages to deflect the shot so that it barely grazes his torso. The last man has a shield, and he uses it to stop the next two shots. Powerful enchantments on that one. Heavy too.

I bend forward to avoid a sweeping blow from the axe wielder coming from behind, and slice his foot off. The Rose bounces back. Heavily armored. Still leave a bleeding furrow.

“Fuck!” the man swears. He tries to stop my parting blow. The tooth part grinds back as I dodge a hastily thrown spell. The axe falls from the man’s arms.

“Ya!”

I dig both feet into the ground and sweep the Rose at maximum extension. It whistles through the air and pushed all three combatants to the ground, even digging into the shield.

Time to try something fun! I jump and pull on the Rose, flying to the tip instead of pulling it back. I stab one of my throwing daggers in the axeman’s eyes as I go over him. I land with both feet on the unbalanced shield wielder.

“Shred.”

The mage grips his exploding gauntlet. I dodge back to avoid a sword thrust. My counter blow places the Rose’s edge into the attacker’s head. He falls to the ground, and his shield crashes on a stone with a deafening clang. I strike the mage through the heart.

Intuition screams.

I barely block the axeman as he tries, once again, to cut my head off. The attack still pieces through Loth’s armor and I feel pain for the first time tonight.

STRONG OPPONENT. GOOD ESSENCE.

The knife did not go deep enough. I also do not know of many foes who would get stabbed in the eye, pull it out and then get back into the fight without pause.

To my surprise, my foe takes a few steps back and the cause becomes immediately obvious. The third group of pursuers is upon us.

“Careful, she uses a whip sword and spells,” the axeman yells, his remaining eye firmly fixed on me.

“Spells? Is she not rogue?” one of the newcomers asks.

“Fuck no.”

“Any chance that you would allow me to explain myself” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

“You will explain yourself in custody, as is the law. I assure you that it is almost painless,” a brunette of small stature affirms. She carries a massive two-handed sword on her back.

“How do you know? Have you ever been spiked?” I retort.

Though she does not reply, a blond man covered with knives does so in her stead.

“I have. It was rather unpleasant, and I would not recommend it.”

“Not helping!”

Our deadly dance resumes. I rush back and disable a charging spearman with a shot to the face.

“You forgot about the enchanted gun? Really?”

“Can’t you use your eyes? She also carries knives by the way, if you need glasses.”

A loss of cohesion, ey? THE SCENT OF BLOOD, THE VISION OF DEFEAT. THEY KNOW.

One down, six to go.

My last two bullets are blocked by a man in heavy armor, and the small woman who literally cuts the projectile in the air. She smirks. I holster the Big Iron and… pick up my spare gun.

“Shit how many of those does she—”

I sprint back and shoot out the vampires at the edge of the formation. The knife one manages to get away with superficial wounds, but a man in light armor and a pike is hit repeatedly. He stumbles, his wounds not healing.

I aim my last bullet at the frontrunner. He has picked up the shield and charges me with the intent to slam it against my form. He ducks under cover and… I flip the revolver to aim the gauntlet instead.

“Shred.”

Enchantments groan under my attack, and finally snap with a dose of Rose fangs. I still have to disengage when the two-handed swordswoman almost cleaves me in two. Her fast attack catches me off-guard to bite deep into my chest plate.

“Hsss.”

That hurt. And her blade is enchanted, so healing will be slow. She deflects my counter strike with a powerful sweep and returns to formation. I am at risk of being overwhelmed.  I keep retreating until we rich another patch of woods. This one is too young to offer much cover so I merely keep moving until they grow dense enough to play with.

“Don’t let her get away!”

“How is she so strong, is she not a master as well?”

“Shut up and keep fighting!”

They work well together. I have difficulties capitalizing on my superior power as they do their damnedest to cover each other. That is fine. I can just chip at them until enough break. They are powerful fighters, all of them, and this combat is exciting. YES.

A worthy challenge!

“Nu Sharran.”

“Spell, spell, gather and regroup!”

“Bolt. Bolt bolt bolt.”

I throw blood-magic reinforced spells at weak points using the cover of the darkness spell. Even those who manage to dodge only reveal their comrades’ exposed backs. I have already used more power than two average battle mages, and I still feel far from exhaustion. I would have been even more dangerous if I let myself feed as well. It feels… amazing.

“Over here!”

I stab the swordswoman by stabbing her in the gut through a trunk, then severing both with a furious snap.

“Fuck! She got me…”

“LESS TALKING MORE FIGHTING.”

This is AMUSING. Yes, little things, come and entertain me, so that I may teach you.

“Close formation, don’t let her take picks.”

We exit another patch to yet another open ground, this one filled with ripening apple trees. The perfume of fruit and blood mix pleasantly in the early night. The five fighters still standing stop at the edge of the forest in a loose circle, wary of me. I swipe the Rose so that the extremity cracks in the air. The axeman flinches.

“Enough of this,” a smooth voice says from the side.

Both the enemies and myself turn with more than a bit of surprise, as two men emerge from the shadows of the orchard. I have not felt them come at all.

They are twins, I notice. Roland. I can taste their age and power from their movements alone. Even then, they stay at a respectable distance.

“Lord Andre, Lord Vincent, we apologize for this shameful display…”

The two have very dark curly hair, pencil moustaches and thin, pointy beards. Their expressions are filled with melancholy, as if the spectacle before them caused them pain on a fundamental level. They wear vastly different outfits, however, with one of them looking like a shepherd in simple shirt and white trouser. The other wears a princely blue vest with shiny brass buttons. I see no weapons.

“You have nothing to apologize for. We have seen her move,” the first one answers with a forced smile.

“Yes,” the richer-looking one adds in an identical voice, “now tell us, have you suffered casualties?”

The other group turns to the axe-wielder who shakes his head.

“She could have killed. She did not.”

“Then, we will hear her out,” the shepherd states.

“But…”

“We. Will. Hear her. Out.”

Silence now reigns over the fertile land. A nightly wind caresses my skin and cools the tingly sensation of my knitting flesh, where my defenses faltered. The grass undulates around us. The momentum of the night grinds to a stop as I feel their twinned aura rise from its slumber to anchor us all.

“We know of what you are, child. We have faced your brethren before. Tell us why you are here shedding blood while madness failed to grip your mind.”

“I was set up.”

“Elaborate,” the rich one orders.

“My train was stopped and I was asked to climb down for inspection. The man in charge took my passport and tore off the page containing my permit, claimed that I was entering illegally. He tried to take me away.”

“And you refused.”

“I cannot give myself freely to one who would break the law is such a brazen fashion. I am here with the approval of the Mask ambassador to the New World and I ran to avoid abduction. It is the truth. On my essence, I so swear.”

The oath takes hold, and all present wait with eager expectation. Fate leaves me unscathed.

Of course, there are ways to circumvent even the most direct of promises. It still holds weight, especially when the situation is messy enough that a complex scheme appears unlikely.

“Very well. We will make sure that you are protected and the guilty face the consequences of their actions. Unfortunately…”

“Unfortunately, we must still disable you. It is the law,” the shepherd finishes.

“What? Really?” I sputter.

“All parties will be disabled until justice can be rendered. No exception. Seeing as you already took care of your foes…”

“But… this is ridiculous!”

“A sword of Damocles that hangs over every troublemaker. Now, do you wish to fall as a warrior?”

“I’m not letting you just stab me, if that is what you ask,” I hiss in answer.

“We understand. Then, en guarde.”

The twins make black foils appear from their hands, the rich one having a longer and more elaborate one while the shepherd’s is thicker and heavier.

“Magna Arqa!” they declare at the same time. Their eyes flash purple.

Arg! All my focus ends on the shepherd who charges at vertiginous speed. I lunge, but the strike is deflected with minimal movement.

I pull back and let intuition take over.

Left.

Right. I move, and, with desperate speed, block a sweep that would have gutted me like a fish.

I suddenly feel a great pain.

The rich twin has reappeared. He was completely gone from my perception, and my attention had been entirely swallowed by the other one! Is this their Magna Arqa?

His blade is lodged in my chest.

Oh, this is bullsh—

123. The Underworld

I wake up expecting the worst only to be pleasantly surprised. I lie in a comfortable bed, head resting on a plump pillow and one hand placed on my belly. I feel the caress of a silk slip on my skin. Nothing restrains me, chains or otherwise.

Somewhere to my front and left, the susurrus of paper being turned breaks the silence. Without moving, I slightly open my eyes to take in my surroundings.

Somebody brought me to an extravagant bedroom of good size. The light of candelabras gives it a cozy feeling, and shows an interesting choice of decorations. All the paintings reveal a virginal woman in a white dress resting near a lake. Melancholy seeps into every rendition, even though each work was made by a different artist. Whoever decorated this room placed an emphasis on interpretation rather than on the subject itself.

I notice this in an instant, then turn to the person currently sitting at the edge of my bed. He places a page marker in a small leather-covered book before hiding it in an inner pocket of his dark coat. His gloved hand retrieves a golden pocket watch, which he checks, before turning to me.

“Five fifteen in the afternoon. Not bad, with a damaged heart.”

I take a moment to taste his aura. I have no doubt that he is powerful, yet his presence eludes me. The essence is extremely diffuse, with a vaporous quality that teases and disappears just as I grasp it. He wears an impeccable black suit under a dark coat with a brown vest and red tie. With his black hair and beard, he might have been threatening, and yet his smile as he talks to me would disarm even the most skittish of maidens. He is more like a handsome, sharp doctor than a dangerous predator. Even the amused glint in his dark brown eyes lacks bite.

“I fear that you have me at a terrible disadvantage, sir,” I observe. He chuckles in answer.

“Indeed, then let me correct this grave offense. You are currently in Paris. You were taken into custody by the Lords Andre and Vincent after a mighty tussle, or so I heard, and were consequently absolved of all crimes. You are fine, your Vassal is fine, and your belongings will be returned to you in their integrality. Some of our best smiths are currently working on repairing your gear, though I am told that your armor does that by itself —quite the defensive equipment I must say.”

“Who undressed me?”

“My own Servant, Mathilda. She bathed you too. I assure you that nothing untowards happened, I swear it on my essence.”

The oath settles without issue.

“The Roland will make sure that you have a ship to return whenever you are ready. There is, however, one thing…”

I frown. Of course, there always is.

“Lady Dominique. Or Lord, depending on your preferences I suppose, wishes for the pleasure of your company tonight as she celebrates the thirtieth anniversary of the peace of Baden-Baden.”

Seeing my incomprehension, the man elaborates.

“The cessation of hostility between the Mask and Eneru factions after the last war. Some territory changed hands, some reparations were agreed upon, and Lord Nathaniel was spiked through his anus to face the dawn until death.”

“Charming.”

“I regret not being able to witness that event, as I was slumbering at that time. Mathilda informed me that it was quite the festive occasion, however.”

“I will take your word for it. How does this concern me?”

“I suppose that you will have to ask her. In case it was not clear, Lady Dominique does not make suggestions. Terribly sorry about that. Rest assured that your safety is guaranteed during your stay, and you will most likely have a grand time. Mask parties are always memorable.”

“Yes, I get it, I attend the party and then you let me go?”

“Excellent. I knew that you would see reason. Now, you will find that we have prepared an outfit with your size for the masquerade. Please, don it, then join me outside. We have much to do before we are ready to begin. I will see myself out.”

“I did not catch your name?”

“Oh, my apologies. I am Jean-Baptiste of the Roland. And you are Ariane of the Nirari, of course. A pleasure. I shall see you later.”

I wait until the door closes before jumping to my feet.

I am fine, completely healed, in fact. And clean. Someone even took the time to brush and dry my hair before delicately positioning me in bed, in a very artistic posture. I confirm what my instincts told me. Nothing binds me. Unfortunately, I cannot refuse the hospitality of my host for two reasons.

First, the only free exit is protected by thick shutters, on the other side of which is the sun.

Second, I know of Jean-Baptiste. He is a renowned warlord of Mask, not just the Roland, but the actual alliance. His Magna Arqa fills his foes with abject terror. He is also the only known scythe-wielder among our kind. Naminata informed me that he was nicknamed the reaper, though never to his face, and that he was entirely monogamous.

If the reaper wants me to attend a party, I will attend the party. I do not stand a chance against one such as he. He stands at the apex of power and martial prowess in the world. Amusingly, he does not feel that way. I would call him debonair and suave despite the underlying threat, as if we were both merely victims of unfortunate circumstances and he had decided to make the best of it.

With a sigh, I move around and find an open chest at the base of the bed, which contains a white dress that I put on. The dress itself is rather complicated, and it takes me ten minutes to finish setting up everything by myself. Several layers of fabric contribute to a typically Victorian ensemble with a modest cleavage being the only concession to modernity. Every layer is made of different cloth, all of them bone-white, in a curious monochromatic harmony that relies on relief to create contrast. I like it. It is also almost my size.

At the bottom of the chest, I find two masks and a note.

“I was ordered to provide you with a basic mask, but nothing prevents you from using your own. The choice is yours.

Jean-Baptiste.”

The first accessory would not look out of place on a cheap stall for Mardis-gras celebrations. The second is my war mask. Chipped. Damaged. Heavily enchanted. An instrument of combat whose owner survived many battles.

I will not attend a masquerade wearing a debutante ball prop, thank you very much.

Now set, I exit into a gaudy corridor. Jean-Baptiste waits on a nearby seat with his book.

“Ah, excellent choice. First, you must be ravenous. Corentin is waiting in a nearby room.”

Corentin turns out to be a young man with angelic features, complete with golden curls, and a terrible case of the nerves. I soothe his mind and feed lightly, as it appears that he is rather inexperienced. I leave the satisfied youth asleep in his bed.

“Good. Now that we are done, let us be on our way.”

The corridor leads to a massive entrance, also shuttered, as well as a most peculiar candelabra. Someone is affixed to it in a very uncomfortable position, though probably not as uncomfortable as having his body skewered by multiple barbed steel spikes. Black blood seeps from his many wounds and, as I pass, I hear a weak moan.

“Is the decoration to your taste?” Jean-Baptiste lightly asks. I inspect the furniture and human  hybrid more closely and realize that the fantastic moustache is familiar. Indeed, he and I met briefly when he tore up my passport.

“Are we not missing five others?” I ask with a frown.

“I did not want to waste valuable blood to hasten their regeneration. I made an exception for him, seeing as he surpassed all expectations by breaking three international treaties in a single night. You are an overachiever, are you not, Odilon?”

“Please…” a raspy voice beseeches from the strange decoration. Jean-Baptiste does not slow down.

We climb down marble stairs in the dim glow of gas lights to a locked entrance. My host leads me down a hidden path through a wine cellar, then through a secret passage hidden behind a fake wine barrel of monumental proportions.

“A bit stereotyped, I know. We have to maintain appearances for the sake of newcomers and visiting dignitaries. Ah, but I wish I had seen you in action yesterday. To defeat over ten opponents in direct combat! And without the use of a Magna Arqa. It must have been such a precious spectacle. Alas...”

I frown at the non sequitur but remember that he cannot see my expression behind the mask.

“You talked to my captors?”

“Vincent and Andre, yes. If there is one thing they dislike more than politics, it is to be disturbed by a botched attempt at it.”

“I am still unsure as to why I was attacked in the first place.”

Jean-Baptiste turns to me then, his eyes searching my own.

“Ah. I understand that Dominique wished to see you, and that her orders were… altered somewhere down the line. A polite invitation was twisted into a blundering attempt at coercion by an unseen hand. As for the culprit, you must ask Lady Dominique when you see her. I already overstepped my bounds by revealing so much.”

“I see. I do not care for so much mystery.”

“Quite frustrating, to be on this side, is it not?” he says with a wink.

I know what he means. We usually save the incomprehensible situations and theatrics for the mortals, and speaking of theatrics, the passage we follow descends into the darkness through stairs cut into the very rock. We soon approach a dead-end, the end wall emitting a powerful aura. Another secret passage.

Jean-Baptiste bows with a flourish, then, without breaking eye contact, presses a secret panel that depresses to show the symbol of Mask.

Corny does not do the mechanism justice. I struggle to find an appropriate euphemism.

“How very... colorful.”

“Is it not? I shot down the suggestion to use a skull shape with its eyes shining red.”

“Only because you could not enchant it to laugh maniacally, I suppose?”

The lord graces me with a smile, and it feels strangely genuine.

“You understand.”

We walk through the revealed passage into a new area, this one significantly older. The air here smells damp and slightly rotten, the cause immediately apparent. We stand in a corridor harboring a multitude of alcoves, into which skeletons lie in neat, ordered rows. Stacks of skulls, bundles of tibia, mountains of ribs, and plains of knuckles alternate with each other to form a grim landscape of ancient, yellowed remains. I stop to inspect the show with curiosity. The remains are so ancient, and so anonymous, that they become a morbid background rather than dead people. I had no idea that such a place existed.

“We are in the catacombs, below the Rive Gauche, the southern part of the city. We did not create it, mind you. It was used to store the mountain of old human remains buried across the city around sixty years ago. Dominique found the setting simply too tempting. We have co-opted it as a result.”

“They dug a mausoleum for the unknown dead?”

“You underestimate the civil servants’ resourcefulness, my dear. Those are repurposed quarries.”

Jean-Baptiste leads me deeper into the warren of stone and bones. The passages quickly expand until every room becomes cavernous. The air gains an unnaturally cold quality as we move on, and I find myself enjoying it tremendously. Such an original setting! I wish I could take the time to make a few drawings. Perhaps later.

Our journey continues through winding tunnels until my guide stops before an innocuous pile of grinning skulls that nothing differentiates from the others.

“It should be here. Ah.”

He retrieves from behind it the head of a wolf, as dark as the night. I only realize its nature when he puts it on. The threatening maw is particularly convincing, and his eyes gain a wolfish quality.

“Homo homini lupus.”

I roll my eyes at the antics, and am graced with a rumbling laugh.

“Ah, you Americans. So refreshing. Forgive me for the detour, we will be there shortly.”

I finally notice how he orients himself when I realize that unknown symbols have been engraved on every arc. I would be lost without hope of rescue, were it not for my nature. The honeycomb of chambers and passages hides many secret entrances, easily discernible for those who can perceive magic. As we go on, I find the first irregularity since we started our little trek: a large arrow painted on the packed earth of the ground in luminescent paint.

“What is that thing?” I ask, surprised by the graceless display.

“Part of tonight’s entertainment. I am not privy to the details, yet I would bet a Louis d’or against a sou that it involves mortals. Maximilien loves his games.”

“Maximilien?”

“The Prince of Paris, and organizer of this event. He rarely disappoints. Ah, here we are.”

Our feet have finally led us to a monumental entrance. Wrought iron twisted in intricate patterns contrasts with the crimson rosewood essence to create a red and black scenery. A doomed man beseeches a beautiful and terrible goddess, who ignores his advances as her gaze travels up. A pair of perfect sapphires were inserted where her eyes would. They shine, azure, under the glow of nearby torches.

“The last work of Michel Entrenas. He hanged himself shortly afterward, claiming to have achieved perfection.”

“Your ambassador mentioned that you collected insane artists.”

“Yes. You can feel it, can you not? The manic fires of inspiration as his life slipped away like a guttering candle. Michel remains here, immortalized for all of eternity. I miss the bugger.”

“You knew him?”

“Recovered him myself, actually. We try to prolong their lives, but only repetitive feeding will dull their pain, and then, they will have lost their spark. Some people are broken. What they create shines all the more brightly for it.”

I am not familiar with metalworking for the sake of art. I can even spot a few places where flaws have escaped the artists’ attention, and yet, the sheer emotion captured by this work grabs at my mind with the frantic grasp of the desperate. It embodies everything we have lost and still admire in mankind, the drive, the originality, the unfettered genius. Emotions, raw and pure, radiate from it in waves that force my attention to dart from one detail to another, from one loving twist to another obsessed hammering. I stand in the presence of greatness.

Jean-Baptiste tugs on my sleeve, and I blink.

“My apologies, we must enter. You will love the inside, I believe.”

“Ah, yes, please lead the way.”

We approach and I notice a single wardrobe sat on the side against the wall. It is partially open and contains a single male white suit.

“Also part of the game,” Jean-Baptiste comments. He is having fun.

I let him open the gate and walk in.

If I still had a breath, it would have caught on my chest now. To call the place I find myself in grandiose would be a massive understatement. It is… incredible.

Under a ceiling that could fit a cathedral, a chamber of pharaonic proportion stretches far into the distance, leading to an elevated platform of white marble. The ground expands in a myriad of tiles of various sizes that still manage to fit perfectly. Columns as large as redwoods expand up, while stalactites climb down like so many swords of Damocles. Every inch of walls is engraved with chthonian scenes and alien landscapes, all unpainted grey, all bearing the touch of madness. At regular intervals, wood panels lit by candles show intriguing and unique portraits or sculptures in a succession of masterpieces that no mortal museum could match. A set of stairs lead to a balcony on the left side that allows its occupants to dominate the crowd.

And what a crowd it is.

In pairs or groups, vampires in white uniform mingle with silent grace. Masks as varied as can be hide their features in a clash of styles and tastes. Comedy masks, tragedy masks, veils and visors. Beasts and kings and gods and monsters. Assyria meets Rome while Guinea courts Russia in a dizzy dance of colors. It is, also, perfectly silent. All the guests sign with their hands at blinding speeds that only we can follow. Spread fans hide meaning from questing eyes, and the drone of moving fabric is the only noise, for no one here is a mortal.

There are more than three hundred vampires present, at least fifty lords and ladies. Not a single courtier. The combined power present here simply defies description. Even with their auras so tightly controlled, I feel something in the air that… alters it, as if a purple haze covered every nook and cranny of the room. The world around me feels more plastic, more fluid. I could gaze up and feel the presence of the Watcher through layers upon layers of stone.

Jean-Baptiste breaks my line of sight just as I am about to lose myself in a deliciously insane interpretation of the Last Supper. He extends a hand which I automatically take, and we move onward.

To the right and on the opposite side of the balcony, someone created an otherworldly pond filled with transparent water. Luminescent mushrooms and algae dance a chimeric rondo in step with the beat of a fountain, pulsing like a giant heart as it bleeds water. Vampires move and part before us in an organic fashion, and I realize why. My guide still wears black, save for the single scarlet dash of his tie. It gives the wolf mask an edge.

I am led to the base of the stairs and let through by a pair of powerful lords wearing identical masks in the likeness of sphinxes. We climb up, and the hum of conversation pops out of nowhere as soon as we are on the steps. It appears that the privileged section of the assembly prefers speech, though they do not share it. Lady Dominique is throwing me a bone by inviting me among the hallowed ranks of vampire nobility, if only for a night.

We top the landing, and I finally lay my eyes on the cream of the crop. Contrary to the uniform white below, the assembly here shows more color, though they maintain the monochromatic spirit of the evening. A burly man in red turns to look at me with a scowl barely disguised behind a kingly mask, also red except for stylized black curls in the hair and beard. A lithe lady in a blue gown and a very thin mask of a siren gives me an imperceptible nod before the pair returns to their previous conversation. As I pass, I feel the echo of Lancaster essence coming from her. A few other guests in white mingle around them, as well as another trio of dignitaries that we quickly join.

I see a tall, muscular man in green with a mask seemingly grown from roots to give him a monstrous appearance complete with a haunting smile. I taste a hint of Erenwald forest on him. His deep blue eyes glance over me without reaction. Next is a curious man with the thin build of a fencer and the tiniest hint of a potbelly. His costume is purple and atrocious extravagant, a mix between gaudy prince and jester, with a grinning full mask and a clown hat with two jutting, pointy black ends. He is jumping excitedly from foot to foot in a decidedly unvampiric way.

The center of the group, unmoving and aloof, is a vampire that can only be Lord Dominique.

And I finally understand why I was told multiple times that deciding on her? His? Their sex, was up for discussion. Dominique wears yellow and gold, with a top hat and the most androgynous face I have ever seen ‘hidden’ behind a thin domino mask.

I believe I will go with ‘he’.

He has a delicate face with a slightly squarish chin and prominent cheekbones, as well as hooded brown eyes. He twirls in his hand a silver and ebony cane showing a tiny spider. Blond hair falls to his shoulders in a delicate mess, slightly wavy, and looking deliciously soft. A loose jacket hides what could be small breasts or undeveloped ones. It tapers to a thin waist and dancers’ legs. Dominique is by far the most androgynous being I have ever seen. He smiles as he sees us.

“Look what the wolf dragged in. A wayward Devourer! Maximilien my dear, I hope you will not hold it against me, but I brought a surprise guest.”

Dominique’s voice is a husky alto as smooth as syrup, a voice to fall asleep to, or to sin with.

“Oh Dom, you know that I loooooove surprises,” Maximilen replies with renewed excitement. He is the flamboyant man in purple.

I stop at a few feet and curtsy in the court-approved way. Thankfully, we have adopted the standard customs of our European cousins, and protocol comes to me naturally.

“Oh, no need to be so formal,” Dominique lies, “here, let me introduce you to the bigwigs. Meet the master of ceremony and our curator of forbidden pleasure, Maximilien of the Roland.”

I bow to the master of ceremony, who returns the greeting with ostentation.

“And the fellow in green represents the Eneru on this auspicious day. Meet Ambassador Luther of the Erenwald.”

“A pleasure, milady,” he rumbles, “and how is Metis?”

“Eating well, last time I checked,” I reply after a hesitation. I cannot decipher the Ambassador’s expression behind the forest spirit mask. Thankfully, Maximilen guffaws.

“Luther my dear, how many times must I told you to stop scaring the fairer sex away with horse questions from the get go?”

I expect the Erenwald to lash out, yet he simply nods in understanding, his goal achieved. I do not know the first thing about him, while he knows the name of my Nightmare, which I do not share overmuch. The imbalance of information caught me off guard and set the pecking order. He managed it in one sentence.

“As for me,” Dominique continues, “I am your host tonight. Come, join us as we enjoy the festivities. We do not have the pleasure of seeing our ‘outre-atlantique’ cousins very often. How fares Constantine?”

“As fervent in his research as he is with legislation.”

This is common knowledge. I am not revealing anything that would endanger him.

“Ah yes, we had a copy of the Accords brought to us! Such great fun we had reading it,” Maximilien adds.

I do not react at the cheap jab.

“Oh,” the outrageous man continues, “but my little finger just told me that our last guest is about to arrive, and just in time too! Please excuse me as I set fire to the fuse. Do enjoy!” he finishes.

The peculiar man takes a step back and lightly jumps on the bannister — without looking — and levitates to the stage. I have no idea what kind of magic does that, but I admit to being impressed. And slightly put off by such a blatant violation of the laws of nature.

Maximilien bows to the assembled vampires and saunters away. Dominique steps to the edge of the balcony and settles to wait. I join his right side while Luther takes the left. The edge of a powerful aura brushes my back and I do my best not to react to the feeling of imminent danger I feel from the light contact. The man in red silently steps to my own right, regal mask aimed front. He tastes of Roland, and so old that his polar aura seeps through the skin to my very bones. If I were mortal, I would be shivering.

The door opens to reveal a surprise.

A human walks in.

I observe the curious scene with interest as it unfolds before my eyes.

The mortal wears the disguise that was left by the entrance as he hesitantly makes his way through the silent crowd. His brown eyes dart nervously from one guest to another as they sign and snap their fans close. Nobody shows any clue that they noticed what he is, and he moves on, oblivious to the fact that his thundering heartbeat resonates in the ears and minds of hundreds of apex predators. A chick in a wolf den.

As he moves on, some of the vampires in his trail pause, their finger dances faltering. Soon, I realize why as his unique scent makes its way to me.

I have never tasted such despair before. The raw, intense anguish he suffers from would have sent a lesser man screaming. The thrum of the blood pumping under his skin beats a staccato that forces me to clench my jaw shut, for his essence would be a prize like no other. He is probably living the single most intense moment of his life. I fear that he may die from the nerves before the next five minutes have passed. A small wave spreads through the crowd, imperceptible from the mass, yet obvious from my vantage point. They know. They wait for the climax.

And it comes.

From behind the elevated pedestal to my left, a curtain lifts and Maximilien struts in with two guards in sphinx masks. They pull a young woman between them. She is dressed in a beautiful rose gown, and her curly brown hair is raised in a chignon that reveals her tender neck. She is pretty, but quite lost as she gazes left and right with widened eyes.

The man gasps as she is brought forward. Emotional distress like no other saturates the air.

“Mesdemoiselles et monsieurs,” Maximilien says in French, “I have the pleasure of introducing the first attraction of the night! A game of skill for the most precious of prizes: Mireille Desmoulins, the beloved daughter!”

His use of the local vernacular can only be for the benefit of our breathing little intruder. Indeed, the reveal soon follows.

“And for our participant, I give you the retired soldier, the washed-out sharpshooter, the bereaved father, Alexandre Desmoulins!”

As one man, the assembled vampires stomp their right feet on the ground, and turn towards the man with absolute uniformity. Those who are the closest also adjust their distance, so that the crying man falls in a geometrically exact circle of doom six feet across.

“Nom de dieu!”

The imprecation reverberates through the unmoving crowd, a veritable garden of white statues as pitiless and remorseless as winter itself. Not even a strand of hair flutters to betray that the spectacle before him is not an impossibly realistic image. My hands grip the stone beneath, for the terrible sense of doom the man emits has now reached an intoxicating intensity. Fear and love battle in his harried mind. The wafts of terror tug at my instincts, and I thank Jean-Baptiste in my mind for allowing me to feed before coming.

“Alexandre mon coeur, it was perhaps unwise of you to default on your debts, yes? But since we are a generous sort, and so much enjoy a good story, you will be granted an opportunity to redeem yourself. Why, we do not ask for much, only that you participate in a little… contest.”

The two guards drag Mireille to the side. One of them lifts a finger and a stone column emerges from the very ground of the platform rising up until it tops the tallest of men. They attach the addled woman to it, including the neck to keep her head stable.

Meanwhile, Maximilien takes out a round, scarlet apple from the recess of his vest. Where he hid it, I have no idea. He tosses it in the air as he continues his speech.

“Tell me, you must be familiar with the story of Guillaume Tell, yes?”

Aha, I get it now.

“No, mercy…”

And so does Alexandre. I know Guillaume Tell, or rather William Tell’s story from an opera by Rossini. He was a Swiss folk hero who, forced by a cruel Austrian reeve, proved his incredible marksmanship… by shooting an apple off the head of his son.

“Tut tut tut tres cher. Surely a proof of skill would not be too much to ask of you, who claimed he had shot through every hole of a horseshoe at eight meters.”

Another guard brings an elaborate wooden box with silver engravings. Maximilien opens it, and picks up a master-crafted pistol, which he brandishes above his head.

“Come and accept my challenge, or refuse, and you both die.”

The momentum of the event relies on Alexandre being decisive, and he is. The retired soldier gulps noisily, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He drags his stress-wracked form across the room but collapses as soon as he steps on the pedestal. The focused gazes of so many lands on his back, to see if their prey will stand up and offer some fun, or if the hunt has drawn to a close.

And in a way, it is a proper hunt. Despite the artifices and cruelty, the prey stands a chance, technically, in a contest of wit and skill. He failed the contest of wit in a spectacular fashion, and the contest of skill is off to a very poor start. Nevertheless, I find no fault in Maximilien’s trap.

Alexandre picks a pistol and turns to his captive daughter, now sporting a new fruity hat. His arm waivers before he even aims.

“Oh, our candidate is facing some difficulties, it seems. Would there be a kind soul in the assembly who would champion him in his darkest hour? Someone to… balance the scales?”

A few heads tilt, but no one sees the need to gather undue attention.

“A wager, perhaps? Hmm, what could I offer…”

“I have a proposal,” the man in red interrupts.

I freeze. The spell that had withheld the sound of conversation from the balcony lifted as soon as he spoke. His smooth baritone rings clearly, and I find hundreds of masks now facing us.

“You do, Bertrand? Do tell. Enlighten us with your ideas!”

“I propose that, since Alexandre offended us, he be represented by a foreigner.”

A hundred gazes fall on Luther and glide away like water off oil. No one would dare play with an ambassador during a peace celebration, and so, they move left to the other stranger in their midst.

For one moment, I wonder how they know who I am behind the mask, but the mystery is soon resolved when I peek right and meet the implacable glare of the man in red.

“How about it, Ariane of the Nirari? I wager a secret against a ship.”

Interesting. I have an inkling that I may have found my enemy among the Roland. As to why he antagonizes me, I have no idea. I seem to remember from one Nami’s lessons that Bertrand is a faction leader among the ranks of Mask, but I fail to see how it relates to me.

As to the challenge itself, I fully intend to answer it. I already proved that I could fight. Let no man think that brawn is my only strength.

“I accept. Should Alexandre fail to hit the apple, I will grant you a secret I know.”

“It is done!” Maximilien screams with obvious amusement before the man in red reacts. I know he meant a specific secret, and I purposely misunderstood. Now, it is too late to object thanks to Maximilien’s prompt assistance. Serves him right.

Not that I intend to lose.

I take a step back and move alongside the balcony to my left, then I use power to jump off the rails and directly on the platform, legs bent during the flight so as not to expose more than a stockings-covered ankle. I land in a crouch and turn it into a curtsey as I unfold. Applauses welcome my daring entrance, as well as the stupidity of calling the powerful man’s gamble, I suppose. They can be appreciative. It costs them nothing.

Alexandre quivers at my inhuman display, but I soon approach him and address him in his own language. I take the time to articulate every word with care.

“Forgive my accent, for I come from far away. I will assist you in your task,” I calmly state. At the same time, I let my Charm radiate out and catch him slowly.

Revulsion wars with hope in the father’s cracking mind. Eventually, he realizes that any port is good in a storm. He accepts me, and in turn, my influence grows.

The Lancaster essence was the first one I collected, one that I have used with diligence over the past few decades. I have seldom resorted to the brute power it afforded me. Instead, I have built upon the patience and understanding I possessed even as a mortal.

I have never let myself grow complacent.

Under the inspired guidance of a true master, I have honed this skill to a deadly edge, never settling for mediocrity when style could be achieved. With my natural speed, Charm is, I believe, the ability that I had the most natural talent for. After all, power is a crutch.

I pull a handkerchief from the man’s breast pocket, conveniently added for the disguise. I grab one hand and clean it slowly. Alexandre takes a deep breath as I give each finger its attention, pulling on them lightly as I am done.

“Is it true? The horseshoe story?” I ask, as I carefully maneuver so that his back is to the silent assembly. From up close, the stench of nervous sweat almost overwhelms me. He truly was on the verge of a heart attack.

“Yes… Yes, though, it was an old one with only three holes. But yes, I did it. And at eight meters.”

“Is that so? Tell me about it.”

I let the man recollect the experience as I slowly, slowly seep deeper into his mind. The trick is to eat at the present while leaving the past alone. For that, I need him to focus on a specific memory that I know I must not touch.

“I was on my cousin’s farm near Aix-en-Provence. It was summer. The air smelled of lavender and dust. I had my old pistol that I won at the Saint-Germain fair.”

Deeper still. His breath slows down, his back straightens. The tremors in his limbs, which had previously wracked his body in their unyielding grasp, disappear progressively. I conjure in his mind the peculiar smell of the flower and he shivers. I pause then. If he relaxes too quickly, he may collapse.

“Were you trying for a record?”

“Yes, a bet with a local girl whom I had taken a fancy to. I failed the first time and she left when she saw that I would not stop, could not stop, until I had placed those three damn bullets in those three damn holes. I knew I could do it. I was so close. So I repeated it, again, and again. Load the gun. Shoot the gun. Clean the gun. I attained a sort of… spiritual state of perfection.”

“Describe it to me.”

“It was… everything felt more alive, but also more distant? I was not just my body, I was something else. My gestures became part of a ritual.”

I slowly place the gun in his hand, feeling the calloused skin as I do so. They are not as precise or stable as they used to be, but the skill and memories are still there, buried under the constraints of his imperfect flesh. We just need to call them to the surface. He will never return to that moment, yet the memory of it will carry us through this ordeal.

“I think I saw God that day.”

“Everything felt so smooth, yes? As if it had to happen. It was fate.”

“Yes. Fate.”

“And compared to that, shooting an apple would be so easy.”

“At the same distance? Hah! Child’s play.”

Time for power. He must not see his daughter for longer than an instant or his focus may waver. I place both hands on each side of his big, honest face, and turn him forward to the target. He can only see my mask.

“You remind me of Marthe. She was my wife.”

Ah, oops? A bit too deep. I withdraw from his psyche and focus on the memory of the gun. It is almost too late, but not quite. I will grant him a few moments of absolute focus.

“Show me perfection, Alexandre. The red apple.”

He nods and I step to the side.

From a broken, mature man, he turns into a lethal fighter in an instant. One step forward and his posture relaxes. The gun lowers in his extended arm. In half a second, the barrel has aligned with its target.

Alexandre pulls the trigger with casual east and the fruit explodes into juicy fragments. Mireille yelps.

The spell breaks.

“Mireille, ma chérie!"

The expensive gun clatters on the ground as the mortal sprints forward, towards family.

As for me, I face the crowd and bow.

“Bravo, bravo!” Maximilien exults, “cutting it a bit close at the end, but that was a commendable application of Charm, and by one so young! Bravo! Ladies and gentlemen, we are off to an auspicious start.”

Mask welcomes my performance with thunderous applause. Not a word is spoken, and yet I can feel grudging respect sneak through the restrained auras and controlled posture.

Something pulls at me. I look left and into the incredulous gaze of Alexandre. His daughter is crying against his chest.

I nod, and read the answer on his lips.

“Thank you.”

You are welcome, my big, blundering oaf. You just earned me a ship!

“Yes, excellent,” Maximilen continues, “I hope that this little appetizer was enough to awaken your appetites, my lovelies, for the night is young and I have so much to share.”

I drop down from the pedestal and walk back to the stairs. Groups graciously meld and part before me, closing behind like glue in a practiced dance that only centuries of habit can create. It is as he said.

We are just getting started.

124. Hearts and Masks

When I rejoin the upper floor, the man in red has returned to an animated discussion with Jean-Baptiste and the lady in blue. The air around them warps strangely so that I cannot discern their words, an intriguing effect created by a proximity enchantment set on his mask. A useful tool

The few guests in white have gathered in clumps, taken in their own intrigue, while Luther has wandered to the main floor on some errand. I am hailed by Dominique.

“A pleasant performance. Maximilien’s prowesses with Charm shame us all, and place him above the majority of the Lancasters, so any compliment he pays speaks very highly of one’s performance. Well done.”

“You honor me.”

“You almost went too deep at the end. Be careful, for strong memories bring strong associations.”

“He did mention his wife.”

“I like to step aside and deprive the prey of visual cues. It helps settle them. Ah, listen to me ramble.”

I am, in fact, taking notes. One does not every day get pointers from a centuries-old master of intrigue.

“I invited you for a celebration and we could not go five minutes without you being hassled. I am making a poor show of it. Let us relax as we await the next act.”

Dominique and I make small talk, and by small talk, I mean that he questions me about the New World. Our discussion remains light-hearted, and I never come close to revealing what I believe to be confidential information. His main focus seems to be the opinion we have of our European cousins. When I imply that we expect interference sooner or later, my host surprises me by confirming my doubts, as expected, in a roundabout way.

“Some, like our good Bertrand, see the world at large as an opportunity for our kind to expand faster. He theorizes that vampires require a living space, and that as apex predators, our living space is significantly larger than that of humans and beasts alike. Our numbers increase slowly while the spawn of men thrive and multiply, something that will become a cause for worry when we are inevitably discovered.”

“You believe that we will be dragged into the light?”

“Yes. Do you not?”

“I do. I just expected you to believe that you could maintain the status quo.”

“I have not remained in power for so long by basing my plans on hopes, young Ariane. The mages will publicize their existence, and soon. Afterward, the other members of the supernatural family will be revealed one by one.”

“And Bertrand believes that aggressive expansion could offset the risks?”

“Bertrand believes that a more… united ‘vampirekind’, forgive the word, will be best equipped to fend off the backlash we will face. We would, of course, need to agree to be ruled by a united government.”

I finally understand. Bertrand heads a faction dedicated to uniting all of us under one flag, by force of necessary. That includes taking over the New World as we are comparatively weaker, and that means that if he has the opportunity to deprive us of one of our assets, he will. Such assets include a stable, sane Devourer with a proven record of acceptable combat prowess. Bertrand wants me dead. He was the one who tried to dispose of me, and Dominique just informed me in the most direct way possible. For a Mask, that is.

“An intriguing plan. I believe that a fragmented nation means that we cannot be taken down in one fell swoop, however, perhaps there would be a need to decide on a common strategy to handle the crisis stemming from the great reveal?”

“The Great Reveal. I like that. Yes, I will be in touch with Constantine. Ah, and here is the next  piece of entertainment.”

Maximilien steps on the stage again while a string quatuor sits behind him to provide background music.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow denizens of the sunless earth. Here comes the moment that you have been expecting, the selection of the Queen of the Night!”

A pair of burly men in sphinx masks comes, carrying a rectangular black box covered in shimmering runes and reinforced with silvery bands, which they unlock to reveal a circular opening at the top. The thing looks massive and incredibly heavy.

“Is that… a raffle?” I ask with disbelief. Dominique merely chuckles.

“One of the more recent and popular ideas from our brave Maximilien. He writes the names of the women set to attend the party and places them in this strongbox, which is then kept in a secret location for a week before being brought here. We do not check for tempering and the trail to follow is only mildly difficult.”

“Hold on, do you mean…”

“Yes. This is a cheating competition. This time, the strongbox was placed in a bank vault. We made it excruciatingly clear that the guards were not to be harmed and we have seen, I must say, quite a few interesting takes on changing the contents of the box. You understand the issue with changing the box’s contents, yes?”

I think for a second and… of course.

“You have to be the last one.”

“Indeed, you must be the last person to change the names to your advantage in order to win. That means that every new robber must contend both with the security and with the presents left by the previous teams. I do believe that I know who will win, though I will refrain from commenting for now. There could always be an upset.”

Maximilien is done ranting about the illustrious tradition he created merely a few years ago. He plunges a hand in the box and moves it around while the four players accompany him with dramatic tension.

“And the winner is… Meredith of the Hastings!”

Everyone applauds immediately, and I do not detect a hint of distress from those who played and lost. A fair lady in a bee-themed mask points a finger at herself, apparently surprised. Instead of climbing to the stage to claim her prize, she turns to a man by her side and curtsies deeply. Dominique leans towards me to whisper in my ear.

“Theodore of the Roland, the true artisan of this victory. Ah, what a delightful lad. Maximilien would not shut up when he figured out the young man’s trick. You see, Theodore unexpectedly went early to the box and left without altering it. He returned one night later… and changed the upper plate. The one that Maximilien just put his hand through.”

I try to imagine someone in a bank vault, juggling magical implements and a screwdriver to achieve his goals. It must have been quite the task.

“Do you not protect the box against tampering?”

“Of course we do. There are low-level enchantments to prevent alteration as well as high-tier trackers to prevent someone from switching the whole box with another one. We detected the tampering, but Maximilien judged that it was delicate and clever enough that it should be tolerated. He also loved young Theodore’s concept. You see, that lad enchanted the plate so that every paper going through it will have his darling’s name written on it. A brilliant idea! And no matter how many times the ballots were replaced within the vault, the final result would be the same.”

“And Theodore struck a deal with Meredith?”

“No, he just fancies her terribly. What a way to woo a girl. Why, I believe that he will spend a pleasant evening.”

And indeed, Maximilien enthrones Meredith in a farcical remake of a royal coronation. No sooner is the lady crowned, that she calls upon the crafty thief to join her side. The couple then walks through the crowd on their way to the balcony, receiving silent accolades and excited signs from everyone around. Meanwhile, Maximilien flutters from group to group.

“Our gracious host will give a ranking to every performer, in secret of course, so that they may improve in the future.”

“What an excellent way to promote a healthy competition.”

“Indeed. And now, please excuse me a moment as I congratulate the victors.”

Dominique leaves me behind, and Luther uses this opportunity to take my side. Chairs of stone emerge from the stage’s ground, white and sober, as the quartet leaves and a column of mortals joins the party.

They wear expressionless white masks and carry their instruments with them in an awkward shuffle, clearly unused to the ponderous red garments they had been given for the occasion. At their head stands a tall, fat man with long white hair. He huffs and puffs as he carries a pulpit with him, on which he fastened music sheets.

“Oh, mortal performers,” I observe.

“The best at captivating us,” Luther replies, “I enjoy good music very much. It is the only time when Masks will shut up.”

“Ahem.”

Luther leans towards me. From so close, the scent of old power and the sensation of being in the forest almost overwhelms me.

“Do I shock you, Ariane of the Nirari?”

“No, but you cannot blame me for avoiding a joke at our host’s expanse. I already tested the limits of their hospitality.”

“Indeed. That cute little train conductor you seduced was most adamant in her protests. I had the opportunity to lodge a formal protest. How fares Odilon?”

“The perpetrator? I am not sure if I am at a liberty to say.”

“Do graciously dodge the question while leaving a hint, as tradition demands.”

“He was appreciating Jean-Baptiste’s furniture the last time I checked.”

Luther’s amusement is palpable. Bravo, Ariane, very subtle.

“Ah yes, he was giving them a close look, I would wager? They can be so convoluted.”

“Thank you for the rescue.”

“I would not want you to feel like the only straight arrow in a quiver of hoops.”

Any witty retort I may have found dies on my lips as we watch the orchestra, now settled, welcome the arrival of a diva in a pink gown with a domino mask, and a male singer in a grey tuxedo.

Also, did I seduce the train operator? It was by accident. I swear.

“Ah, Ernani,” Luther says as he nods to himself.

“Ernani?”

“Yes, a recent Opera by Giuseppe Verdi. Are you familiar with the man?”

“I loved Nabucco.”

“Then you will be delighted. This is the Orchestra of the Opera-Theatre de la Nation. Maximilien sometimes pays princely sums to famous performers so that they come here and entertain us. I recognize their conductors, as well as the singers.”

“Does he not fear discovery?”

“Maximilien gives them two Louis d’Or per night and per head. I assure you that paying musicians a generous wage is such a rare occurrence these days that they would not forfeit their chance for any reason. Besides, this is Paris. You cannot raid a bakery without stumbling upon two secret societies meetings.”

The musicians tune quickly. The lights dim while strange lamps criss-cross the stage until the performers are illuminated and we are basked in darkness.

What follows is a reproduction of my very first night at the opera with Torran. The orchestra and singers play airs from Verdi’s masterpiece with talent backed by experience and hard work. The performance is flawless. The stage comes alive with the distressed arias of the disgraced nobleman Ernani and his promised, the beautiful and fierce Elvira. By themselves, then in pair, they proclaim their love. I have to stop myself from leaning too much over the balustrade on two occasions, especially when Elvira begs Ernani to save her from marriage with a decrepit old codger. Poor thing. I have Luther to thank for offering context, as I do not speak a work of Italian.

The performance ends too soon, and Maximilien now steps on the platform.

“Une extraordinaire performance, toutes mes felicitations,” he says to the orchestra, then he turns to us.

“And now, my fellow puppeteers, I invite you to join us in singing a beautiful hymn, one that speaks of a lost land and its memory. Though we remain apatrid, we surely all long for what we sacrificed on the path. To me, my dearies, to me, and let your voices rise on wings of gold!”

“This is my favorite part,” Luther whispers in my ear, “watch closely, for you will not witness this anywhere else.”

The chef d’orchestre lifts a wand. Wood and brass answers. The music starts softly, with strings offering melancholic phrases, then the vast cavern booms with the call of fate, mirroring the cruel destiny of Nabucco’s Hebrews as they lament the loss of their city. Finally, the introduction ends with hints of hopes.

The vampires come into play.

With a single voice, they sing, as umoving as the cavern around them. The chorus should express a powerful longing, but in the polar voices of the assembly, its tune becomes hollow and threatening. The assembly’s inability to convey emotions they no longer experience turns the hymn into a dirge, the auric wings tarnished, yet no less imposing for it. Mask voices are as exact as they are flat, and their mechanical precision echoes an increasingly distressed orchestra.

They can feel it. Haunted eyes rise from music sheets and away from the frantic director. They steal glances at what they finally recognize as predators.

“Le memorie nel petto raccendi,
ci favella del tempo che fu!”

Rekindle the memories in our heart; and speak of times gone by.

Too late. It is far too late for us. No golden harps or prophet’s voices will help us recover what we left behind. The only warmth we feel is the one we plunder.

After touching the hidden sky and the depths of the world, the chorus finally dies down with pianissimo voices and lightly plucked strings. The harmony lingers in the air for a few more seconds which are still, to me, parts of the song… then the conductor lowers his hands and the performance is over. We all applaud the mortals and each other, and I do so with gusto. Truly, that was a show like no others.

I only listen with half an ear to Maximilien’s compliments. Afterward, the orchestra shuffles away in silence, heads bent and eyes lost like drunken revelers heading home. Light progressively returns to the cave and the flickers of conversing hands heralds the return to normalcy. I lean back from the balcony.

“I hope you had a delightful experience. Alas, I forgot to inform you about this new tradition, or I would have invited you to join us,” Dominique pleasantly says as he returns to my side.

Yes, well, no.

“Think nothing of it. I believe that I had a more pleasant time listening than I would have had singing.”

Me and everyone with functional ears in a fifty yards radius.

“It gladens me that you would find the show to your taste. I am glad to see the younger generations appreciating the fine arts just as much as we do. Ah, how I wish we could end the evening on that beautiful note. Alas, we have a terrible matter to attend. Two of our domains have entered into conflict over ownership of the city of Amiens, and agreed to settle their differences tonight.”

“A duel?” I ask. I always like a good duel as long as I am not on the receiving end.

“In a manner of speaking. No, I fear that the offended party chose chess.”

I was not aware that the game of kings was such a dreadful pasttime. I am personally terrible at it, but I still have a good time watching experts play.

“You will understand very shortly.”

As expected, Maximilen returns to the platform.

“Our friends from Rouen and Lille agreed on trial by chess for the control of Amiens. Although I regret, as always, that it has come to violence, I can only salute the determination of both parties in pursuing this ancient tradition.”

Hmm, what?

“Lord Corentin, please select your champion,” he continues.

“We choose master Pascal D’alembert.”

From the door behind the stage, a portly man with a frizzy black beard in a dark ensemble comes out. He is a mortal, calm and composed.

“D’Alembert is a renown player, one that has dominated the field for over a decade. Lille is practically unbeaten,” Dominique explains in a deceptively light tone.

“Only mortal players have the wherewithal to do what must be done.”

I have a terrible feeling about this.

“And you, Lady Annabelle?”

“We choose Sabine Treillis.”

The crowd twitches and signs as a young woman appears, eliciting a raised brow from the chess master. She has sad, large brown eyes, and an elegant dress that both fits and does not. It is too majestic for the girl’s nervous hands and bent back.

“Set the stage and let the contestants take their place.”

The stones of the platform shift again. Squares disappear belowgrounds and emerge back later, now a shiny onyx. Soon, a traditional board, eight by eight, occupies a significant portion of the space. Then the pieces appear.

Wearing swords and square shields, men in black and white uniform emerge in two lines from the back. Cattle. They take the places of pawns as I watch with horrified fascination. Then…

No. No no no no no. No! I turn to Dominique to confirm that this is a joke, a jest to terrify me, but no, Vassals are now stepping up to the playing ground. Vassals!

No, this is not what i think it is. I refuse to believe it.

Maximilien flips a coin.

“Sabine Treillis gets white.”

The Vassals, garbed in a variety of costumes designed to mimick armor, split in two groups. Sabine’s team lines up behind the white cattle-pawns.

“You may begin.”

“Pawn to D4,” the girl declares in French.

A man with glassy eyes takes a few steps forward.

“Knight to C6,” D’Alembert retorts with barely hidden contempt.

And so they go on, until the fateful moment.

“Pawn to E5,” Sabine announces.

One of the cattle steps forward and to the diagonal. He brandishes his sword and sweeps at the opposing pawn’s neck.

The sharpened blade hews through sinew and cartilage with a ghastly crunch. A tremendous geyser of blood splatters the killer, the ground, and a few nearby pieces as the fallen piece collapses on the ground with a last gurgle.

By the Watcher.

Surely, surely they would not. Surely.

Two guards in sphinx masks come to retrieve the body, leaving promptly to free the space for D’alembert’s next move. The victorious pawn’s rule ends when d’Alembert has yet another cattle strike him down. Sabine, however, was expecting it.

“Queen to D8.”

Gasps echo through the spectators, and I understand why. D’Alembert’s move deprived his queen of cover, and Sabine decided to trade piece in what I recognize to be a suicidal move. Her queen will take his and be in turn taken by the king. But… No. They would not.

A tall woman with a lost look steps forward with a heavy mace. On the other side, a smaller woman with very dark hair turns rigid.

With slow purpose, the white queen moves forth. Her mace rises. This is WRONG. WRONG. THIS IS ALL WRONG.

“What are they doing? What are you doing?” I hiss, realizing that the entire private floor can hear me and not caring one bit. How… This makes no sense, no sense at all!

The black queen lets out a muffled scream, a sharp thing that escapes through gritted teeth. I step forward and stop when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I swipe it away, feeling something impact. Claws grab my neck. No no no NO NO NO, FIGHT IT.

Broken skull, one eye falling down, a mess of brain and matted hair. A second squishy hit. I am dragged away, through a door, only to hear Sabine’s calm voice.

“We forfeit.”

A corridor and Dominique slams me against an engraved wall. He shows no emotion but regret.

“It is their choice. I cannot intercede.”

“Then you are mad, you are all mad!”

“Their sacrifice and ours will prevent the many deaths that come with open war.”

“It is better to die on the field than to allow such travesty to occur. You have lost yourselves, you fools!”

I hiss and sputter, knowing that I offend and not caring a bit. They are insane. They are monstrous. Such a travesty should never have been allowed to occur. BLASPHEMY. SUBSUME AND PREVENT.

“Our contest is cruel, but so is war. When a lord falls, their Servant die as well. Their Vassals suffer from the severed bond.”

“You use sophistry to deny the truth, and the truth is that a Servant’s life is sacred. We all know it. We all feel it. You perceived the collective pain we all endured just as I did when that woman died. Servants are not tools to be used in games of power!”

“Everything is a tool.”

“If you truly believe that, then there is nothing left behind the Masks. You have become empty vessels with no substance.”

Heavy silence descends upon the empty corridor. I want to kill him. I want to kill them all. They desecrate everything that we should stand for. They taint the most fundamental rules that keep us in check. Vassals are treasures. I will never, ever tolerate anything else but that.

“I shall forgive your words, as I understand where they came from. You have my apologies for submitting you to such a spectacle. I did not expect such a powerful instinctual response.”

“Perhaps you should pay more attention to what your instincts tell you.”

Claws grab my neck once more.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

I swipe once more with as much speed as I can gather and Dominique takes a step back.

“Spare me the theatrics, unless you wish to further break the rules of hospitality. You wanted me for something, yes? Tell me what it is so that I can leave this place.”

All the art and the songs, they no longer matter to me. The evening is entirely ruined by… I cannot think about it without feeling a bone-deep anguish. I should have… but no, I tried and was restrained. They are fools. Imbeciles.

Dominique takes my measure. I cross my arms to signify that we are fully done.

“Very well. Please, follow me to my study.”

We walk up a set of stairs and through soberly decorated alleys. Contrary to the catacombs, this place is warmer, and smells of fresher air. Eventually, Dominique opens a door and we enter a richly decorated workroom. Time to see what this is all about, why I had to fight my way through battle masters, got stabbed in the chest, then had to witness the murder of a Vassal. Time to see why the head of Masks demands my presence. I hope that it will not bind me to this place for another fortnight, because I am more than fed up.

Dominique gestures. On a dark wood table, in the middle of the space, a single book has been left with a fountain pen by its side. This is a collector’s tome with a richly decorated cover and the crisp, white pages I associate with brand new editions. Indeed, I approach and realize that the bindings still smell of fresh leather. I pick up the pen without quite understanding my role until I look closer.

A good half of the cover shows an excellent rendition of a red-hair man fighting off goons in brown outfits. He holds a sword in one hand, and a voluptuous dark-haired beauty in the other. In the background, a fetching blond woman with a torch and a muscular man with dark hair and a beard fend off more assailliants. The title jumps to my eyes in all its golden-lettered glory.

“The Cecil R. Bingle Omnibus, Vol. III.”

Dominique’s voice wakes me up from my consternation.

“I would like an autograph, ‘Ariane Delaney’.”

Motherfucker.

125. Tempus Iterum Fugit

Warning: change of point of view.

ad-Dār al-Bayḍāʼ, three days after the Parisian night.

The inn had seen better days.

The man in a hat poured himself another goblet of rum. He nursed it, savoring the burn as it went down his gullet. Even the stench of piss and vomit disappeared under the heady savor of processed sugarcane. It brought the man back to decades ago, when his world was simpler, and the sun of the Caribbean shone on endless opportunities. He allowed himself a sigh of contentment before returning his focus to the sleaze in front of him.

While the man was a creature of the sea, the sleaze was a dweller in the muck. He had the pallid face and rotund gut that came with too little activity, too many shepherd’s pies. Or whatever fatty stuff they served here. The man felt an intense dislike for the sleaze, yet he said nothing, for the sleaze brought money. Usually.

“So, what do you say?” the sleaze asked.

“You know, there are rumors,” the man replied. The sleaze frowned.

“Rumors,” the man continued with a pointed look, “and gossip. The crew of the Triton took a similar offer a few weeks ago. They told stories of a deed gone to shit.”

“Poppycock,” the sleaze said, with a dismissive wave of his gloved hand.

“They said that they met a she-devil below deck. That she swallowed a bullet and spat it out. They say that she killed two men by breaking their necks with two fingers. They say that she let them go because she had her fill.”

“Surely captain, you do not believe those… those inventions. Stories, all of those.”

The man served himself another goblet. It would be the last one. He was no longer sixteen. Hadn’t been for a while.

“I say that she let them go as bait.”

Eyes met eyes over the decrepit table.

“And a week ago, men came. They had questions. I don’t like questions.”

The sleaze did not reply. He, too, knew about the men. He had disappeared the devil knew where the moment their strange white uniforms started to dot the streets.

“And now you come here asking me to seek a pale lady on a small ship.”

“The money—”

“I have not lasted this long in my profession by being an imbecile. All the gold in the royal bank won’t do you any good if it’s Davy Jones footing the bill. I say no. And if others say yes, they are fools.”

With that said, the man downed the rum and sighed in appreciation. He walked out, shutting the door behind him. The noise of children playing in the sunny street came and dimmed again. The sleaze did not follow.

A fancy cottage in Essex, five days after the Parisian night.

A vampire and a godling sat on either side of a coffee table, each nursing a cup of fragrant black tea. A small fire was dying in the hearth. Sometimes, shiny embers danced over the blackened log, and the wood cracked merrily. There were no lights.

The godling was old, ancient even, and yet powerful muscles still clung stubbornly to his aging frame. He lounged without fear, eyes closed. A persistent smile lifted the corners of his lips, hidden behind a scar and a prodigious white moustache. Between them, a series of books lied piled high. They were fresh from the printer, and still smelled vaguely of new leather.

“You haven’t changed,” the godling finally said. His voice only carried one emotion, and it was wonder. “You haven’t found a cure to your curse then?” he asks immediately after with obvious concern.

“Hah, only death will lift this one. I am content. Rather, I will always be grateful for your understanding at that time. It… helped me a lot. I was young then.”

“We both were! And I do believe that you have started to repay me…” the godling answered with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Are you referring to your children?”

“Indeed! I was endlessly amused when Nathan sent me the draft for his second book. Ariane Delaney! I could scarcely believe my eyes. You saved him, did you not?”

“Not his life, but I believe that he would have had his heart broken if we had failed.”

“And a heart is needed to differentiate an adventurer from a looter. Ah, it pleases me endlessly to know that the younger generation has taken the torch to carry the name ‘Bingle’ into the annals of history, even if the more respectable circles would dismiss it as nothing but bluster.”

“Perhaps not for long. The world is changing.”

“But it might be too late for my youngest. A good head on her shoulders, that one. Perhaps too good sometimes.”

“Miranda? She and I had a little encounter that, I believe, changed her mind.”

The godling chuckled, and it soon turned into a full belly laugh.

“Ah, I am so pleased to see that the spirit of adventure lives on in my dear children. I am so glad that I got to share what I saw with them.”

“Is it also why you wrote your memoirs?”

“That, and two other reasons.”

“Do tell.”

“The second, we do not all have the benefit of dodging old age, Miss Delaney. A man may live for decades, but leave a good book behind and he will keep touching hearts for centuries. We all have our paths to immortality, in a way.”

“A noble goal. And the third?”

“Money. Hah! I used the mountain of pounds and shillings I made to purchase the lovely domain you see, as well as help for Rose and I in our old age. Our children got the best education money could provide through pages upon pages of naked blades and stiff upper lips. Huzzah!”

“And thus, a new generation of Bingles was unleashed upon the world, to find adventure wherever it may be.”

“You know, Ariane, sometimes I believe that adventures find us.”

The vampire smiled mysteriously.

“Who knows?”

They sipped tea in companionable silence.

“You know,” the godling said, “even without the rest, I would still have been pleased with the one expedition we completed together. Even after finding the diamond of Manipura and the golden crown of the Prince of the Serengeti, saving those fifty people from a cult remains my greatest achievement. This, more than jewels, fills me with pride.”

“You have a good heart, Cecil. I could tell the moment that we met and the only thing you expressed was sympathy.”

“You were more guarded, then. I am glad to see that you have grown into your own, if only inside of your heart. I hope that you will find it in you to extend your benevolence to my grandchildren!”

“You have my word that I will help those I can, given the occasion. The world would be drabber without them around to open forbidden vaults and uncover cursed temples. I just hope that neither them nor I will bite off more than we can chew.”

“But, my dear Ariane, being an adventurer is all about that!”

December 1849, Boston, two years after the Parisian night.

The street urchin hid his hands under his armpits. The mittens were not enough to keep the cold at bay. The old man by his side pointed to the right, where late pedestrians passed by the lit windows of tailor shops. Even at this late hour, the streets bustled with late shoppers and clerks heading home from work.

“How about that one. What do you say?”

The woman he chose was young, with blonde hair held up in two buns over her ears. A fashionable hat matched a dark blue cloak and gown ensemble that looked slightly too cold for the biting wind. Despite that, she showed no signs of suffering from the biting wind that froze the urchin to his core. The street rat stared and counted. He judged that her outfit must cost upward to twenty dollars despite the lack of much jewelry. At least! She also walked all slow and proper, and she had a handbag that could have some good money in it. And she was young and without a chaperone. Really, a perfect mark.

And yet…

There was something there that pushed the urchin’s intuition to scream. It had never failed him, this intuition. Right now, it said not to approach the woman. It said to stay away, on the other side of the bay preferably.

“No,” he told the old man.

“Hah, you’re still so green. Look—”

“No. She’s bad news.”

“Have you lost your damn mind?”

The urchin shook his head with vehemence. The old man had never seen him so animated, so assertive.

“Remember when I told you the cops were coming, and they were?” the urchin said. The woman passed them by. Suddenly, it felt even colder. The arctic gale sent the urchin’s teeth chattering.

“Fair enough…” the old man whispered with a frightful glance, “fair enough. Come on.”

They left. The urchin looked back one last time as they turned the corner. His gaze met a pair of sapphires as cold as the winter solstice. There, he saw only two things. Death, and amusement.

The sapphires followed him as he started to run. Thankfully, she did not follow.

July 1851, Moonside, Illinois, four years after the Parisian night.

The vampire and the mage rode into the village. It was a strange village. It lacked a few things.

First, and sadly, it lacked children. And the old folks to look after them.

Second, it lacked clothes. Or at least, that is how it appeared as many trod its street in the state of nature.

The blonde mage took a deep breath. She was an interesting mix of deadly implements and noble beauty. Wheat-colored ringlets fell to her armor-clad shoulders, mixing with the white of her uniform. A sword adorned her lovely waist. She was the perfect synthesis of the war mage and the Austrian princess. She also smelled nervous, and the peculiar inhabitants of this peculiar village smelled it in the air.

The vampire turned to the side and a tiny brunette pointed at a nearby field.

“Just finished,” she added, though what she was referring to was not expanded on.

The vampire and the cabbalite rode through the street. A man stopped to sniff the air, but his companion slapped him across the back of the head, muttering something about ‘not mentioning the smell’ and ‘having to regrow your damn ears’. The pair made their way to a vast field unimpeded.

There, they met a tall man cleaning his blood-soaked hands in a basin held by a bored-looking, muscular young woman. The man had the powerful build of a fighter at the top of his form. His body was covered in wiry muscles as taut as strings. He also moved with unnerving grace as he greeted the visitors with a happy smile. His square jaw and messy brown hair lent him a roguish charm that had some effect on the mage.

“Heeeeyyy bosswoman, how are you doing? I told June, ya know? I told her. Damn, it’s been a while since we last saw the bosswoman, and there was this here matter that I had to solve and I knew, I just knew that the bosswoman would check on her good pal Jef. Didn’t I? Anyway, so good to see you.”

“Is this the… matter you are referring to?” the vampire asked. In the field, there were many people milling about and discussing matters as if they were at a tavern. The center of the field hosted a circle drawn in chalk, and at the edge, there were the remains of a monster of good size.

It would have been scary, with a wolf head filled with sharp, curved fangs, were it not for the sorry state it was in. Someone had done an impressive number on the thing. Its blood soaked the ground. One of the arms was detached.

“Yes! Every three months or so, someone from the north comes and sees that Moonside is a pretty sweet haven, ya know? Milk and honey and whatnot. They see this and they think, ‘Damn there’s a lot of girls here, and food. And the weather is nice, I guess?’ We have amazing weather, that's for sure. Helps with the crops, and the hunts. Good situation. Anyway, they see this and do they think that it’s all hard work and being buddies with the immortal night horror who ate Fenris’ enforcer in front of him because she was feeling peckish? Nooooo they are all, yeah, free stuff. And I’m all, nah fellas, you want something, you have to go through me first. And they are all, hah you are a tenderfoot who doesn’t know about the hardships of the north! I have eaten my own shoes boiled with salt and my belt as a side dish, all while pushing the coals around with my massive, throbbing, oh there are ladies here nevermind. But you get the idea! Funny thing is, they keep me on my toes. Can’t get rusty with those around. Hey! You might think that they might learn, but they don’t. It’s like werewolves are not the most shining intellects around. Crazy, huh?”

“Yes,” the vampire deadpanned, “unbelievable.”

“Thanks bosswoman. So, who’s the new girl? Hello!”

“Ahem, yes, and a good evening to you Mr. Jeffrey.”

“Hah! Mr Jeffrey! You hear that, June? Now that’s real class. Mr. Jeffrey. Got a pep to it, don’t ya think? Why just the other day I told old man Gregor, I told him, I said—”

“Jeffrey, as commendable as I find your enthusiasm, I need to finish this conversation before dawn,” the vampire interrupts. She smiled gently to take the edge off her comment. They were, after all, on his territory.

“Jeffrey, I would like you to meet Carmela von Leeb, of the White Cabal. She and her family have suffered at the hands of other werewolves, and she requested to meet with you in order to overcome her fear.”

The tall man unleashes a devastating lopsided grin on the hapless woman. He wears trousers and nothing else, highlighting an impressive physique.

“Why, yes, fair lady, I will be your huckleberry—EY!”

The muscular woman by his side had so far listened to their conversation in sullen silence punctuated by the occasional eye roll. As Jeffrey tried to flirt, however, she had apparently decided that it was time to intervene and emptied the water basin on her leader’s head. Then, using the distraction, she decked him.

The pair fell into a snarling pile of play-fighting. It was clear that Jeffrey would win with ease, when suddenly a grown man with lost eyes bowled into the victorious werewolf, resetting the struggle. Then, a wisp of a girl with a pixie haircut joined the fray, followed by a dangly fellow with a long beard. A massive fat man grabbed half of the pile and smashed it into the other.

“Gus, get your fat fucking ass off my face!” someone bellowed.

In the clearing, the visitors looked on. The vampire was checking the time on her watch while her horse sniffed disdainfully.

“Is it always like that?” the mage asked.

“You get used to it.”

The mage was still a bit scared, but the werewolves had certainly lost some of their mystique already. And that was before the naked people charged in.

1854, A secured compound on the coast of Florida, seven years after the Parisian night.

The war mage checked his circle one last time. This one was not some hastily drawn defense. It was engraved in the stone beneath him at great cost, with molten silver and great patience. The main gate had always been designed with reverence and defensibility in mind. It was paying off now.

“Alright, remember, don’t wait until they come in. Fire immediately,” he said to the men and women by his side. There were a dozen of them. He prayed that it would be enough.

His attention returned to the double doors in front of him, made of solid wood reinforced with enchanted nails and steel bars. The fighters by his side wore clothes of an assortment of colors. His foes wore white and, more worryingly, red.

The Red Cabal. He had heard of them. It was said that they served a dangerous master.

There was a rumble and he brought his focus front and center.

The wall on his left exploded inward, and a horror walked through the opening. No, the horror walked, and it made an opening. Mortar and bricks yielded under his tremendous bulk. Debris large enough to crush a skull bounced off his armor like gravel.

He was humanoid, and he wore on himself a steel armor colored black and engraved with reinforcement runes shining a terrifying red in the shadows. The plates that made his protection were thick enough to stop a cannonball, and he wore them as if they weighed nothing. The floor groaned with every step.

The man stomped down and cracks snaked out from the impact. He grunted, and swept before him with a maul of ridiculous proportions. The inelegant implement smashed through their entire flank with disheartening ease. Where the giant struck, only mangled bodies were left with bleeding eyes and ears from the shock of their crumpled shields.

But the man was not a war mage for nothing.

“Inferno!”

“Mistral,” a calm voice retorted.

The wave of pure heat met a cold front as solid as a wall. Tempestuous winds ravaged the main entrance. The man looked up from behind the protection of his raised arm to see the colossus walk by. Their eyes met.

The man felt himself dragged in the placid brown gaze. There were no emotions there, just a relentless drive to accomplish the task he was given. The sheer will inside of the titan’s mind was crushingly overwhelming. Here was a creature who would destroy a mountain piece by fucking piece over the eons if ordered. All obstacles would be swept not by smarts, but my single-minded obstinacy. He—

The amulet around the war mage’s pinged and the link between the two broke. The mage was not so much protected as kicked back into himself, reeling from the frayed contact. The colossus was now obliterating his way through his other flank. There were two gunshots and the men he had placed on the balcony fell to the ground with gaping holes where their chest used to be. It was already over, and there had been no battles. All those efforts and preparations swept away like a sand castle.

He knew why.

Even without the show of speed and inhuman power, even without the deleterious gaze that gnawed at his willpower, there were the auras. Cold. Powerful. Uncaring. Two of them.

The war mage reinforced his shield as a woman stepped down from the wreck of the wall. Fighters in red and white were pouring in from the breach, not mixing with one another. They moved further into the complex in a way that showed that they were following clear orders, and knew where to go. It was humbling.

It occurred to the war mage that he was the last alive from his group. Men and women he had trained and dined with now lay dead, their lives extinguished in mere moments. So many talents from so many places snuffed out at the same time, and with no result.

The war mage was too experienced to feel much guilt. They were fucked no matter, that much was obvious. Which begged the question, why was he still alive?

The male vampire held his humongous weapon close enough for the war mage to spot runes of breach and destruction. It was a tool specifically designed to crush shields. A mage-killer.

The female one stopped to stand in front of him. He avoided her glare.

“Why?” he asked. They were just smugglers who traded in exotic goods. Certainly not anything that justified such a thorough extermination.

“Do you know who your main investor is?” the woman asked in a smooth voice. She had the barest southern accent.

“My investor?” the man repeated with incredulity.

“So, you do not know. Tell me, you are the head of security here, yes?”

“I was. Until you killed everyone. How does this relate with my fucking investor? I got no investor, only a boss.”

“Your company has an interesting benefactor, one who has used your supply routes to smuggle equipment in and information out. We are in a period of preparation, you understand. Everyone is setting their pieces on the board, and it so happens that you are helping the other side.”

“And so you came and slaughtered us? Just like that?”

“Yes. Just like that.”

She was barely paying attention.

“Is that why you kept me alive? You wanted to make an example out of me?”

He could see mild surprise through the pitted war mask as the vampire returned her attention to him.

“Example? No, my dear. You are neither an example nor a rescue.”

“Then…”

She was suddenly very close. The shield wavered around him. Her voice grew husky.

“You are dessert.”

September 1857, Louisiana, ten years after the Parisian night.

The vampire held a small babe in her arms. Her poise and light touch showed a certain experience with children, although she kept her a bit farther than necessary, as if afraid to break her. There was still a distance there. A certain unease.

“What do you think?” the mother said by her side. She had the frazzled hair of someone with too little sleep, but her eyes gleamed with excitement and a smile to match.

“Healthy and beautiful, I can ask no more from my namesake.”

“I hope that she grows to be smart and careful, just like her mom.”

They spent some time playing with the child until she fell asleep.

“How are things otherwise?”

“The western plantation was destroyed in a flood two weeks ago. Fortunately, everyone got out before so we have no casualties. The harvest was insured. My only worry is that the broker might make some difficulties.”

“If it happens, do let me know. I can convince them to honor their bargain.”

“Yes. You know, since that incident with the bank five years ago, everyone has been polite and respectful with me.”

“Unsurprising. I made an example out of them, after all.”

“What did you do?”

“It would be best if you did not know.”

December 1858, Boston, eleven years after the Parisian night.

“I have no idea what this is,” the tall vampire said. He placed his aristocratic hands on his desk, fingers intertwined. His attention was devoted to the strange item before him. It was a dark root covered in thorns. The base had been severed in a particularly clean way.

“One thing is certain, however. It is not made of earthly materials. It has no weight when measured, though I can feel a pull when I move it around. I am sorry that I cannot help you. Furthermore, even if I had not sworn to keep my inquiries secret, there would still be no one I can think of who could give us an answer. You said that it flashed and disappeared when you touched it?” he asked the blonde woman facing him.

“Yes. Others can pick them up, apparently.”

“Would you be willing to demonstrate?”

The blonde vampire placed a finger on the root. It disappeared in a flash of purple light, leaving nothing behind. It was as if it had never existed at all.

“Hmm, from the color, I would hypothesize that it relates to your future Magna Arqa.”

“How so?”

“I would prefer not to elaborate. We progenitors have access to our own from the moment we were reborn, although, it took me a moment to realize that I had the ability at my disposal. I was informed by the lords and ladies I questioned that the ascension to their status was a personal experience, and that it varied greatly between one person and another. As such, any information I could give you could hamper your progress. It would be better if you approached this important step on your own.”

“Hmm.”

“Do not be too disappointed. Your actions so far have shown an intrinsic understanding of your own nature that I can only admire. I am sure that you will be fine.”

The blonde vampire blinked, perhaps surprised at the compliment.

“As an apology for my lack of result, how about another class on blood magic?”

“I would be delighted.”

“And so would I. You know, you are much easier to handle as a student than as a fellow ruler.”

“If you showed the same acumen for leadership as you did for the study of the arcane arts...”

“I will have no lip now, young miss. The class has begun.”

March 1859, Boston, twelve years after the Parisian night.

The Warden of Illinois and her second climbed down the rock stairs leading to the heart of the mountain, the seat of the shadowy power ruling the North American vampires. Runes shining a dull red cast a worrying glare on black stones that no mortal had seen in over a decade. There, below, decisions were taken that would reach many groups. With a single vote, a hundred souls could be consigned to oblivion. It had happened before.

“I could accomplish so much with just one cadre of the Red Cabal,” the red-haired one hissed.

“I told you, it is too soon. I will wait for their esprit-de-corps to crystallize into tradition before splitting their numbers. The Red Cabal is less than three years old and they are a tentative group at best. Only when they have created an identity will it be safe for me to split their numbers,” the blonde one retorted. Her annoyed tone suggested that the current discussion was merely the rehash of past grievances.

“Just tell me if you do not trust me.”

“I trust you, Melusine. Did I not make you my second?”

“Your alternatives are a dimwit and a pickpocket. Forgive me if I am not convinced.”

“Doe is not a dimwit,” the blonde vampire warned with an edge to her voice. The other raised her hands in surrender.

“Fine. Fine! Just keep in mind that we are missing opportunities that will not occur again.”

“If you need magical support, I can fund a mercenary squad. They will not be as trustworthy, however.”

“I am aware. And yes. Chicago is developing quickly, and the new territories offer intriguing opportunities for expansion. I need all the means I can get. Consider it an investment.”

“I hope I will see a return soon. I have already tied too much liquidity in those projects of yours.”

“And you will have massive returns. I promise it.”

The pair arrived at a landing and doors opened to let them in. The circular room was already occupied by powerful denizens of the night sitting in uneasy silence around an imposing round table made of raised stone. The mood was tense.

The two representatives of Illinois sat at their designated spot. The blonde one exchanged a quick nod with the second of Louisiana, a sinuous black woman with a perpetual thin smile. A few more joined them, then a tall man in a red robe entered, and the vault was sealed shut behind him.

Silence and immobility now reigned in the room. Those who sensed such things could have felt perfectly contained auras, one for each attendant. Another with a sharp control might have detected the edge they had.

“Welcome to the conclave of the Accords,” the tall man began without preamble. “Tonight we address the grievances of Lord Adam, of Alabama. Lord Adam, the floor is yours.”

The tall man sat down and a twin in a beige ensemble stood up, his sibling remaining in his chair. They both had eyes and hair of very light brown, almost copper.

“Thank you, Speaker. We come to complain about the escape of more than one hundred and twenty slaves of various origins from our land over the past three months. All have been confirmed as genuinely escaped, and all have headed north into Tennessee, Kentucky, and eventually, Illinois. I have ample evidence that those fugitives received help from a well-developed organization. Unfortunately, any efforts made to recover those slaves from the state of Illinois have been rendered fruitless by the vehemence with which said hunters were… compelled into leaving.”

The blonde vampire allowed herself the tiniest predatory smile. Lord Adam resumed his speech.

“We argue that, one, the slaves are our legal and documented property and that, two, their liberation is an illegal act both according to the Accords and the law, as it constitutes theft. Three, we argue that, by actively opposing the retrieval of our stolen assets, House Nirari is breaking the Accords, which state that any clan is free to pursue offenders outside of their territories within reason. As such, we demand that Nirari ceases to offer support to the organization helping those refugees and known as the Underground Railroad. Furthermore, we demand that House Nirari allow our slave hunters access to her territory unfettered. Finally, we demand redress for the loss of goods incurred to a third of the market value of the lost slaves. Thank you.”

The Lord sits down, and the Speaker takes his place.

“House Nirari will now have an opportunity to defend themselves, following which I will arbitrate the dispute according to the law.”

“Thank you, Speaker,” the blonde vampire said as she stood up, “I would like to address each point in turn. First, House Nirari does not support the Underground Railroad in any way. We do not fund, supply, or inform them. We merely tolerate them on our land. If Lord Adam has any proof that we support them, we invite them to provide it. Otherwise, this specific case falls in the adversarial organization clause, and we have no obligation to oppose them.”

“You claim that the organization known as the Underground Railroad does not receive your support?” Lord Adam asks with obvious distrust.

“That is correct.”

“The Railroad is too well-organized. They receive the help of one of us.”

“And that person is not me.”

Silence returned to the assembly. Lord Adam stewed in his own ire. The two black representatives from Louisiana checked their nails with mock inconspicuousness.

“Would you be willing to swear on it?”

“Yes,” the woman immediately retorted.

“And you are unable to stop them from stealing my slaves?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Enough,” the speaker says before the bickering could start, “Ariane of the Nirari is correct. She is not obligated to remove that organization from her territory. You may not invoke the hostile group law as the Railroad does not target you specifically, merely your… financial interests.”

The Speaker pauses, then turns back to the blonde vampire.

“The other points remain.”

“Concerning the slave hunters, I refuse, and for two reasons. First, the slave hunters have, on repeated and verified occasions, abducted free citizens out of greed or laziness, some of whom were under my protection. The slave hunters are a vile and despicable lot, more interested in filling their pockets than in applying the law they so readily invoke. They are worms and roaches crawling on my territory, touching what is mine. I have made… many examples… and will make more until this is over. “

The blonde vampire’s aura bubbled ever so slightly. Something crawled at the edge of reality, driven by her anger. When she realized it, she brought herself under control. The few who noticed did not comment.

“As such, I am justified in refusing access.”

“To individuals, yes, not to a whole profession!”

“I also refuse access to bandits. This is also a profession.”

“Slave hunters are pursuing a legal activity. They are not outlaws that no one will mourn!”

“And this leads me to my second point. They are bandits, because I state that any slave brought to my domain is free as is the case in many territories throughout the Union.”

“Slaves brought to a free state do not become free. See the Dred Scott versus Sanford decision two years ago. Pardon my language, but if you believe that my slaves stop being my property simply because they crossed an imaginary line, you are delusional.”

“Pardon my language, but I can, and if you don’t like it, you can fuck right off!”

“Order, order!” the Speaker yelled above the hisses. He knew that House Nirari was extremely territorial. Lord Adam must have expected it and tried to rile her up. Unfortunately for him, her arguments made sense. The Speaker waited a second for calm to return before addressing the crowd.

“Ultimately, the decision depends on Lord Adam’s slaves counting as property or not. Even now, the United States is torn apart by the enduring conflict between slavers and abolitionists. Although I based our own organization around the mortal institutions ruling the territory, there is now a discrepancy between the two. To my immense surprise, this discrepancy does not stem from the addition of Mexican and Canadian lands to our dominion. Indeed, those have been added seamlessly to our ranks. No, the discrepancy comes from the so-called ‘slave power’, the political might that slave owners hold over the American government and all its institutions. The Compromise of 1850 first, then the following events have driven a wedge between us, who have so far adhered to our principles, and the mortals, who have peddled them in favor of peace.”

The Speaker’s aura leaks as he gets more absorbed in his demonstration.

“If we accept that every state makes their own decision on slavery, then the slave-owners should have no say in the fate of black people in abolitionist states. To allow bounty hunters to violate the local freedoms, and to deny freemen the protection of the law of the states they live in, this is an act of cowardice for the sake of tranquility. Our principles must prevail for our own peace to survive. Ariane of the Nirari has all authority in her province. If she denies slavery in Illinois, then there are no slaves in Illinois as far as this court is concerned. We will all respect our own boundaries. I will not have a repeat of the disaster that plunged Kansas into a state of protracted violence.”

Lord Adam winced, but he helplessly shrugged in a show of grudging acceptance. The issue was settled, for now, but the bitter taste of conflict lingered between two sides separated by an unbridgeable rift.

April 1861, Marquette, Ariane’s administrative building.

The blonde vampire dropped the newspaper heavily on a table near Alexandria Merritt. The fire archmage figured that, since Lynn had married off to one of Boston’s richest men, and Ollie had ascended as the first leader of the Red Cabal, she qualified as important and deserved some explanations.

“What’s the matter, too many ‘okays’?”

“I wish. Do you remember what I said about those dwarven-engineered guns we made for the army?”

“That you cannot wait to see who will be the sorry idiots our country next declares war on?”

“Yes, that. Unfortunately, the joke is on me. We are the sorry idiots.”

The archmage leaned forward. The paper had the illustration of a smoking structure on a tiny island by a port. The header said, in big bold letters:

Fort Sumter Attacked!

And below, in even bigger, bolder letters.

CIVIL WAR!

“Ah, fuck.”

126. Shadow Diplomacy

Boston, October 1861.

“I don’t like this at all, Ariane. We have seen war before, you and I, down in Mexico. This will be nothing like it.”

Sheridan grumbles as we pass the door leading into the Boston vampire compound. The three-winged edifice was expanded with cliffside structures overlooking the river to accommodate the rising number of night denizens.

“How do you figure?” I reply with curiosity. Although he seldom voices his opinion, Sheridan has proven adept at getting a feel of things, especially when it relates to humanity’s darker emotions.

“You remember the caning of senator Sumter?”

I frown, staring in his honest brown eyes. Thankfully, being a Vassal seems to have slowed the aging of the brave Texan, and only the barest of grey can be seen in his moustache.

“Yes, I do. It occurred some times ago, no? Five years, or so?”

“Yes. A representative beat a senator with a cane. A cane! During a session. Because he had dared to ridicule the institution of slavery. I knew, then, that it could only end in blood. When violence is left free to roam without criticism from the party of the offender, then you know that both sides have stopped seeing the other as people worthy of the protection of the law. There are two sides there divided by a burning hatred, and it will only end when one of the fighters lies bloody on the ground.”

I sigh. I honestly believed that it would not come to war, and that slavery would die out eventually. I even fully supported the Ekon clan in helping as many of their followers as possible to escape north by opening my lands to the Underground Railroad. Now, it appears that ideology has ignited passions to the point of no return.

I know of civil wars from my father. Among all the deleterious events that can affect a country, war is the worst, and out of all the wars, civil war is the worst. Civil wars turn brother against brother, friend against friend. They sap the strength of nations and fragment families. Neighbors no longer trust each other. Communities fracture and die. After such a long prelude, the bloodbath will be cataclysmic. It would take, to calm things down, an ability to compromise that does not exist in the hearts of men.

“Will you do something?” Sheridan asks. His expression remains carefully guarded.

I know what he means. He wonders if we, as a community, will intervene. We do not have enough weight to stop the conflict, that would be impossible. We do, however, have the possibility to support one side and tip the scales in their favor.

“Only if we can reach a consensus. The only worse thing that could happen now is a vampire civil war on top of the rest.”

The Watcher knows that we will have our hands full in the immediate future.

We move into the main building. Wilhelm the butler welcomes us from behind his desk, and I look left to see the main lobby filled with tables hosting a plethora of mortals, Vassals and Servants all of them.

“I’ll be at the bar,” Sheridan says with a subdued tone. He walks to Melitone who smiles when she sees him. I walk the corridor to the secured access to the council chamber.

The walk down is more solemn than before this time, and everyone arrives before the official starting time, including a harried-looking Melusine. Thirty-one Wardens and their second standing behind them sit in a circle, with territories ranging from Mexico to Quebec, and from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Only twenty-two are lords and ladies. Some of the wardens, like me, are still Masters. Constantine is last to arrive, though he is, as always, strictly on time. He strides to his stone chair and addresses us without preamble.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I will break tradition by starting with an important statement. Today, Spain, France, and the United Kingdom have gathered in London to discuss a military intervention in Mexico for the official purpose of debt collection. I have received word from reliable sources that the French do not intend to withdraw from Mexico, and furthermore that the intervention itself was pushed forward by a certain Mask faction hostile to the Accords. The armies of Europe will make landfall within the end of the year, and they will bring with them the forces of Mask. War is upon us.”

Whispers spread through the room. I do not react, as Sephare is the source, and she sent me word before the meeting.

“Now, I hope many of you have read the war provisions of the Accords. I am as of now declaring a state of emergency. You may no longer communicate with your allies, trade partners and so on if they are part of the Expansion Faction of Mask. You may no longer invite them on our soil, and when they attack, you are duty-bound to join us in the defense of our lands.”

The whispers disappear and the implications are made clear.

“Now, I know that some of you might be reluctant to break ties. I know that some of you see this land as a temporary position, and wish to rejoin Europe soon. I will be generous. In a week, there will be another conclave. Those of you who wish to change allegiance can signify their choice by not attending. Please note that this will be considered a declaration of war, but war within the boundaries of the standard customs. You will have one more week to leave the continent with whatever you can take with you. If, however, you stay and it turns out that you are helping the enemy, you will receive the treatment of a rogue. I hope this is clear.”

Death for the transgressors. A suitable punishment for abusing Constantine’s generosity.

With his message unambiguously stated, Constantine straightens his spine.

“I may not be the smoothest politician, but I know myself enough to realize that, so far, we have not been treated seriously. The Accords have held because they were a convenient way to regulate relationships between vampires from very different backgrounds, and with very different expectations of the life they would find here. To many, our rules were a means to an end, and our community, merely the result of circumstances.”

Constantine’s demeanor turns unusually cold. I understand his purpose. He wishes to remind everybody that he is still a Progenitor, one of the most powerful vampires in existence, and certainly one of world’s topmost archmages.

“When you go back to your fiefs to make your decision, I want you to remember that the Expansion Faction does not come here to add us to a healthy community. They are here to reap the harvest of our labor, and to absorb our resources in their pursuit of forceful unification. All that you have built here will be taken and employed, up to and including your own freedoms, because a faction on the path of total war acknowledges only two groups: their subjects, and their enemies. Do not mistake their promises and bargains for anything more than the offer of a fancier collar around your necks. We, on the contrary, are a known quantity. You know me, you know the rules, and you know that they do not stand in the way of whatever purpose you pursue. This is the Accord’s first true test. Are you willing to step up and defend what we stand for, or are you willing to roll over for whatever scraps the Expansion Faction throws your way? You have until next week to decide. That is all.”

We do not speak. Constantine has proven himself unusually eloquent. I suspect the delicate touch of Sephare and Melitone.

“The next order of business is the Civil War that just started. I will let Lady Sephare take the floor and share with us the results of her work,” he says.

Constantine sits down, and Sephare stands up. She waves her hand. The smooth fabric of the titanic stone table between us grows liquid and a three-dimensional map of North America appears, with the United States split in three different entities.

I admit to being much impressed. This is an incredible feat of magical engineering, and I had no idea that we were equipped with such an excellent tool. Like the others, I stare at the display before us. The territories going from Texas to the south-west, to Virginia in the east, are contained in a single entity named ‘Confederate States of American’. The other side, much larger, is qualified as ‘the Union’, while four states are labelled as ‘Border States’. They form an horizontal line separating the two antagonists.

Sephare’s demeanor changes from intimate to that of the university lecturer. Her voice fills the cave with clear diction.

“First, I would like you to understand that this conflict is like nothing we have experienced before here. The United States army only numbered a bit above fifteen thousand two years ago. Now, upwards to a hundred thousand men are being rallied on each side, only limited by the inadequate means to train and equip them. It is too early to say who will have the advantage, yet right now, we can already tell that both sides will be formidable. They both have access to West Point graduates and Mexican war veterans, they both have a large amount of volunteers. In the long term, we believe that the Union will gain the advantage through their overwhelming industrial production if the conflict lasts. On the other hand, many of the Union recruits are city dwellers who may need time to reach peak physical condition.”

Sephare waves again and the border states turn grey.

“Right now, those are states that refuse to leave the union but still allow slavery. We expect them to become fully absorbed within the next year.”

The Union states turn grey.

“The victory condition for the Union is to invade and disband the confederacy. Nothing short of occupation will suffice.”

Now, the southern states are lit.

“The victory condition for the south is twofold. They can crush the northern armies to victory, however we do not believe this outcome likely. Even if they won battle after battle, their weak infrastructure would not let them maintain the supply lines for long campaigns in the north. The other solution, and the most likely to occur, is for them to fight the Union to a standstill. They only need to last until the next elections. If war weariness prevails and Lincoln is soundly defeated, they can sue for peace. This would split the United States in two.”

We consider this possibility in silence. If this were to happen, the tension between the two entities would surely lead to another conflict down the road, if only because the north would actively support escaping slaves with no rules in place to stop them anymore.

“No matter what happens, the war will be extremely bloody due to the ideological nature of the conflict and the lack of strategic objectives. Blood will be shed, ladies and gentlemen, and a lot of it. This cannot be avoided. The question remains, then. What do we do? I have spoken.”

Sephare sits down and Constantine replaces her. The map of the land still lies before us in liquid obsidian, the border new and unsettling.

“We normally do not intervene in mortal conflicts when armies meet on the field of battle, and territory is exchanged by treaty. There are, however, precedents for taking a more active part.”

There are also precedents for such an intervention to trigger a vampire war, one we cannot afford right now.

“As such,” Constantine continues, “I suggest that we vote on a resolution. When we reconvene in a week, I will allow proposals supported by more than three Wardens to be presented in fifteen minutes or less. We will then vote on them in elimination rounds. The final resolution must receive more than two-thirds of total votes to be accepted.”

Constantine sets himself up for a political deadlock. At the same time, a two-thirds majority means that even detractors will hesitate to oppose it, should it be approved. My only fear is that the resolutions and their support will draw across clan lines. If this happens, the Accords will have failed as a community. We will merely be the same old bloodlines using the assembly as a political tool to trade influence. Only if a consensus is reached will the American vampires exist as a distinct entity.

Constantine may have caused me to suffer horribly before we met, but now I find myself more and more tied with him as a supporter. I will depose him in the end, of course, but for now we must work together so that a crown is left to usurp.

Constantine dissolves the assembly soon after. We file out and gather in clumps across the massive complex to discuss and scheme. Soon, Vassals and employees race through the corridors, bearing missives and invitations. I quickly make contact with my closest allies.

“Ari, my sweet little peach, the time has finally come,” Nami says as we gather in her salon. Our group consists of the Roland members who have made their seats in the North east and Canada, the Ekon, the Natalis, Sephare’s Hastings, and the one Vanheim Master here. And me, of course. The Cadiz who usually sit on the fence are notoriously absent, as are the new generation of Lancasters. Some of our more lukewarm supporters have also made themselves scarce, an unwise move. To leave now without plotting shows that they will take Constantine’s offer to leave the Accords. Staying for an hour would at least raise some doubts and give them more options. Ah well, perhaps I am missing something.

“Is Lady Sephare not joining us?” the Vanheim Master asks. His name is Vadim, and he is strangely effeminate with a narrow face and a thin frame.

“She will return after she is done with Constantine’s summons,” I tell them. The information circulates in the room, everybody understanding the implicit message. Constantine supports us who might very well call ourselves the Union faction. The backing of the Speaker gives us an edge.

“We need to start working on that resolution,” one of Sephare’s seconds notes. We agree and add ideas and conditions to a list, with the optics of bringing the neutrals to our side. Sephare eventually joins us and informs me that Constantine wishes to talk. I agree, and tell her one last thing.

“I want to negotiate with Lord Adam of the Roland.”

Sephare shows some suprise at the mention of a man who sued me in the past.

“I seem to remember that you two have been at odds on several occasions?”

“Yes, and now I possess a decent knowledge of his assets and priorities. I believe that I have a chance at convincing him to switch sides.”

Sephare offers me one of her rare genuine smiles.

“I did not plan to try and convince him. I thought him a lost cause! All the better if you can manage it. Do let me know how the negotiations go.”

“Certainly.”

I leave the impromptu reunion, passing several couriers on my way down. Sheridan has left and I do not know where he went, but that is fine. I ask a maid from Wilhelm to carry my request for a meeting to Lord Adam, and in the meanwhile, walk to Constantine’s office. His two bodyguards and renegade Rosenthal secretary let me through the very same moment. The Speaker awaits at his desk, fingers intertwined as usual. More documents litter his desk that I can remember, while the bookshelves lining the wall show more disorder than usual. Our leader has been busy.

“Ah, Ariane, excellent. I have a mission for you, if you accept it. You still have that , ahem, proof-of-concept ship, do you not?”

I rejoice in my heart. Could it be? After all those years?

“Yes, I do. A repurposed brig with a light plating and a full complement of Dvergur guns.”

Six of them, to be precise. Five more than necessary. Only the stoutest warships can withstand several volleys of Dvergur-engineered incendiary projectiles.

“And is it operational?”

“It most certainly is.”

“Good! Good. You see, Sephare and I have kept track of those elements we deemed, shall we say, unreliable. One of the northern lords has secretly prepared a port and base in the more remote parts of Nova Scotia, far to the north east.”

“I know where Nova Scotia is.”

“In any case, we think that a contingent of invaders are set to arrive there. Two days ago, we received two pieces of information from both Mask and Eneru informers, concerning a ship leaving Dublin and carrying a curious cargo.”

“Do you want me to intercept it?”

“Yes, and make sure that they do not reach our shores. Although, if possible, do not kill them. I would prefer not to create bad blood too early in the conflict.”

“I will need more information if I am to find them.”

“I do not have their exact route, but I have prepared an artefact that will help you find them.”

“A vampire finder?”

“No, the aura of vampires does not shine brightly enough to detect them. However, there is another kind of aura that is harder to miss.”

I am struck with memories of a previous boarding.

“Fae aura.”

“Precisely. The assailants will most certainly carry vials of fae blood into battle. Most of them do. We do not share their resources.”

And I am partly to be blamed for that.

“As such, I will prepare an artefact that will guide you to their location, provided that you are close enough. It should not be difficult since we know their destination. Will you do this for us?”

“Yes.”

I do not ask payment for a task that serves our cause.

“Thank you. Be sure to stay in touch with Lady Sephare so that we can keep you apprised of new developments. Will you be departing soon?”

“Tomorrow, yes. I have one more errand to run.”

Lord Adam’s borrowed study comes in shades of blue. Like all other private quarters here, the room is both tastefully decorated and sterile. The Roland Lord and his sibling welcome me in casual shirts, and with a pot of coffee. A positive sign.

“I hope you do not begrudge me the presence of my twin,” Adam starts.

“Not at all. I understand that you take most decisions together.”

“Indeed. So, you wanted to see us. We find ourselves curious as to why, as we have, shall we say, competing interests.”

“Not necessarily,” I reply as I take a sip of coffee. A bit too cold. Oh, well.

The delay affords me what I wanted. The pair sits down to face me across a coffee table painted in shades of gold, a sign that I have gained their attention. For now, only politeness affords me their time. If I want more, I will have to be convincing.

“Correct me if I am mistaken. You have acres upon acres of plantations, and the slaves to work them. I would say that you have between one thousand five hundred and two thousand five hundred at any time. The work they provide is necessary to make your land profitable.”

I pause to assess their reactions. If my estimates are too far off, they will display signs of impatience.

“Go on,” the second twin says.

“There are two scenarios. If the north wins the war, the slaves will be emancipated, and you will lose a fortune in assets. If, however, the south achieves independence, you will still bleed people as they escape north where no hunters will come seek them.”

“Unless the confederates include a provision in the peace settlement.”

“You do not need to be Napoleon to see how unlikely such a victory would be. The north’s industrial production outperforms the south by an order of magnitude armament-wise.”

And I am partly responsible.

They remain silent, which I take as a ‘maybe’.

“I can offer a third path, one that would be more to advantage than the two others. I will pay you two hundred dollars per slave over a period of two years in quarterly installments if you agree to free them now, guaranteed by contract and backed by the Rosenthal.”

Lord Adam scoffs.

“A slave is worth much more than this. Some go as high as two thousand per head.”

“For prize fighters or light-skinned fancy ladies, perhaps, not farmhands. Besides, you would not be losing them. You merely need to provide them with decent wages and humane living conditions, and the overwhelming majority will stay on account of not knowing any better.”

Freedom is pointless if it leads to immediate starvation, and the south will remain inhospitable to freedmen for a long time.

“Can you really afford four hundred thousands dollars over two years?” the other twin asks with curiosity.

“Yes.”

My confidence comes from the current circumstances. I am one of the country’s foremost weapons manufacturers, with access to Dvergur engineers, and the improved results they provide. Simply put, the team Loth sent brought with them an inexpensive method of steel-making they call the improved Bessemer process. Better raw materials and standardized production practices allow me to produce the best cannons this side of the Atlantic, at an affordable price. Even if my goods were not inherently superior, I could still sell them to the army thanks to a valuable ally.

Sephare has absolute control over the Ordnance Department.

As such, the Illinois Armament Manufactory already received massive orders of guns and cavalry rifles, enough for me to afford the massive bribe I am planning. My only surprise came from infantry rifle purchases. I expected my improved needle guns to flood the market. Instead, most states purchased a cheaper model from Massachusetts with less than half the firing rate to equip the troops they were training. Pah! Worse, the soldiers already deployed on the frontline use antiquated smoothbore muskets, as if we were still fighting the British! Disgrace. The world must be laughing at us.

“An intriguing proposal. I did not expect the local Devourer to try and buy our support.”

“I am not so much bribing you as developing a future partnership. Take my proposal as a way to compensate you for the loss incurred.”

“Sharing the burden of modernization…” Adam continues.

I am glad that we see eye to eye.

“Precisely.”

“It leaves us with a major problem,” the other twin says, “you see, one of our major sources of income is slave trading.”

I force myself to take another sip of coffee to mask my surprise. I did not know that they had an interest in this sector as well, despite my inquiries. This is problematic.

The two lords exchange a glance. Eventually, the twin nods to Adam, who in turn addresses me.

“We find your offer interesting, but as Adrien mentioned, this merely covers the losses of one part of our business. A Confederacy victory remains the preferable outcome.”

What to do? I have no solution. Slave-fuelled agriculture can transition into standard agriculture, but slave trading itself cannot be replaced since it will be entirely illegal. I need to find something else. Can the circumstances help me? How else can I compensate them?

Oh.

Of course.

“There is one aspect of war that can only go one way,” I tell them, certain of my guess, “the control of the ocean. General Winfield’s Scott plan to blockade southern ports cannot fail in the short term, and you, gentlemen, export a great many things.”

I know that they sell cotton, sugar, and tobacco abroad. No matter what, their trade lines will be disrupted for a long time, condemning their export-focused business to failure.

“What do you propose?” the second twin, Adrien, asks.

I do not miss it. Their perfect immobility and contained auras do not reveal anything of their inner thoughts, which means that I have hit the nail on the head. Lady Sephare taught me this little trick, that old ones who lack practice increase their control over themselves when they want to hide something. They have taken the bait.

“An exclusive agreement. I will purchase your cotton in bulk for the next three years at pre-war market rate. All of it.”

“All of it?”

“Yes. In return…”

“In return we emancipate our slaves and support the Union faction in the coming vote.”

“No, you support the Union faction for the duration of the war, and at least three years. Whichever lasts the longest.”

“The duration of the war or two years,” Adam corrects.

That is fine.

“Open support. You let it be known that you are both on our side.”

Once again, the twins exchange a silent glance.

“We find your proposal interesting… but we need to discuss it in private before we agree to your terms. I hope you understand.”

Of course. No Lords and Ladies agree to anything important without pondering the question for at least a day. A tentative agreement is all I can hope for now.

“I do. Before I leave, there was one last thing,” I say as I stand up.

“We are the curators of this world, or shepherds, if you prefer. We are denied innovation and artistry, but we are granted cold intellects, and long-term mindsets to offset the loss. I would argue that slavery holds you back economically and socially, but I know that you may remain unconvinced. Instead, I will ask you to examine what your instincts tell you. Everything we value in humans, the spark that leads them to greatness and insanity alike, it cannot express itself when body and mind are chained. You are missing out on much by lording over cattle instead of people, and your own nature should tell you that much. We do not hunt cows. We do not hang cotton bales on our walls. I can provide the machines to replace the hands you need to increase your wealth, while those hands can work on the drawing board or the canvas instead. Consider it, then come back to me. We need not be enemies on this.”

I expect silence and even ridicule. Instead, Adam laughs and Adrien smiles lighty.

“I did not expect you to call on our heart, Ariane of the Nirari. My advisers were right. Devourers truly are creatures of emotion, after all. Very well. As a reward for your refreshing honesty, I will be frank with you in return. We have considered transitioning out of labor-intensive agriculture for some time. The details will have to be hammered out to both parties’ satisfaction, but we are most definitely interested,” the Warden says.

“Can you extend your offer to others on our side? With the Natalis and the Canadians, you already have a majority, but if you want a true unification, you will need to leave no one behind,” his sibling continues.

“I cannot afford to fund the entire south personally, however, perhaps I can find others willing to assist.”

“That would be appreciated.”

After a few more polite exchanges, I return to Sephare to share what was decided. She agrees to take over the negotiations since I will be out, though she mentions that not all of the southern lords will be willing to budge. Some, after all, come from feudal societies. Some Rolands will refuse out of sheer stubbornness. They cannot envision an end to a peasant-centric society.

After I am done, I return to the lobby and find Sheridan snoring softly on a leather couch. I come closer and catch a whiff of him.

My, what a busy…

Wait a minute.

“Sheridan, wake up!” I say as I shake him and grab the hand already grabbing for his gun.

“Wh— Ariane? What’s the matter with you?”

“Did I not leave you in deep conversation with Melitone?”

The scent of fear, removed of its spice since the ranger is no prey. Eyes to search for an exit.

“Perhaps?”

“Are you banging the Speaker’s sister?” I hiss, outraged, “Do you have any idea…”

Sheridan gently removes my hand from his shoulder and gives me one of his frank, no-nonsense gazes.

“Ariane dear, we might be partners in our quest to rid the world of evil…”

So he keeps believing.

“...that doesn’t mean that you get a say in whichever romantic partner I choose, lady. Besides, we’ll soon be as busy as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest, so cut me some slack, will you?”

He… argh! And I can say nothing because he is a Vassal.

“Language…” I weakly retort.

“What are we gonna do anyway? Where is the old man sending us this time?”

“I am not his lap dog!”

“Right. So, what are we supposed to do? Anything illegal?”

“Grmbll.”

“Speak up, Ariane.”

“Piracy!”

“So, does that bad language ban lasts for the entire operation, or?”

“No need to be a smart-... no need to be so snide, Sheridan. Let us away!”

Two weeks later, off the coast of Nova Scotia.

The Cormoran bobs up and down as the powerful entities on its deck look at me with a mix of wonder and bafflement. I place the enchanted loudspeaker before my lips and greet them in a proper, appropriate fashion.

“Is this thing working? Oh, it is! Ahem. YOU HAVE RUN AFOUL OF THE DREAD PIRATE ARIANE, QUEEN OF THE WAVES, YOU SORRY BUNCH OF SALTY SEA DOGS! Yes, what is it Olaf? It is? Excellent. Ahem. MY GUNNER INFORMS ME THAT THE CANNONS ARE READY. BEHOLD THAT ROCK OVER THERE!”

Silence spreads over the calm seas as the mighty warriors exchange befuddled words.

“Just one moment please, we were aiming for your ship, so we to need to reposition. Behold, the might of the Spirit of Dalton! Are you done already? I can’t— Ah, excellent. I said, behold the might of—”

BOOM!

A cataclysmic deflagration drowns all other noises, and a ten-paces long plume of fire emerges from the side of our ship. Far behind and to the side of the enemy ship, a shard of granite rising from a small islet explodes in a cascade of flaming debris. A dark plume rises from the crater, all that remains of the exposed stone. Smoldering fragments rain down on the ocean’s waves.

“Nice shot, Olaf, by the Watcher that rock never saw it coming. Shut up, Sheridan, I handle the threats. What do you even know of proper pirating? You are not even wearing a tricorn and you expect me to take you seriously? Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yes! Bring down your sails, drop anchor, and send someone to parlay or we will fire upon your vessel. You saw what our guns can do. I invite you to consider the structural integrity and flammable nature of your ship and reach the logical conclusions. Also, our hull is warded, so no funny business. If I see anything suspicious, you will get to visit the local seaweeds. Am I clear?”

I see some activity on the deck, including two vampires arguing with each other with one waving at the column of smoke rising nearby. Eventually, the reasonable one seems to win the argument as his second throws his hands in anger. The head vampire lowers a skiff and rows to us. On their ship, nothing stirs.

I decide to wait by returning to my throne, which I placed underneath the mizzen mast (the one just after the biggest mast). I place my revolver on a nearby barrel and invite a pair of your sailors to resume their strange, leggy dance for my own entertainment.

“Is this necessary?” Sheridan grumbles.

“I could sing,” I reply.

The grumpy ranger does not call my bluff. Eventually, the Mask vampire gets close enough for the negotiations to begin.

“Please do not shoot, there are Vassals aboard!” he explains in a pleading voice.

Blimey.

Eventually, I am forced to agree to let them land under the condition that they all depart soon after. They do not have the blood and food supply for a safe trip back. I allow them to do so in their secret port, and the meeting with their renegade Accords host is somewhat awkward. Two days later, they are gone with the express condition that they may not engage in hostile activities with us for the next five years.

I would call that a complete success.

“Ariane, reality is not like your saucy books. Tricorns are not necessary to engage in high-sea banditry.”

“Sheridan, I recall you saying, if it’s stupid but it works, it ain’t stupid. Therefore, wear the damn hat.”

127. A House Divided

Author’s note:

So far, the effects of magic on the world of Journey have been minor. However, the supernatural populations of the world will now start altering it around them, using their powers and influence to affect history in ways that our own world has not known. Major historical events will now start to diverge from our reality, and this effect will only grow more pronounced as time passes by.

The world of the nineteenth century still accepted magic and mysticism as possibilities. It had not been disenchanted yet by the ruthless cuts of Occam’s razor. The rational men and women of Journey’s world will soon start peering into the unknown. They will not like what they find.

Boston, early November 1861

“The battle of Bull Run, and other skirmishes in Missouri and Virginia, have overwhelmingly favored the Confederacy. We argue that their victory remains a distinct possibility, one that we should not dismiss out of hand. Thank you.”

The Warden of Missouri sits down, and Lord Kouakou stands up to provide an answer.

“The Warden of Louisiana has the floor,” Constantine says with a certain impatience.

“Thank you Speaker. We would offer a rebuke if the Warden of Missouri had made a point. We have yet to hear how a country split in two is to our advantage. Thank you.”

Lord Kouakou sits back down and I allow myself a minute smile. Each Warden has two opportunities to speak tonight in order to limit the risk of delay. With his answer, Kouakou both preserved his vote, and offered a scathing retort.

“Next, we shall hear the proposal of Yann, Warden of Virginia. You have the floor.”

A tall Lord with a hawkish nose and thinning hair stands up. His height almost equals that of Constantine’s himself. He smiles benevolently and speaks in a calm, reasonable voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow leaders. As the Speaker mentioned before, we come from very different backgrounds and traveled here pursuing different dreams. There are, however, values that bind us as vampires and as members of the Accords. Values that we all understand and support. One such value is to let mortals be mortals, provide a guiding hand, and appreciate their efforts and failures from a distance.

For decades now, the nation that we call the United States has existed as an uneasy marriage between two dominant cultures. The north favors progress, the south, tradition. The north favors industry and the south, agriculture. The north promotes equal opportunity while the south takes to their peculiar institution, as they named it themselves. Now, the fires of war have ignited, and the country has been torn asunder. Two peoples now stand where there was once one.”

Yann allows himself a condescending smile.

“No matter what Lincoln and members of this assembly believe, there will be no unity even if they win. Slavery and segregation are deeply ingrained in the culture of many of the southern states. No defeat, no matter how total, will strip away this legacy. Rather than force the abusive couple back together, would it not be preferable to allow them each to go their separate ways? To choose their path and see where it leads them? Beware, my friends, the cost of hubris, for to favor the Union is to force the hands of mortals when the wish of the many is to separate. My proposal will center on favoring the separation of the two antagonists in a way that minimizes damage. I have spoken.”

“Thank you, Lord Yann,” Constantine says as he stands up again, “does someone wish to offer a rebuttal?”

I raise my hand to the surprise of my own party. The fact is that I can provide an adequate answer to such a trite argument without much effort while the times of Kouakou and Sephare remain precious. The Union faction nods, and I am now in charge of providing an answer.

“History is an old thing, and like old things, it tends to repeat itself.”

The tiny jab is well-received.

“Five thousand years have passed since the kings of Sumer sent raiding bands to abduct captives to work their fields. Five millennia since the cities of Mesopotamia and elsewhere engaged in fractious disputes and intestine wars. If the mortals have not learned everything they could about secession and slavery since then, they never will. By supporting the Union, we are not putting two people back together who stand for different things. Our estimates are that less than one man in five owns slaves in the south, which means that four in five are somehow convinced that the practice benefits them despite all evidence to the contrary. What we are doing is severing the powerful hold that slave owners have over public opinion.”

Constantine and the other appreciate brevity. Deep inside, none of us will be swayed by words, as we are all creatures of conviction. What we are doing is, in fact, facing off for the sake of those among us still on the fence. If one party appears as too irrelevant or unconvincing, they will be seen as weak, and we abhor weakness. If the Union faction is to bring more people to its cause, we need to be perceived as competent and well-prepared. Such is the purpose of my argument, and that is why I must remain concise so as to not waste everyone’s time. This is not a lecture.

“To think that split countries will afford us more power is a mistake, for our reach in his government will simply shrink with said government.”

This is aimed at the people around Yann. The Confederacy has its capital in Richmond, where the Roland lord also made his seat. He has the most to gain from their continued existence. The others, however, do not. With this sentence, I cast doubts on Yann’s true motivations by reminding everyone that he has his own selfish interest in the matter.

“More borders, more taxes, more regulations, a perpetual state of hostility and a rift that only widens with every year, this is what we will all have to contend with. I have spoken.”

I sit back down. Constantine lets another Warden speak up. This one is a Roland from Quebec and a secret ally of Sephare.

One thing that Sinead taught me is that the mind is an imperfect tool. For example, if one proposal is immediately dismissed as ridiculous, then the next one will appear as more attractive by comparison. Such bias also affects us vampires. We are, after all, made from human molds. Sephare and Yann know this, that is why Yann offered his proposal after the Warden of Missouri’s weak statement, and the Warden of Quebec will be used as a sacrificial tool to introduce Sephare’s own resolution. After a short speech on the possibility of neutrality, his opinion is quickly deemed as pointless by both larger factions. Sephare does not speak last. Kouakou does.

It surprises me a bit. The tall Ekon lord usually contents himself with letting the smooth Hasting handle diplomacy. I know, for participating, that they focus most of their efforts on their home fief of Louisiana, as well as the numerous requests for freedom they receive from their Supplicants.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Accords, thank you for hearing me tonight. I fear that the topic of our debate has drifted away from its true core. The war, the splitting of the land, even the peripheral questions such as state rights, they all are symptoms and effects of the true cause, and that true cause is that one person in eight in this country are colored slaves. Slavery, is the cause and heart of tonight’s meeting.”

A daring approach, and one that serves Kouakou well. Despite some posturing, our dealings are mostly cold and methodical, and yet tonight Kouakou speaks with a fire that I did not expect from one of us outside of battle.

“In the past year, I traveled to the north of my state to attend to some errand. I rode on horseback from New-Orleans to a plantation near the border of Arkansas. I rode alone. In that short period of time, I slew seven men who tried to rob me, and charmed more away from my path despite my burning desire to kill them. I am tired of it. Tired of the same requests to reunite a mother and their child, to take revenge against an overseer for the loss of a limb or that of a relative. I am tired of the perpetual institutional discrimination I must tolerate on my own land for the sake of peace. I want it to be clear when I say that there is no coming back.”

I resist the urge to turn to Sephare and gauge her reaction. This feels off-script. It would not help anyway, the wily Hasting would never betray her reaction.

“I cannot withdraw from mortal affairs when said mortal affairs prevent me from moving across my land. I cannot let the mortals experiment when said experimentation leads to the suffering of my followers. I am no cattle, and I am done pretending to be one. We now have one opportunity to bring to a close a conflict that has been delayed for decades. We can purge the wound clean and reunite the central nation of the Accords, or we can let it fester in endless warfare until every drop of blood drawn by a lash has been paid by one drawn by a sword, and by the Eye, either one will happen.”

Stupefied silence descends upon us. I never expected him to be so vehement! And… I like it. Finally, some politics I can get behind!

“I will now present a proposal for full support of the Union in their mission to reabsorb the south. We will offer both measures to allow war to come to a swift conclusion, as well as ways for our southern brethren to offset the losses incurred by the emancipation of their workforce. Please be advised that our ability to assist is limited, and so is my patience. I have spoken.”

Meaning that only the southern lords who vote with us will be compensated.

In the end, we are left with four proposals. Constantine calls the session in recess until we have had time to study them in detail. We all retreat back to our respective aisles of the manor, and pretend that it does not show the clear faction split. We take some time to read the printed documents until Sephare interrupts us as she struts into the room we have chosen as our gathering spot.

“Do not waste your time reading the ‘neutrality’ and ‘stalling’ proposals. They are not true factions, merely decoys. Ariane, please see Wilhelm while the rest of us plan. He has something for you.”

I barely had the time to get off my ship in time for the vote, so I have little idea what the man has in store for me. I stand up and leave Melusine to pore over Yann’s proposal. She did not need Sephare’s advice to understand that the two other texts were inconsequential.

I climb down the manor’s busy stairs to the steward’s office. The entire building is a hive of activity, with security present at every step. Vassals and guards alike step aside to let me through, and my travel time is short.

Wilhelm’s office is still earthy and cozy, with woods and earthen tones, but the mood is less welcoming now. An armor stand occupies the corner. Sheathed blades hang from several pegs on the wall. The man himself reviews a map on his desk, and casually invites me over to join him.

“We are mobilizing,” he informs me. Wilhelm has dirty blond hair in a tail and his beard looks wilder than usual. He is much more woodsman than butler.

“Most Masters and lords who have not left are now training in teams under the direction of a few battle lords and experienced fighters like Naminata. One of our three training grounds is in the state of Texas, in the Natalis compound. Lord Jarek just sent us word that he expects to be attacked. I need you to go there and support him during the evacuation.”

“We are not going to attack?”

Wilhelm sighs, his muscular frame making the gesture more visceral.

“We are not ready. You have never been in a vampire war?”

“Not yet.”

“Vampires are most effective when fighting in squad-sized groups, but the volunteer teams we have need to work their kinks out in order to be even remotely effective. We will not have the time to match the coordination of some of our foes, but even a month of training will make the difference between a bunch of fighters vaguely on the same side, and a functional raiding party. We do not have a month. The Europeans are moving in.”

“It feels rushed. Are you certain?”

“Yes, and they are right to do so. Lord Jarek wants to transport his retainers and the fighters he has trained north, by sea. The land route would not allow fledgelings and mortals to make it out in time. The old monster asked you by name.”

“I’ll have the Dalton’s Spirit depart immediately.”

“They can help with evacuation, but you must leave immediately. Vadim will help you travel to the compound. Can I count on you?”

“Yes.”

“Vadim will leave after the voting session. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Understood. I will be off then.”

I leave the office and make my way back to our shared office, only for Melusine to stop me by the entrance. I am still wearing a formal dress, but she is not. I recognize the armored suit I had made for her and enchanted myself, with an elaborate heart protector and an integrated focus in case she loses her usual gauntlet. I designed it from the top down to serve my faithful second. I even wrote ‘hussy’ on the inner plate of the heart protector before sealing it shut. Truly, it suits her.

“Hunting something?” I ask.

“I am coming with you. I have been cooped for too long doing politics. Even a Lancaster must sometimes partake in the king of all hunts, lest I forgot the taste of my own blood.”

“The king of all hunts being other vampires.”

“Indeed. So, do you accept?”

I was not aware that I could refuse. Melusine is a City Master, and our agreement is clear.

“Of course. We only need to make sure that Vadim can transport the both of us.”

“He said that he could, because we both have blood-bound Nightmares. The strain will be lower on his mind.”

“Very well. After the vote.”

“After the vote.”

Times are grave. We did not even bicker.

The vote goes exactly as predicted. Every round, the proposal with the least votes is eliminated. Stalling is dismissed first, then the neutrality proposal goes next. Surprisingly, it received support from a few more people than I expected. Not enough to make a difference.

Only twenty-seven Wardens remain after last session’s warning. Seventeen vote for support of the Union, while ten vote for support of the Confederacy. Thanks to my and Sephare’s actions, a number of southern lords have joined our cause, including the twins. The opposite side is led by Yann, unsurprisingly, and a few Roland and Cadiz including that backstabbing prick, Lord Ceron. Suarez voted in favor of the Union, even though he has much to lose financially. His support split the Cadiz faction in two.

Another vote, and the stalemate remains.

To triumph, the Union faction needs a majority of two-thirds plus one, so nineteen votes. We are two short.

Constantine ends the session with the next planned in three days to allow both sides to conduct backroom negotiations. I fill the necessary paper to delegate the voting rights of Illinois to Sephare while I am absent. Melusine could have done it, but she is coming with me.

“You can depart in peace,” Sephare tells me, “I will work on the other side while you go rescue the big lug. Do keep him alive, please.”

“It might be difficult to convince Yann.”

“Not really. He already contracted me with an absolutely outrageous proposal. I refused, of course.”

“You did?” I ask with some surprise.

“Not only was that asshole overly greedy, he also dared to condescend. I know his type, and they always think themselves too clever. I will deal with him in my own terms. Have some trust in me, Ariane, when have I let you down when it came to Florentine politicking?”

“Florentine politics is always a letdown.”

“Pah! You, and the other honor-bond straight arrows. You are lucky to have me to steer the ship through those murky waters. In any case, I wish you good luck. Extend my salutations to Jarek and please make sure that he survives. There are few who call themselves his equal when it comes to physical prowess.”

“Yes, he is a mighty warrior.”

“Warrior? Oh! Hmm. Yes, of course.”

What?

“You’d better be on your way,” Sephare finishes.

I return to my own quarters and change into my full battle gear. I no longer travel without access to it, and I even have a compact chest that I can fasten to my back in case of emergency. Although it might be unwieldy, I would rather appear ridiculous than be again caught without all my tools of destruction. And besides, who would make fun of someone capable of holding a huge chest on her back? No one with any lick of sense.

After writing a list of instructions to Sheridan, who once again disappeared with Melitone somewhere in the bowels of the complex, I grab Melusine and we make our way down. We find Vadim already waiting for us by the stables.

The Vanheim Master sits atop a Nightmare bred for speed. Zana, Melusine’s mare, embodies the pictural ideal of a lithe romantic horse. Pathetic. By contrast, Metis is a solid warhorse who can plow through a battle line without tragically collapsing for a nearby painter to capture. In fact, she even plowed through a werewolf army and emerged on the other side with bloody hooves and a tasty treat of werewolf ears. I can ask for no better a pony.

Almost as if she was designed for me.

I frown suddenly, and try to remember if Metis had been that way when I first got her, and find out that I cannot quite recall. Not with any measure of certainty. Nightmares are truly mysterious, and so is Vadim’s power. He addresses us as we climb on our mounts.

“Neither one of you have travelled with me so far so you should listen. There are rules. You must not stop. You must not stray away from me. As much as possible, keep your eyes on my back and for the love of the Eye, stay silent. It will be difficult enough to travel that distance in a single night with three people. I will need all the focus I can get.”

“We understand.”

With one last nod, Vadim rides down the path to the house-filled valley, where the attending mortals dwell. We accelerate out and, contrary to the usual, leave the main road leading to Boston. The Nightmares ride through the underbrush with haste, their hooves trampling the ground.

We ride faster still.

Trees to either side rush by in our maddened cavalcade. I can still spot the shining lights of civilization in the distance.

“Come on,” Vadim mutters.

I think I can see the road in the distance.

And suddenly, I cannot. The lights, so numerous a few moments ago, disappear one by one until their very existence becomes like a memory. Darkness, not the peppered black of the night sky, true darkness, spreads around us. I can no longer see the heavens above us through the suddenly dense canopy. The distant sounds of the city fade in moments, replaced by the silence of the deep forest. The young trees of a young forest give way to ancient, ossified trunks covered in scarred bark, twisted and gnarled with grasping roots worming their way through the damp loam. Any other creatures would have had to slow down to avoid the many pitfalls there, or risk snapping their legs like twigs. Instead, the Nightmares rush with renewed vigor, and for good reasons. We are, after all, in their world now.

I resist the urge to call upon a light spell, unused to the impenetrable veil that blocks my sight. Anything that attracts attention here would be… unwise, as there are things that call this alien world their home. Sometimes, whatever small radiance makes its way down from above glints on a spider web, on small glittering eyes hiding amongst the heavy boughs. We stop for nothing. Whoever falls there will be condemned to amble through the infinite forest until the Thirst claims their minds.

Time soon loses its meaning in the typical fashion of the space between spheres. I have no need to direct Metis as she knows exactly where to go. I do not let the fear of the unknown grasp the cold part of my mind. Instead, I call my instincts to the surface and ride on the euphoric wave of the exhilarating journey. We no longer need to appear human. We can cast aside our worries about the war, both the mortal one and ours, because we have no way of impacting it for now. There is just us and the dark world of nightmares, the prey we will find at the end of the trail. I turn to Melusine and give her my best smile. She spares me a glance. A deep understanding passes between us, one that needs no words, and her serious air melts under the euphoria she allows herself to feel. We hiss together and the Nightmares answer with amused snorts. Vadim’s back relaxes. He joins us.

And then something moves in front of us, something massive. I hear a growl. I spot matted dark fur.

We have no time for you.

Get.

Out.

Of.

THE.

WAY.

“ROOOAAAR!”

The warcry is echoed by two others and the angry neighs of our flesh-eating partners. The thing growls more and shuffles away, more annoyed than scared. I laugh at this amazing scene and we continue, never stopping.

It takes us a small eternity to see our destination. I can tell that we approach when the fabric of the forest fails, and we catch whiffs of pine and iodine.

“Just… a little… more,” Vadim mutters in an exhausted voice. One last effort, and we burst out of the forest’s edge and onto a sandy beach, the sea crashing underneath the hooves of our mounts. They slow down. I can feel the heat radiating from a tired Metis and the shortness of her breath expanding her powerful flanks. Her glossy hide is wet with sweat.

Vadims is barely better. The Vanheim Master slumps on the back of his ride. He is spent.

“Come on, we are nearly there,” I tell them.

I recognize the coastline for having traveled it several times in the past. We are several miles north of the Natalis village. The frigid wet of Boston is far away. The weather here is clement enough that a small shawl over a dress would suffice. We have crossed two thousand miles of land in only a few hours.

No creatures on earth can match that speed.

“An impressive display, Vadim.”

“Enjoy it, Warden… because I am not doing it again.”

I pat the lanky man on the shoulder and send Metis into a trot. We cross over dunes covered with tall grass and in between palm trees. I understand that Vadim fell short by about twenty miles, but I can hardly complain in the face of his extraordinary performance. It will take days for the Spirit of Dalton to travel so far south.

We arrive with plenty of time to spare before dawn. The Natalis village is as organic and eclectic as I remember. While most of the newer buildings show a definitive hispanic influence, the vampire dwellings range in style from wooden huts to Alpine chalets. Anyone watching it for the first time would believe that they have stumbled upon an impossibly-sized carnival, blue shutters on white walls offering a counterpoint to high-peaked dachas that would not look out of place on the shores of the black sea. The entire city squirms with moving mortals loading and unloading skiffs carrying cargo to transport ships. They work with singular discipline that armies would envy. A powerfully-built master oversees the process, surrounded by an entourage of administrators. We maneuver through the moving files and dismount to address him out of politeness, but he moves forward and hails us as soon as we come into view.

“Are you Ariane of the Nirari?”

“Yes, and those are Vadim of the Vanheim and Melusine of the Lancasters,” I reply. I introduced them by order of seniority.

“You are here sooner than planned. Thank you. Lord Jarek waits in the wolf’s maw, at the end of the valley.”

I know of the place. Jarek had several strongholds placed across the arable lands his clan owns. This one is the most defensible one. It covers the entrance to his domain.

We depart immediately.

The wheat fields are empty of both men and stalks this late in the year. Fallow expanses of earth give the place a desolate air only made more desperate by the late evacuees rushing to the piers.

I find Lord Jarek on a large stone overlooking a maze of rocky outcrops and brush marking the end of his land. I recognize the stone. He brought it here himself.

Most of the time, the Natalis paragon wears custom-made clothes in a variety of styles, all having in common a singular feature: they looked like disguises on their owner’s titanic frame. Now, wearing armor, he looks more natural than ever.

While Loth’s protection is a streamlined suit of interlocking scales designed for speed and efficiency, Jarek’s plates look like someone once decided to wear his own portable bank vault and went to work with a forge, persistence, and no sense of design. I know the impression to be deceptive, of course. It still reinforces the warlord’s image as a force of nature, an avatar of power with no finesse and no particular need for it. Plates and spikes and enough jutting parts to catch someone off-guard. I would know. I have been at their receiving ends more than a few times as we sparred.

“Thank you for being here,” he tells me without opening his eyes.

“Of course. So, hmm, what is happening exactly?”

Lord Jarek remains silent long enough that I almost think that he is ignoring me. When he speaks, his deep, gravelly voice rolls over us.

“Bertrand’s soldiers will soon be upon us. The trained masters and most of my people are already on the ships. The civilians will stay and be left unharmed, but my retainers still need some time to board the transports. I called for help to hold back the first waves long enough for all of my people to go safely. That is what is happening.”

“Us and who else?”

“There is a second team with Lord Islaev inside of the fort. They will provide backup. You are with me.”

“You want me to be part of your team?”

“Yes.”

Another moment of silence until he asks me a question.

“Do you know why I picked you among all the others I could choose?”

“I am unsure.”

“Two reasons. First, you understand. You did not ask me to fall back and regroup with Constantine.”

I could not even contemplate Jarek leaving while his people are not safe.

“Yes, I can see it in your aura. Others will ask me to see the big picture. They would batter my ears with talks of strategy and long-term while invaders trample my home, take my children. You are like me, Ariane of the Nirari. You understand. The second reason is that I can count on you to watch my back. We have been allies for a long time.”

“But why do you not use your own people?” I finally ask, afraid of the answer.

“Because the two lords have their own squads, and the Masters are too weak.”

I am reminded that I have never, ever landed a wound on Jarek during our spars, at least not when he was wearing his armor. He seldom even materialized his gauntlets.

“Out of all the Masters present in the Accords, only you can reliably survive it.”

It?

Jarek turns to me. His gaze is black as coal and just as burning.

“You will finally see the real deal, Ariane of the Nirari. You will see a vampire war, a battle with lords on both sides. And you will witness it, I who was turned by Natalis himself. You will see my Magna Arqa. I hope you live to tell the tale.”

128. First Blood

The heavy axe slides against Rose at the perfect angle. Most of the strength bleeds away along the edge and I strike the man facing me with the pommel. A series of quick jabs pushed him away. A hint from my intuition, and I dodge under a back attack while sweeping. Rose deploys, hitting both the target close to me to the front, and the one farther at the back in one perfect strike. They reel.

“Darkness.”

I will not use Likaean here, especially not when those around are on my side.

“Fireblast!” Melusine yells from behind.

A powerful spell crashes against the two men in heavy armor. They do not see it coming as my magic hides and confuses, and they fall to the ground to smother the flames. Since I am in a generous mood, I conjure some ice to help them. A second later, Lord Islaev crashes against a nearby rock. He stands back up immediately, no worse for the wear.

“Enough of this. I do not enjoy hitting my head against a wall,” he says, his long cossack mustache quivering with outrage.

I was mistaken. His pride took a serious wound.

Jarek lands next to us a moment later, symbolically helping his ally to his feet.

“You are correct. We enjoy too much of an advantage now. Thank you for bringing us to that point.”

The prideful Islaev grunts, then slaps Jarek on the shoulder with a bitter smile. It sounds like someone brought a sledgehammer to an ironclad’s hull.

“I have done worse for less worthy causes. Your triumph is my triumph.”

“Thank you, old friend.”

Both teams dust themselves and enjoy a tense moment of handshaking. We have trained relentlessly for two nights already, one team against another, and enjoyed great progress. I always thought that the curse of vampirism was our lack of inspirational spark. It appears that this flaw does not extend to combat. Indeed, Jarek’s team, that is us, has made incredible progress.

Jarek is the vanguard of the formation as the strongest fighter. I was informed that the vanguard’s role varies from team to team depending on its composition. As far as Jarek is concerned, his role is to get into the thick of it and distribute punishment, a task he excels at. My role is to keep his back clear, which involves fighting multiple opponents. I am, in return, covered by Melusine and Vadim.

Vadim fights with knives in a style that reminds me a lot of Urchin, while Melusine is one of the handful of vampire mages capable of using fire. Hers is a smoky, smoldering thing that chokes and consumes, a great tool against other creatures of the night. I use my own style to give them the openings they need to bring their might to bear.

I am myself surprised at how well we work together, especially Melusine and I. I am instinctive and aggressive while she is patient and decisive. She has an excellent sense of timing, and I create a lot of opportunities with the confidence that she will exploit them. Vadim is more of a lone wolf fighter who functions best when fighting at the edges of the formation, and Jarek can let go when he knows that he will not be outflanked. Our high degree of coordination is serendipitous, although we are barely scratching the surface. My understanding is also that Jarek’s style tends to grow destructive when he triggers his Magna Arqa, and he needs one powerful rear guard, one who can survive it, to truly let go.

Our training finished for now, we check our gear and head back to the Maw. The woods surrounding the gate fortress mostly consists of shrubs and small trees. It offers more than enough cover for a small force, which is what we will be facing anyway. I follow Jarek as he climbs on the guard tower, and stares wistfully at the eastern horizon.

“I should have brought more boats.”

I do not object. We still need to evacuate a handful of fledglings and recent Masters who lack the training and mentality to be of much help. The overloaded ships are heading towards New Orleans, the next safe city. It will take at least another two days for them to return under ideal circumstances. We do not know yet how close the vanguard of the Expansion Faction is, or at least I assumed so. There are footsteps behind us.

We both turn to see the Natalis’ one rented mage climbing up the stairs. He catches his breath and makes his report.

“My Lord, we have contact.”

“Where?”

“The de la Vega hacienda. One full team. There are also rumors that gringos have gathered to the south, but I cannot say for sure.”

“I see. Thank you. Can you and Warden Nirari stay in contact?”

The mage winces.

“She will have to be the one to contact me, on account of…”

He trails off. I have not publicized the existence of earrings, so most people do not know how I avoid magical detection, and I would prefer to keep it that way.

“It will do,” Jarek calmly says, “please return to the docks. We have work to do.”

Curiosity and worry bloom on the mage’s face. He has been in their employ for a long while and the Natalis remain one of the more light-handed clans around. His show of loyalty does him credit.

Nevertheless, the mortal knows that we will not explain our action, and he obeys. I wait for Jarek to decide.

“We will sally forth,” he finally says.

I understand. Fortifications are of no use against vampires. As the outnumbered party, we must go on the offensive, and attempt to defeat them in detail before they can gather. Such an action presents risks without proper information, however.

“We go now.”

Well, that was decisive.

I follow the Natalis lord downstairs and we gather once more in our respective teams. I cannot help but feel a bit upset at a course of action I perceive as rash. Most of the time, my attacks are planned.

“We have Europeans sniffing about the de la Vega Hacienda. We go fast, we go hard, and we take them prisoners. Are we in agreement?”

Quite a few eyes settle on me. What? I do not devour everyone I fight! They should know this by now!

“We are in agreement,” I say between gritted teeth. Jarek notices and smiles.

“I will take point. Vadim and Horacio will scout our flanks. Now, go.”

And we are off. We exit the Maw at full speed and approach the road, then quickly angle north and west through dense forest. We are mostly silent despite our speed, and the auras of Vadim and Horacio quickly disappear from my perception. I cannot help but feel a rush of excitement, despite the danger. This will be the first battle of the war.

We sprint through the difficult terrain like shadows. Lesser vampires would fear the energy expenditure of moving for hours, but we are not them. A mortal on our path would perhaps see something on the corner of his field of vision. We would be long gone before he would turn his gaze towards the unknown. It feels great to run with peers in perfect silence. It feels great to hunt with others who are WORTHY. More than that, it feels great to chase after the greatest of prey: ourselves.

Jarek knows the path. The land around us grows more rugged until we arrive at the edge of a valley. A large compound with red tiles surrounded by whitewashed walls takes the side, with tilled fields and dependent houses taking the rest. There are no signs of our foes. Jarek waits, and our scouts soon return.

Vadim and the master from Islaev’s team return. They use call signs to give information with inhuman speed. Vadim detected a foe by the wall gates, and Horacio another by the dependence.

Jarek turns to us and signs orders. Islaev’s team sprints to the side and we wait for a minute to let them get in position.

“Now.”

We rush to the main building, forfeiting stealth. A cry shows that we have been spotted, but it comes too late. We cross the gate to the hacienda’s inner courtyard and find three foes, two masters on either side of a lord in full metal armor covered in runes. He drops a book he was holding. Jarek charges and smashes against the lord who barely manages to survive a left hook to the chest, crashing against the house for his trouble. I wait for it to happen and extend my gauntlet towards the closest fighter who had been sent stumbling. She is a fencer, with a sharp foil and a dark scale armor. I cannot see her traits to her combat mask but I can perceive from her aura that she is a strong Lancaster.

“Promethean.”

I use one of Constantine’s signature spells. Red chains erupt from my gauntlet and latch on the unbalanced master’s frame. I deploy only two when the Speaker can manifest five times that amount, but they are difficult to cast, if cheap.

“Shield!” she replies. I expected it. All Lancaster Masters are trained warmages.

Instead of hitting the translucent barrier, the chains snake around and over it, encasing the foes in a crimson coffin. I immediately turn and block the other master’s strike with Rose’s guard. The next sequence happens simultaneously.

Melusine’s shieldbreaker spell crashes against the Lancaster master, sending her reeling. I lower my center of gravity and extend Rose in the second master’s plate armor, flipping him and making him miss a dagger thrust to my heart. Jarek ducks under an horizontal counter-swipe with an agility that belies his massive size and grabs the lord’s leg. He does not know it yet, but he is done for.

The book hits the ground.

Jarek pulls and swings the enemy lord into the ground, armor and all. “Magna Arqa,” the downed fighter screams, and three copies of him appear and strike Jarek simultaneously. I also pull my captive towards me. She falls. Two fire spells hit her armored flank. Her hair catches on fire. The other Master and I exchange fast blows and it becomes clear that he is trying to disengage.

Jarek uses his gauntlets to block the strikes to his heart and neck, letting a third plunge into his abdomen. He counter-attacks by moving forward, pushing two images back and letting the other dig deeper into his body. He hammers down on his prone target with both gauntlets. Dust rises from the impact and gravels are sent flying. The torched master is screaming now, and her companion turns to run. Vadim stabs him in the neck and armpit as he does so.

The fallen book flops on its side.

Jerak lunges back with the lord’s abused frame in front of him to shield him from further blows. The Magna Arqa imitations flicker. Melusine quenches the flames on the fallen Master, still held in chains, and stabs her in the neck in the same motion. The wounded Master falls in Vadim’s arms. He will not stand again tonight. Jerak’s humongous mitt grabs the other lord’s like a bloodhound bites on a rabbit. There are creaks of abused metal. I look on and see a curious pistol in the victim’s grip. How modern!

Jerak frowns.

“A flare gun. He wanted to send a signal,” I explain.

“I see.”

Jarek pries the gun away from the other man’s grip, snapping a few fingers. The enemy lord’s face cannot be seen under his helmet, and he does not make a sound despite the rough treatment.

The Natalis lord considers the implement with some curiosity, raises it, and fires.

I watch the red plume climb to the heave where it explodes with a light pop. Islaev arrives as we watch the peculiar show. He finds the gun in Jarek’s hand.

“Is that wise?”

“I suppose we will find out. Vadim, can you transport the three prisoners to the pier? They know what to do.”

“We have found a fourth, by the way, and there was most likely a fifth. She covered his retreat”

Islaev turns around and one of his men brings a burly woman in leather armor with, of all things, a bow. She was stabbed in the heart.

“Almost took my eye out,” Islaev comments drily. His bald head still shows a few spots of dark blood.

“I do not suppose you would tell us where your last teammate went?” Jarek asks the vanquished lord, still held straight in front of him.

“Unless you plan on… extracting that piece of information from me, no,” the prisoner answers in a breathy voice, possibly because of the broken ribs. His armor is in a poor state.

“We are still abiding by the rules of war even if our leader does not consider you a valid faction. You know what I mean,” he continues. Bertrand did not grace us with a declaration of war. He considers us as too beneath him. We are merely rebels he will bring back into the fray. Yet, the state of the hacienda shows that his soldiers have not engaged in wholesale slaughter yet. It could change, however, depending on Bertrand’s mindset and our own actions.

“I do. And you will not be interrogated. I must still, however, disable you.”

“Would my word not suffice?”

“Not in this instance. I would say that I am sorry but… you are attacking my land.”

Jarek grasps the man’s helmet between his gauntlet and crushes it. There is a sharp cry, the moan of tortured metal and snapped bones, then silence.

“Ariane, did you want to sample him?” Jarek asks as an afterthought. How very thoughtful of him! Still, I shake my head.

“He is your prey, not mine. I will take a few drops from the Lancaster though.”

“I understand. Hurry up, please.”

Islaev’s team helps Vadim load the bodies on his Nightmare while I pick up the defeated mage. Melusine kneels by my side.

“Remember, do not kill her,” she asks with a hint of worry.

“I assure you, Melusine, if I were in the habit of breaking my word to drain annoying Lancaster witches, you would know,” I hiss back. The gall!

My prey tastes of old magic and the sea. As expected, she is quite strong. We were fortunate to catch them off guard, outnumbered, and separated, or the battle would have been more challenging.

We would still have won, of course.

We let Vadim go back to the Natalis hold loaded with bodies, and Jarek immediately leaves the inner courtyard.

“Their reinforcements should converge here. I expect that most enemies will be south of us, but perhaps we can get lucky and run into a reconnaissance team to the north. Unfortunately there is no time to call the base. Whatever happens, we return to the base afterward. Now go.”

We rush again. Jarek knows the land well and we cut through rough shrubbery to a well-traveled road snaking to the north. If a team comes from there, they will probably follow this landmark. Jarek pushes his home advantage to its maximum. A gesture, and we slow down and hide our presence on either side of the dusty road. We do not have to wait for long. I end up almost nose to nose with a fast-moving Master after only a minute or two. Auras flare all across the battlefield.

The other team finds itself, once more, outnumbered. Jarek goes for their lord who is a bald man with a hooked nose and a severe face only wearing form-fitting clothes. He fights with strange daggers that include knuckle-guards and reacts immediately, flowing smoothly under and around Jarek’s assault. Their dance is deadly and patient, two masters with similar styles and centuries of battle experience.

It goes poorly for the rest of the team.

Within moments, Islaev is mangling a tall, spear-wielding fighter, while the rest of us overwhelms the rest of them. They start a fighting retreat and, eventually, run away, but not before someone uses another flare. We give chase shortly, with the lord using a Magna Arqa that makes his body liquid and impervious to most blows.

Only my intuition saves me from a painful wound. I twist on myself and a heavily enchanted javelin slides along the scales of my armor. We are attacked in the back? They must have been closeby.

In moments, the dynamic of the fight changes. I rush to Melusine’s help as she fends off an aggressive man wielding a sword and dagger. I cast a quick bind spell and distract him for long enough for Melusine to stab him with her foil, but the wound is not enough to take him down. It is enough for her to disengage. I attack.

Three Masters rush me, but soon Islaev is by my side and so is a lady in heavy armor with two axes. She and Islaev trade blows, him with a titanic saber and her with her brutal instruments. Their quick movements disrupt the flowing battle line.

I am in my element.

Chaos is perfect for me. It fits my style, and it allows me to make full use of my intuition. Feint low, and the blade dodged strikes another. Spells countered and avoided reach other targets, adding to the razor edge maneuvering of high-speed combat. The battle is an infinitely complex ballet as fast as lightning and as strategic as chess, an inhuman display where every moment is a painting begging to be immortalized, every motion honed by thousands, tens of thousands of hours of practice. The game of the immortals.

I love it.

Three battle masters is still too much for me and I am forced to use every trick I know to delay them. I throw knives and use blood bolts as a delaying movement. Rose extends and retracts and twirls and slices from my hand. It lives in the blood we spill together. IN THE HEART OF WAR, AS IT SHOULD BE. I block a spear thrust and pull a foe towards me to use his body as a shield, then boot him away with a shot to the chest. He manages to sidestep at the last moment and I miss his heart, then duck under a spell before I can exploit the opening. One wrong move and it is all over. I do not make wrong moves, but others do.

Little by little, the fighters’ focus wavers and mistakes lead to glancing blows, to severed fingers, then the atrocious pain of enchanted blades and soul weapons adds to the strain of constantly having to be perfect. Unexpected techniques such as the combination of my darkness spell and Melusine’s ranged attacks add to the mix until I get my chance. I allow a swordsman to land a blow on me, the blade going through my left armguard. The counterattack almost decapitates him. Rose feeds me figments of essence from the blood I shed, a small reward for a VANQUISHED PREY.

I feel something coming from behind and dodge to the side. The master attacking me is sent careening away.

“Take this and follow Horacio,” Jarek says. He hands me something that squishes under my grip. I recognize the insensate form of the unarmored lord. His right side has been pulped.

Ew.

I turn around and immediately obey, following Islaev’s team’s scout. Behind us, our two lords lay into the enemy to delay them. We disengage and run for it. Horacio does something and our auras flicker, then we are heading east towards the ocean and our base. Both Jarek and Islaev soon join us, sporting new wounds.

It takes us only ten minutes or so to reach the Maw. We enter the fortress, not that it will make much of a difference if the Expansion faction’s main force comes to repay us. Jarek walks up to me as I enter the wooden fort’s barracks and lifts the lord’s body from my shoulder.

“I will return shortly. Keep your eyes opened.”

“What if they follow us?” I ask, wary of splitting our already meager forces.

“I am certain that they will withdraw for tonight,” he answers.

I glare at Jarek. Many of his actions tonight seem reckless to me, and it sets me on edge. We are at the beginning of the game, and if we are already taking desperate risks, it will not take long before we are punished for it. Intuition can only carry me so far in the face of the ineluctable.

“Do you trust me?” Jarek says to my surprise.

I will have to be honest.

“I did until tonight.”

Jarek smiles lightly, still covered in his damaged armor. A single chuckle shakes his mighty frame.

“I suppose that this is fair.”

To my surprise, he leans forward and whispers in my ear at a volume so low that not even vampires could eavesdrop.

“I will explain the why, but for now I need you to act naturally. This involves showing signs of discomfort. Would you grant me this boon?”

I do not like it. I do not like it at all, and yet I owe the Natalis lord that much. Between his support, his training, and the help he provides John, I am in his debt.

“Yes. For one more night.”

“That is all we will need. If no ships have come tomorrow, we will have to try our luck on land.”

I watch him leave. Jarek is tense, and he shows a fatalistic streak that I do not trust. I sincerely hope that I am mistaken.

I return to Melusine as we wait for Jarek’s return. The Natalis compound has several secret underground dwelling places to hide vampires in times of crisis. We were shown one yesterday, and we were informed that we would be led to another tonight as well.

“This was my first vampire battle,” Melusine admits as we wait by a log wall, alone.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“I feel more at ease in an office, taking notes while eavesdropping on a board of directors meeting. My bloodline favors the subtle influence one can wield upon mortals. Your charm is decent despite your upbringing…”

That twit.

“... and so you can understand the attraits of the subtle arts. We Lancasters have long been compared to spiders sitting at the center of the webs. I am sure that you can see why.”

“You have hairy legs?”

“No need to be crass. Our satisfaction derives more from clever plays than from violent, direct hunts. Not like you…”

No barbs? She must be concerned.

“You look different when you are in the middle of battle. Most of the time, you appear reserved. Not so much demure as distant. I watched you fight in a true battle and you are so... alive. The smiles. The bared fangs. I think I understand more how we are similar, yet apart.”

“You do not enjoy being on the edge? Winning?” I ask with some curiosity. She considers my question in silence for a moment. The fort is so quiet around us, and the others have split up after a lookout was designed.

“I enjoy winning, but not particularly the process leading to it. We are fortunate that I endeavored to keep myself battle-ready throughout the years, and still timing spells and keeping your foes from your back took every ounce of concentration I possessed. Fending off that master with my blade got the ‘blood pumping’ if you will forgive me the expression, but not that much.”

“I see. Did you know it would be like that before you volunteered to join me?”

This time, she does not hesitate.

“I volunteered to join you because the vagaries of war made me wary and facing your fears directly is still the best way to conquer them.”

She hesitates, then continues.

“And also because if you die here, I will have to deal with another Warden, and I cannot count on you not to fall.”

“Really?” I scoff, “does my record not speak for itself?”

“Let us see. Charging into a fiery inferno and ranks of Gabrielites with dubious allies?”

“It was the best way. And I did save you.”

“Getting trialed and tortured?”

“That was Anatole’s fault.”

“Stabbed in the heart in a duel after less than six months of life?”

“That was Jimena!”

“You were almost swallowed by a mutant alligator.”

“Operative word: almost.”

“And almost roasted by sunlight? Twice?”

“That doesn’t count!”

“And the pigs…”

“For the love of the Watcher, leave the pigs out of this!”

“My point, my dear Warden, is that for someone who claims not to court death, he certainly gives you quite a few courtesy visits.”

“Hey! Well. Perhaps you do have a point.”

We remain in silence for a while, until a revelation finally dawns on my tired brain.

“Wait… Did you come here to protect me?!”

“You know what I want presently?” Melusine asks me all of the sudden. I cannot help but observe that she ignored my question.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Jarek.”

I glare.

“Is that a jest?”

“Would you mind spending the night alone? I have things on my mind.”

“Hussy. Shameless harlot!”

“We do not all have provincial European lords to entertain us in bed, Ariane. Speaking of the which...”

Jarek returns, his eyes distant. Melusine steps away from the wall and struts confidently to the Natalis warrior.

“My lord, there was something I wanted your opinion on, before dawn, if you are so inclined,” she calmly declares.

That would be her chest. Definitely her chest.

“Why, certainly. I was just about to show everyone to their quarter.”

It appears that I will spend the day alone.

I wake up in a secured steel sarcophagus hidden behind a false wall hidden behind a shelf hidden under a trapdoor hidden in the middle of the fields. I make my way through rows of supplies left here as a distraction, and grab some water from a barrel for a bit of cleaning. I then proceed to scream when another false wall rolls down. Those are purely mechanical, so I did not detect it through my magical sense.

“Do I come at a bad time?” Jarek says as he pokes his head out of a narrow tunnel.

“GET OUT!”

Five minutes later and now properly armored, I invite him in and we sit across a simple table in the center of the refuge.

“My apologies. If it is any comfort, I have seen a lot of naked bodies in my days.”

“This is no comfort at all!”

“Let us focus on the matter at hand. I have great news. The Spirit of Dalton just came to port.”

“What? Already? It should be impossible…”

“My understanding is that their steam engine received a large supply of magical fuel just before they left. Your mages, as well as a few volunteers gathered by Sephare, have managed to push it beyond what should be possible.”

“I bet they must have messed up something.”

“They did. Your mages are all exhausted as well. On the other hand, this gives me some leeway in what will follow. I assume that you have found some of my actions… questionable… over the past few days.”

I frown and cross my arms, sitting back into the simple chair which groans against the weight of my armor.

“Indeed. Your sortie was reckless. Announcing your presence was stupid.”

“I will not deny that it was risky, but much less than you assume. Allow me to elaborate. In every major vampire war, half of the battle is knowledge acquisition. Outmatched factions win if they find where to strike and how. There are several famous examples throughout history.”

“I understand the concept.”

“Then know that you have unwittingly been at the forefront of such a war.”

I have?

“How?” I ask, somewhat annoyed that no one told me.

“Sephare was certain that one or several wardens would sell us out, and she was right. She sends most wardens a weekly information note containing information. I see you frown, and you do not receive it because she keeps you appraised in person. You are, after all, allied.”

“Uhu.”

“In the past few weeks, she has disseminated enough information to compromise a few select informers in Mexico. Those were all lost.”

“Sacrificial pawns?”

“Precisely. Since the fall of my hold was deemed… inevitable, we have decided to use it as an opportunity to ascertain the identity of our leak. Sephare let it be known that I would evacuate my people and stay until the last moment with only a token presence. She judged that Bertrand would not resist the appeal of taking me out of the conflict early on. She was correct.”

“How does this relate to my, errr, contribution?”

“Two weeks ago, she sent different reports instead of just one. People we suspect just got a valuable piece of information on the location of our underground caches, not those we are currently occupying of course, others. I will be personally notified of each and every one that gets opened during tonight’s battle thanks to a handy artefact purchased, I might add, from the White Cabal. My thanks. Now, we need a bait for the plan to work for sure, and that bait is prisoners. The expansion faction will want to extract them as soon as night falls.”

“Could they not send mortals before?”

“It would have happened already, and it would have been foolish. It takes hours for mortals to find the exact location of the caches and then, no one with half a brain will go underground in a vampire base. Not if they have a shred of common sense. In any case, the caches will be breached shortly after dusk, then we will know the identity of the culprit or culprits.”

“Bertrand could decide to delay it.”

“Like all plans, this one has a chance of failing. Nevertheless, we must try, and I am confident in this one. You see, Sephare understands Bertrand. He is a man who must appear to be strong in order to lead that unruly pack of hierophants and sybarites he calls a ‘faction’. Losing two lords of the first battle is not something that he can tolerate. He will go to any lengths to repair that outrage.”

“Including placing his trust in a backstabber?”

“Precisely. From his perspective, it costs him nothing. Even if he suspects foul play, the safety of the traitor will mean little to him. Bertrand abhors those who switch sides in times of peril.”

“Fair enough. You still haven't—”

Jarek raises a hand to interrupt me.

“I am giving you the full background for a reason, Ariane of the Nirari. Be silent.”

I am a bit chastised. Jarek never loses his patience with me.

“You are a known quantity for Bertrand. Your survival in Sweden and France irked him. He will want to handle you… personally. As such, all of his faction knows of you and your presence was reported in yesterday’s battle. This is why I asked for your presence. This is also why I attacked the scouting parties. And yes, I knew where the scouting parties would be. I did not act at random. Do not ask me how.”

“Fair enough.”

“By being present, you revealed that Bertrand’s information was not entirely accurate. This bought us enough time to finish evacuation while he regroups and prepares.”

“At a high risk to myself.”

“I give you my word that I will cover your retreat.”

I stop at that. Does he mean that he will… no, I cannot accept this.

“We need you.”

“We need to win. Victory takes sacrifices. If I am not captured, Bertrand will look for the causes of his failure and he might find them. He must win today so that we may all win tomorrow.”

I glare, because I finally realized something.

“You never intended to leave.”

“I made myself a promise. I will never abandon my family and my domain ever again. If I fall now, then so be it. Just make sure to capture enough people to exchange me later.”

“Oh, I thought you were going to, you know, die.”

“No one has died so far. Let us keep it that way, shall we?”

I breathe and lean back into the rickety chair. I knew that we needed some time to merge our different bands into a functional military. Apparently, we also need to root out traitors. Fair enough.

“What about Bertrand?”

It is Jarek’s turn to glare.

“If you can take him down, I will personally petition you to become queen of America.”

“Wow.”

“And by that I mean that it will not happen. Not within this century or the next.”

“Ah.”

“Enough of this. You understand what I must do and why. Your role is to escape when I tell you to, and bring Mel with you.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Mel?”

Jarek is not amused.

“Yes, Mel. Do you know that she can hold my entire—”

“Aaaaatatata not listening!”

“—Between her—”

“ALRIGHT! Fine. I understand.”

“Do not wrestle with a pig if you are afraid of mud, Ariane.”

I grumble something, but I know when I have been defeated.

“As I was saying before your constant interruptions, you must wait for my information, then leave however you can. Board your ship if possible, otherwise go by land. Our time will be short.”

“I understand.”

“Good. I had Islaev’s team board via sarcophagus, so it will be you, Mel, and me. I will come and get you just before night.”

I nod, and he leaves. This all feels like a gambit I had no idea I would play. I should have expected my allies to use me as a tool, and I cannot blame them. Of course, Sephare would not share with me information that I do not need. Of course, Jarek would do the same. The stakes are too high for us to use half-measures. It still pains me to realize that despite my efforts, I amount to little more than a pawn in this age-old game. A large pawn, I suppose, a bishop or a knight perhaps, but still a piece on the board. I could get angry and ask for more but I do not have the heart. I want to win more than I want to understand. It will still be time to grow afterward.

I spend the rest of the afternoon preparing my weapons.

“Are you ready?” Jarek asks.

We can feel it. The sun is setting. The last rays of crimson light drift away from the land. Our time is almost here.

It is night.

We burst out of the cache. We merely need to last long enough for the trap to work. We now stand near a large boulder surrounded by fallow fields, with the port and welcome shape of the Dalton’s Spirit to the right. Just as I rush out, I freeze in my tracks in surprise and so does Melusine. Only Jarek seems unaffected.

I have seen vampires being grandiose, being determined, and being brilliant. I had never before witnessed vampires being systematic.

Every five hundred yards in every direction, a sarcophagus has been planted into the ground. As we watch, perhaps thirty fighters emerge from them all across the Natalis hold. We are vastly, vastly outnumbered.

I turn to the ship, and realize that it does not rest at the pier, but easily two hundred yards out with deployed guns. We just stepped onto a battlefield.

And a massive crimson veil the size of a village, falls down to trap us in.

“Go!”

We follow Jarek at break-neck speed to the obvious core of the ritual trapping us in. Ten mages stand in a circle with battle Masters quickly assembling between us and them. They operate under the direction of a tiny woman with very dark hair. They are themselves hidden behind another shield. I recognize the mages as being mortals, but the woman leading them emits a powerful Lancaster aura that speaks of great power.

“Can you two breach the shield?” Jarek asks. We have not been intercepted yet. Instead, the masters run to each other to form hunting packs.

My first answer is to say: absolutely not. We are two mages against eleven entrenched ones, led by a clear archmage lady who is even now looking at us come to her with clear amusement. And then, I realize that I am too hasty.

There is one thing I still have.

“I can.”

“You can?” Melusine screams by my side, “do you know who that is? Only one of the most powerful Lancaster alive!”

“I can,” I assure her, “just get me close enough.”

The masters arrayed before us form a single line bristling with soul weapons and spells and enchanted pieces of gear.

Jarek accelerates beyond anything I thought possible and crashes into them, sending them reeling through sheer inertia. Many of the Masters bump harmlessly against the shield before sliding down. It did not even waver.

As Jarek and Melusine fend off attackers, I approach and take out a flare gun from one of my smaller holsters, firing it against the shield. The burst of blue light rises high as the skies, past the red barrier holding us in. As expected, the obstacle only affects vampires, not magic or things.

The Lancaster lady smiles broadly, baring her fangs. Her condescending gaze turns to Melusine who is now bleeding heavily from her right arm after an unfavorable exchange.

“You keep strange company, descendant of mine. I will have to discipline you thoroughly when we are done here. Was this supposed to accomplish anything?”

“Actually,” I say, interrupting her, “it was more a code than a true attack.”

The possibility of defeat never enters her mind, and so she bends a bit forward and asks me with the tone of the teacher humoring the class idiot.

“And what kind of code are we talking about?”

Behind us, three very loud, very recognizable detonations make the air tremble.

“In Dvergur, it means ‘fire for effect’.”

I absolutely love the way her arrogant expression melts into outrage and fear as the incendiary projectile devastates her shield, opening it, and sending all ten mages to the ground with bleeding eyes and ears.

“You will pay for this!” she screams as she tries to protect them from the spreading flames.

The dome fragments and disintegrates.

“You have run afoul of the dread pirate Ari—”

“No time for this,” Jarek screams, “here, take it!”

He gives me a strange circular object that looks like a canister with spaces left to write. Only one of the five spaces has letters on it, red as blood. The identity of the traitor.

I grab it and place it in my powder charge stachel, but we are too late.

We are surrounded. The master packs have gathered around and lords have joined the fray, the auras around us burn with anger and aggression.

“It can only end one way,” someone says.

I keep quiet as Jarek steps forward, alone. He slowly unbuckles his shoulder plate and lets it fall to the ground with a loud thud. Dust rises from the sleeping earth.

“You are right, it can only end one way. One more Natalis will fall tonight, outnumbered, because we are too dumb and too naive to see from whence the wind blows. It is already over. I cannot win.”

The second pauldron and his chest plate join the growing pile at his feet.

“With that said, I am also dumb enough to have… reservations about this whole affair. You see, one should not trample on another one’s home without some retribution, without some foretaste of the reckoning that will come one future night for the actions of this one. And there will be a reckoning, and I tell you now, I will be there for it.”

“Enough theatrics, old man, fight, or do not fight.”

“I never said there would be a fight. At least, not for you. Magna Arqa.”

Pressure. Crushing, overwhelming pressure. I gasp, hiccup, fall to my knees. Melusine collapses. The Masters struggle and lurch. Only Jarek remains standing. The very air turns blurry. I want to speak, to tell him to stop. I cannot.

How is this possible? How can this power compare to that of others? How can there be such a gap between lords? Jarek is a bloody monster.

“You need to leave, Ariane. Take Melusine with you, I will open the way.”

It takes all my effort to climb back to my feet and help Melusine to hers. We lumber to the line of fighters before us.

Jarek contemptuously sweeps his hand to the side, and the shadow of a giant’s limb swats them, sending them flying like so many pins. We go through.

I turn around one last time to see Jarek step calmly to someone in the distance. I see a warrior in a crimson plate armor with a battle mask that looks like a theater prop, complete with a beard of wrought silver steel. None other can stand before the two of them.

The man in red materializes a massive, two-handed war axe as dark as the void.

“Magna Arqa.”

Strings, strange veins cover his body until even the plate he wears gains an organic quality that dead materials should not have. The two titans smash into each other, sending shockwaves across the battlefields. Masters are pushed away, lords walk back. Jarek and the man I recognize as Bertrand are forces of nature. We cannot make a difference in that struggle.

Melusine and I finally exit the area of effect of their combined powers. We sprint away without a word.

One team managed to circumvent the colossal fight. They are after us. We take the northern exit to the hold with them after us.

“Cover?” Melusine asks.

“Darkness,” I immediately say. A cloud of blindness and silence spreads around us.

“Inferno!”

A line of crimson extends behind us, slightly longer on one side than the other. Flames rise up as high as three men as we make our escape, or try to.

I feel it. The most powerful aura behind us is the first to cross the hurdle, soon followed by others. The multiple foes disappear from my perception as they accelerate towards us.

Scouts. They have been selected for speed and discretion, and Melusine is wounded, slower.

We keep going and I wait for the inevitable. I do not have to wait long.

Pushing my intuition to its maximum, I twist on myself and cast. The Master sneaking on us shows no trace of surprise as they slow down, bodies covered by a nebulous cloak that hides their features.

“Promethean.”

The first chain forces a dodge, the second strikes right where I knew they would dodge. They still avoid it by collapsing on themselves in a strange motion.

Rose hits them clear in the chest, doing catastrophic damage. The downside of speed is lousy armor, and it shows. My lucky hit takes them out of the fight.

“Darkness,” I say immediately, and my trap works. Another attacker is goaded into rushing forward, unaware that Melusine and I have reversed course.

“Fire bolt.”

“Blood bolt.”

We time our spells and strikes to overwhelm her quickly. On a heavily armored opponent, such light attacks would not distract them enough to justify the wasted motion. On the leather-armored woman after us, however, the result is immediate. Her gear is not up to the task and she is soon covered in painful wounds. We disable her just as the last Master and the lady emerge from the woods.

The Master wears a mask and dark cloth armor, with a sinuous build and twin maces in his hands. The lady’s garb is different, with plenty of pockets and harnesses. Her light build and average beauty gives her a forgettable look that I am certain she uses for spying.  She opens by flourishing a strange curved blade as my darkness spell dissipates.

I dodge to the side and a thrown knife still bites deep against the edge of the battle mask. I block the next two with an armguard, preventing them from drawing blood.

I soon have to forfeit defending Melusine in favor of saving myself. Thankfully, she has healed enough to use her foil again. The lady is a Hastings, and the only saving grace here as our speeds are almost evenly matched.

The issue is that she clearly knows how to fight fast opponents and I am immediately hard-pressed. Distractions, tricks, and misdirection are her main weapons. Without my intuition, I would have fallen in ten exchanges. As it is, I am barely hanging there by the skin of my teeth by using her own daggers against her and every spell in my repertoire. I cast a bind, then a flay and force her back, only for her to throw enchanted bolas that I have to fend off with my claws. Her ability to distract does not even anger me. In fact, I am quite impressed. WORTHY PREY. SMART HUNTER. I will take her down yet.

I keep changing tactics to prevent her from adapting too much. I keep at a distance and pepper her with bolts, but she wears enchanted mail under her dark coveralls, and the attack fails to pierce. I charge her and we exchange fast blows. I am outmatched. Close quarter is clearly her domain of expertise. I receive a deep slash on my right thigh for my trouble. A point-blank range fray spell forces her back and I use Rose at medium range to pressure her.

It works. My training with Nami is paying off intensely as she has taught me how to keep someone back, being an expert at it herself. I strike where she will be instead of where she is, and use Rose’s ability to expand to its full potential. She is pushed back and is running out of tricks. I even force a magical explosion on her flank when one of my bolts hits something she had gone to grab, her pockets working against her now. SHOW ME MORE, LITTLE PREY. She appears to disengage and throws her last dagger at me. Her tactic works against her when I grab one from the air and send it against the back of the enemy Master, helping a struggling Melusine.

“Magna Arqa.”

She disappears.

Hours upon hours of ingrained practice let me react before I can even think. I retract Rose and place her before me, close my eyes, and focus on my intuition. The strain is immense, yet I succeed once more.

Right and behind.

One step to the back, a sweeping downward blow. The lady stumbles back with her chest cleaved diagonally. Surprise finally shows on her face and she falls on her back, her heart still intact, but her innards spilling on the black earth. The damage is gruesome.

I WIN.

I hiss in triumph. I did it. I disabled a lady! And a real—

My aura flares. The sensation defies description, like a volcano or a pot boiling over. It escapes my control.

My own aura escapes my control.

The absolute impossibility of this fact stuns me and forces me to my knees as all my strength flees in the air. What… Is that an attack? But no…

Dark roots and spiked tendrils erupt from the earth, from rocks, they surround me and twist as they search for prey. They find blood but… I did not call them. I do not want them. I do not need them!

They stole all my strength!

I gasp, prone against the ground. It hurts. It hurts as much as when Dalton died and no amount of breathing and feeding could fend off the horrible hollow he left behind. I have been forcefully drained of every ounce of vitality I possessed. I am an empty shell, and I cannot even follow the end of the fight! There are blurry moves and a male cry, I taste just a bit of essence and then, Melusine leans by my side. She has dragged two bodies with her. There is blood on her flank, her cheek.

“You have to stop it Ariane. Stop it.”

“I don’t know how!”

And it does not matter. As fast as the phenomenon came, it disappears and the roots flash into nothingness. I am left lying on the ground, lacking the strength to even stand up. I can only gulp air to alleviate the pain.

“Can you stand?”

“No!”

I could not do it to save my life. There is nothing to draw on.

“Hold on. There could be something.”

Melusine rummages through the lord’s effects and takes out a vial from around her neck.

“We are in luck. One drop for you.”

Pain. Humiliation. Shackles that never fall. I want to die.

Likaean essence. I am saved.

Slowly, carefully, I push myself to a sitting position. That was… I have been betrayed by my own soul? CONFUSION. Hide not thy poison with such sugared words, myself? What gives?

“We have no time for introspection,” Melusine says curtly as she lets the tiniest amount of blood on her tongue. She helps me up.

“Wait, please,” the lady says. She has one more wound on her leg where a root grabbed her.

“Let me have the rest, so that I bring my team to safety, lest the sun takes us.”

“Will you not be found? Night has just fallen.”

“I would rather not rely on it. You would have my gratitude, and I promise not to pursue you this night and the next.”

Melusine shrugs. I nod.

“Alright.”

We help her and leave immediately. Fortunately, no other team follows us and we race northward along the shore. I finally find a suitable spot and Melusine and I create a spell circle to hide ourselves from basic tracking. I use a two-way beacon to try and reach a mage on the Spirit of Dalton.

“Hmm?”

“Felix, is that you? We need you to come get us.”

The man yawns, obviously exhausted.

“Okay,” he says, then breaks the spell.

“Hsss.”

“One day, you will have to let go of your anger, Ariane. Accept that the word is here to stay.”

“Never!”

Only a few minutes later, my ship sails before us. A rowing boat is pulled down and sailors drive it close to the shore. A standing figure with a nice moustache and twin revolvers on his hips tips his hat as we approach.

“You ladies need a ride?”

129. Vampire War

Boston, December 2nd, 1861

“We may begin,” the Speaker says. I find it hard to gauge the mood of an assembly of people whose survival depends on self-control, and yet I can taste concern in the air. One of us has had less need to manage their own emotion on account of being powerful from the start. I do not believe that I had ever seen Constantine angry before.

“Before anything else, we have an unfortunate affair to resolve. Sephare, if you will?”

“Thank you, Speaker.”

She smiles, like the cat who caught the bird that had been flitting around him. She makes no secret of her satisfaction.

“We have found a traitor in our midst, one who has sent detailed military information to our foes.”

I did not think that immobile people could grow even more immobile. The absence of motion in this room now defies the very laws of physics.

“A few weeks ago…”

Sephare goes on to explain her ploy, how she sent different cache locations to different lords to see which ones would be breached. A few of the lords tilt their head, and I know that those are more curious than worried now.

“And someone fell into the trap. The location of the breached cache was sent to only one person. Lord Yann?”

I have come to bear witness to Sephare’s moment of triumph. For three weeks now, the tall, hawkish man and the petite blonde have engaged in a complex diplomatic dance with the prize being the conduct of the war. Yann leads the minority group preventing the majority of vampires from supporting the Union. Some of the recalcitrants have firm ideas about racial hierarchy. Others see no way for their holdings to survive the end of slavery in decent shapes. The last few, however, are mercenaries who consider the crisis as an opportunity to sell their votes. If the deadlock continues, our faction will be forced to pay them an astronomical prize for their allegiance. If it breaks, they will have gained nothing but our resentment. Theirs is a dangerous gamble. They do not seem to care.

Yann leads them.

As Sephare expected, the man believes himself as too smart for his own good, typical of those whose intellect only shines in the company of their lessers. He has looked down upon our community, and now the community has come to give back, in the person of a miffed Progenitor.

“Those are lies, shameless lies! If this is all—”

Constantine’s voice barely rises, and yet every other sound is silenced.

“I have borne witness to the setting of the trap. I have verified the artefact myself. Jarek sacrificed himself so that we would know the name of those who sold us out. You were generously granted confidential information that our enemies obtained, Yann, information that they could not have discovered on their own.”

“How can you be so sure!”

Constantine’s fist smacks against the liquid stone table. Its surface turns into a forest of glistening spikes, though none come to pierce his skin. Yann stops talking.

“No games. No stupid denials. This is no mortal court of law in a piddling village, Yann. The next words coming out of your mouth will be a proper explanation, or I will exact the sentence here and now.”

The Speaker’s unyielding manners remove the bluster from Yann, but not the pride.

“You have no way of proving my guilt. The message could have been intercepted, or one of my subordinates—”

“A level above us, there is a facility,” Constantine interrupts yet again, “dedicated to extracting the truth from beings to whom the mercy of death has been denied. The accusations laid against you are grave, Yann. Do not waste my time.”

I know of this facility very well. One my my fingers twitches. Behind me, Melusine’s hand presses against my back, out of sight of the others.

I almost want Yann to keep denying. The little prick deserves it.

Eventually, he realizes that his bluff is called.

“Alright, I admit to sharing the message, but it was not for their benefit. You see—”

Ten, twenty, thirty bloody chains of cruel magic erupt from Constantine and the walls. They cover the rebellious lord with blinding speed and through overwhelming numbers. To me, they feel… alive. They move organically like so many snakes. If Medusa was real, her hair would be like that. And Yann is caught in it.

The numerous slithering restraints tighten around the man as he mutters something. In a way, Constantine showed generosity. If he were innocent or misled, he could have used the opportunity to defend himself efficiently. Yann was neither innocent, nor misled. He was greedy.

The chains contract, then dismember him.

A purple light. Ash. The death of a lord.

Just like that.

Silence rules while we all feign indifference with varying degrees of success.

Eventually, all eyes now fall on the most awkward member of our congregation: Yann’s second. He is the only younger Master among us. His voice breaks the silence.

“Could you hold off killing me for a minute? I want to enjoy that smarmy bastard’s death.”

“I have a use for him,” Sephare declares, probably saving his life.

The nest of angry chains rattles in the air, their heavy links ignoring gravity altogether. I realize that more chains stand from the Speaker’s back, those black and void. I see a blade and a weight on either end.

Chains? What a curious soul weapon.

“I will consent to sparing his life if he proves himself useful to our cause. Now, for the vote.”

With Yann’s second reversing his position, we go one more round, and I almost expect his block to remain entrenched. It appears, however, that the opportunists in the Secession camp have felt the winds of change, and they vote with us.

It could have been the remains of their leader still staining the table.

In any case, the majority of two thirds has been reached. Constantine allows the Warden of Carolina to make a small declaration, and he announces that, in short, he will be heading out to new lands where proper racial order is still the norm. Constantine allows him to leave while his second immediately becomes the de facto leader. The deadlock has been resolved.

“Henceforth, the Accords will work in the shadows to bring this war to a swift and decisive conclusion. Those who do not wish to assist are free to do so, but they may not help the Confederacy, and they may not hamper the efforts of the Union faction on their land, up to and including the presence of mercenaries, but not that of other vampires. If you have objections feel free to contact me in private. The meeting is adjourned, as we have a war to plan.”

As before, we trickle out of the council chamber and retreat to our individual wings to discuss and scheme. To my surprise, Melusine requests that we speak together first, and we walk to my private chambers for a little discussion.

“I have no doubt that the powers that be will drag you into yet another daring play of the immortal field, and so I would like to take this opportunity to discuss what we can do for our mortal side,” she tells me as soon as we are settled

I frown.

“We are already supplying many regiments with superior weapons, not to mention the better guns. We have already solved a lot of mobility issues.”

“And this is all well and good, but you are always thinking at squad level. Ariane, you have always fought skirmishes with a hundred combatants or less, where tactics and superior gear makes a difference.”

“That is not entirely true,” I pout, but she is not done.

“The only major battle you orchestrated from start to finish happened on your home ground.”

I fail to see how that matters.

“My point,” she continues with some impatience, “is that you are thinking too much about the battle itself. A higher firing rate matters some. Artillery support matters some. Logistics matters a lot.”

“You mean, like food?”

“Food is fine on our side. I am talking about munitions. Bullets. This is what matters the most, especially in large scale engagements, such as we will have before this is all over. Munitions is where the nerve is, and where our profits will be made. It does not matter that infantrymen can shoot fast if they can only shoot thirty times, and badly. We need to provide bullets for them to train, and fight.”

This… makes a surprising amount of sense. The main argument I was offered against repeater rifles was that soldiers would waste bullets. I found that stupid, but if someone is poorly trained and they fire their daily reserves of bullets in the first fifteen minutes of a day-long battle, I can see how this could lead to disaster. Especially if they tend to miss a lot.

“Keep producing guns, but focus your efforts on bullets and bullet packaging. I will take care of the transportation. I have ways,” she concludes.

Melusine has a keen sense of opportunities. I will trust her on that.

“Very well. We should return to the others.”

“You return to the others. I will return to Chicago. There are opportunities to seize now that others will grab if I delay. Win us the shadow war, and I will handle the mortal one.”

“I will count on you.”

“And one last thing…” Melusine finishes as she pushes the door open, “remember that our allies care more for victory than for your well-being.”

“I know this, but I also know that Bertrand will demand my head if there is a peace settlement to his advantage. I have no choice but to commit myself to the cause.”

“Perhaps not. Bertrand has a vision, and he is not an emotional creature. The reason why he sought your demise was one of convenience, and he is now after you because your continued survival illustrates his failure. Your death only matters to him insofar as he must make a point. Sephare might be right, or she might be trying to keep you firmly on her side.”

“You think she would lie to me?”

“I think she would present the information that encourages you to remain firmly on her side. You have no idea how useful a reliable battle Master is. She can deploy you without fear of betrayal or second-guessing. You know what the reward for competent work is.”

“More work?”

“Indeed. Consider making a plan of your own to carry out so that Sephare has to look elsewhere for agents, or you will forever be her hand.”

“You’re right.”

“As always. Sephare certainly has a plan to exploit Yann’s demise. I expect that you will be called shortly. Keep what I said in mind for next time.”

I nod, and she stands up to leave while I am left thinking. In our society, appearance is everything. I must strike a delicate balance between contributing to the war efforts, and being perceived as more than Sephare’s stooge. Ah well.

A knock on the door, and I am once more summoned to meet with our leaders.

To my surprise, I am not invited to Sephare’s personal quarters like last time, but to a floor deep within the fortress where I was quite sure there used to be a training room. It was converted into a strategic headquarter some time while I was gone. I enter through a secured door to find the heart of the war effort.

Constantine stands in front of a board with a complex assortment of documents linked together by ropes, and complex runes in some alien construct that only he could interpret. Sephare and two of the Cadiz lords, Ceron and Suarez, inspect the massive map set on a central table. The walls of naked stone and blue magical lights lend the room a strange air, as on the map, the mundane and the secret mix. Two conflicts, four sides, and extremely high stakes.

For the first time in forever, my intuition activates outside of combat. I see the tiny dots showing troop concentrations superimposed with stylized chess pieces representing major vampire squads. They mix and merge in a strange dance, parallel yet separate at first, then things change. Then blue dots merge around the black ones, and some of the grey come as well. White, red, and black dots join the insane dance to form a defensive vortex, for something has come upon the map.

A grey mass of viscous fluid spreads across the land like a vile mold. It starts in villages, in faraway places and on forgotten battlefields, of which there will be many. It feeds upon the dead and dying. It harvests the forgotten, those who have been cut off. It spreads silently through remote valleys until all elements gather into an unstoppable tide, one of teeth and gnawing bones. It is too late then, too late.

“They will eat until nothing is left, while the eyes and blades of man are turned on each other.”

Yes. This is right.

“Ariane?”

I blink. Everyone is staring at me.

“Hmm, yes?”

“You have the gift of prophecy?”

“I, uh…”

“That was an aura blast, of course she does. What did she say? Let me write it down,” Constantine mumbles as he grabs a loose paper.

I just outed myself.

“Does this happen often?” Sephare asks with widened eyes.

“Absolutely not.”

“Shit. Fuck! The eyes of men? I need to reactivate our dormant information network.”

Ceron and Suarez nod thoughtfully.

“Cancel the order to consolidate mage structures. We must allow them to spread wide, invaders be damned.”

“Errr, you are all taking this quite seriously,” I notice, surprised at their reactions.

“You must have a latent gift. That explains how sometimes you dodge things that you should not be able to see. Every experienced fighter eventually develops this ability, but you must have had a seed of power to obtain it so fast. If someone with only a hint of talent feels the web of fate enough to produce a prophecy, then the event must be momentous indeed,” Suarez explains as Ceron takes notes, “a threat will come during the war and we will be ready.”

“Hm. If you say so…”

I am a bit at a loss. Between this and the thorn roots issue, there is much I need to explore, but there is no time now. Before I can further react, Sephare finishes what she was doing and drags me next to the table. She points at the center of the East Coast.

“I need your help yet again, and for a delicate matter. We are, once more, on the defensive. I need you to lay a trap for us.”

Melusine did warn me.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Gregory, our brand new Warden of Virginia, has mentioned that his double-dealing predecessor had started negotiating safe passage with Bertrand's faction.”

“Then we need to stop that from happening”

“On the contrary, I want him to lure a group, which we will then trap and capture. I would like you to go with him first and scout the place. I do not expect treachery from him, since he simply did not have the time to scheme yet. I do believe that he may try something when he is back among his power base, however. Keep an eye on him, and pretend that you are there to provide security. While you do so, several squads will make their way to your position in secret. When the trap is sprung, they will come and assist. Make sure that Gregory shows you Yann’s escape systems just in case. The old fox had a pretty good system in place, but he feared outside treachery while he should have been wary of his own greed.”

“Are you certain that someone will come? It all seems a bit far-fetched. What benefits would the Expansion Faction have to settle in Virginia? Would they not simply progress through the land state by state?

“We are confident that Bertrand will try to finish us off as quickly as he can. Virginia’s relatively central location would allow him to bypass several hostile territories and strike at Washington. There are also a lot of blockade runners around there, enough to reach Boston with a bit of luck. It is too good an occasion to pass for someone on a schedule.”

“He is in a hurry?”

“His faction is far from being as united as it seems. Every day they spend away from their fiefs means more local power lost and opportunities missed. He will want to strike decisively before his powerbase erodes too much and the expedition becomes unsustainable. I do not count on this one operation to win the war, but every scrap we gather, every lord we capture, brings us closer to a favorable armistice.”

“I see. I will go, and I hope the trap works.”

“Even if it does not, I have other irons in the fire. One last thing,” the petite lady says as she grabs my sleeves. Her blue eyes meet with mine.

“Do not die.”

Her vehemence comes, once again, as a surprise.

“I am not just stating the obvious. This trap is not vital to our success, but you have proven to be a valuable agent of our forces on repeated occasions. Do not fight overwhelming odds. Do not sacrifice yourself out of a misplaced sense of duty. If it looks like the odds are against you, do not throw your life away. Do not die.”

“I will be careful.”

She nods and returns her attention to her notes. I have been dismissed. Constantine accompanies me back to the entrance, robes swishing as he walks. He closes the door behind us.

“Sephare is correct. Jarek’s loss was unplanned for, and reclaiming him will cost us a lot of resources, even if we win this conflict. Do not let your pride get in the way of your survival.”

“You are acting in an odd way. Is this the prophecy, whatever that was?”

“That was a warning that we should keep our eyes opened no matter the cost, and we will. Sephare and I make a point because Gregory’s allegiance is questionable at best. Do not let your guard down at any time. We cannot afford unnecessary losses.”

“I got it. I will come back in one piece.”

“See that you do. I would be displeased if my lessons were wasted.”

One last nod, and he returns to the secured room.

***

We travel by carriage.

Gregory was neither surprised nor pleased by my imposed presence. He took my excuse of ‘safety’ as what it was: a thinly veiled insult against his loyalty. He knows that he deserves nothing more, and so we remain courteous as we move quickly south in the bitter cold of November. Even now, the influence of war is plain to see in the troops we come across, and the checkpoints we pass. The blue uniforms of Union soldiers abound. We even have to bypass Washington and its imposing fortifications. From then on, only our precious traveling documents guarantee that we can go on unimpeded. Sephare facilitated our trip by providing us with diplomatic documents, so that both sides believe us to be part of negotiation efforts.

Gregory proves himself to be an effective, if unimaginative organizer. His short brown hair and intelligent grey eyes give him the appearance of a junior negotiator, the kind that can be sent on a dangerous journey with little hope of success.

As the days go by and I grow increasingly impatient, we are finally stopped for a longer time near the border, in the southern part of Maryland.

I can hear arguments through the armored doors, though their thickness muffles even my senses. Eventually, there is a knock on the door from the driver’s side, one that signifies that the papers have been refused and that we are encountering difficulties.

Our carriage has an escort kindly provided by my host. For a moment, I had considered calling for a red cabal group and some of my own security, then decided against it. If we run into a trap, I fear that I might not see my own men as expendable. If I am to run, I need to leave no one behind or I might hesitate. As for my safety during the day, I have prepared precautions, one of which being my old sarcophagus made by Loth and further reinforced by Constantine himself, at my request.

The man at the head of our escort now fulfills his role of delaying the carriage inspection. He has several tools at his disposal, such as asking to telegraph Washington to confirm our identity. Most people would consider this proof enough, yet twilight comes and we are still stopped.

As the sun sets below the horizon, Gregory walks to unlock the secure compartment we are in. It would take a lot to destroy it, but we are still relatively vulnerable during transport. No sooner is the door unlocked that a clamor sounds from outside, and a man is allowed to clamber in.

I take in a youthful appearance, a moustache, stubble, and the typical uniform of the Union cavalry corps. Our little intruder has two crossed swords on his kepi as well as the emblematic saber of mounted troops, complete with a heavy cloak to protect him from the frigid temperatures. He keeps his blade sheathed, for now.

Gregory and I sit at a table, looking on as the little mortal struts in.

“Some diplomatic mission this is, they have a pretty lady in here!”

The young one smells of anger and pride. Gregory tsks, the intrusion on his territory made more frustrating by our guest’s poor manners. He has to react.

“My men must have produced the proper documentation. Do you have cause to delay us?”

“A group of negotiators between the rebels and us? At this time of the year? I don’t think so!”

“And that is why,” Gregory deadpans, “you are a cavalryman, and not a diplomat.”

The brash young one takes a step forward as Gregory rises to meet him. The Roland Master’s graceful movement takes some wind off the young one’s sails, and his arrogance further deflates when he notices the knife, currently in its holster. Gregory’s sheer confidence and a hint of Charm are enough to force a step back.

“You should know when you are in over your head, boy.”

The point is hammered home.

“Enough of this, get out of there Peter” another voice says from outside. Now, someone else climbs to join us as the soldier steps down. I notice the broad-brim hat of a cavalry officer. His countenance is calmer, and colder, than that of his subordinate. A pair of blue eyes settle on both of us in turn. Frost clings to his sideburns. I find myself curious as to why he would make trouble for himself.

A moment later and I know why. He wears a crucifix which even now emits a powerful deterrent. He does not approach us.

Interesting.

Gabrielites have withdrawn from the public after several years of intensive hunts on our parts. Churches in Europe are united and mighty. There are entire compounds and monasteries dedicated to fighting the likes of us for centuries, and they offer the kind of safe haven that we could not take without a full-blown war, one we do not wish to start lest it brings embarrassing questions. In America, the land has not belonged to christianity for very long. There are still old magics to fight off, and the only refuges the Gabrielites can find are small and reclusive. We are winning. We have been winning for quite some time, and I had a part to play in it.

Instead, our foes have gone to ground and they still recruit in secret, but their ability to conduct large-scale operations like the ones that almost killed me as a fledgeling has faded over the years. We are still, apparently, not entirely free of them. I can see it in the man’s eyes. He knows of what we are. He must have been partially trained.

I interrupt Gregory with a hand on his shoulder as he starts to speak. He has not realized yet what we face, and I am in no mood to explain.

I taste fear in the air, as well as its counterpart: courage. The officer blocks the entrance like David facing Goliath below the walls of Jericho. I doubt that the outcome will favor him this time.

I take one moment to make sure that the outside is silent, and that no one is attaching explosives under our wheels. That would be mildly unpleasant.

“I have found you,” the officer declares with an unwavering voice. He takes a step forward and hesitates.

I bet he never expected to come this far.

We vampires remain few and far between. There are less than four hundred of us on the new continent, spread out between its many regions. This Gabrielite was more likely to catch an accidental bullet than one of us.

So I smile as I discreetly fasten my gauntlet, and use it to slam the door closed behind him.

The carriage is plunged in darkness. Our guest’s back crashes against the side of the carriage in a defensive retreat as he scrambles to grab his revolver and take out his crucifix.

Instead of fighting, I use a match to light a lantern. The yellow light spreads throughout the interior, highlighting the two of us, still sitting.

“Nervous?” I ask. The man does not reply. He has no need to. His heartbeat speaks for itself.

“You know, I consider us to be… long-term planners, a necessity if you intend to live forever. Longevity tends to change our outlook on things. You know what I am referring to, do you not?” I continue.

“You are devil spawns. Leeches. Deceitful creatures, but I can see through your lies. You will not carry out your dark plans tonight.”

“And you could tell what we were from our carriage, yes? You know how we travel.”

I like how my behavior goes against his expectations.

“The light of the sun purifies you. You hide like cockroaches before the might of the lord.”

“And so you decided to use your mortal authority to stop us. And you have. Here we are, stopped,” I continue, my chin resting on a hand. “Now, the good question is, what was your plan from here on? How did you intend to apprehend us? Slay us?”

The man freezes. Perhaps he was waiting for reinforcements, perhaps he merely wanted to confront us. It matters not. Night has fallen, and this world is ours.

I stand up and walk to the back of the carriages where my gear is held. I take Sivaya’s spear and deploy it on one sharp gesture. The straight weapon extends far and I slowly place the tip of the blade on the officer’s chest, far enough that even a powerful halo could not stop it.

“Your faith is a weapon, not a perfect shield. It does not give you victory. It gives you a fighting chance. And yet here you are, with no plan and no tool, hoping for a miracle?”

Before he can start babbling his religion again, I press the blade deep enough for blood to pearl at its tip. I can feel the mighty aura of the local deity pushing back. It whispers warnings of ash and a final end, but I do not listen. It has rules to follow, just like we do. This time, I win.

“You can get back out and fight the mortal war. Under your leadership, perhaps a few more men will survive the incoming onslaught. But if we fight now, there will be no heroic last stand for you. I will stab you from where I am and open this door, then I will kill every last one of your men, one by one. I have been playing the eternal game for far longer than you, human. Recognize when you are outclassed, or die. You have ten seconds.”

I settle to wait.

I am, of course, not bluffing. I do not need aura or Charm to conduct a proper negotiation.

“What tells me that you won’t kill us if we back down now?” the man asks before three seconds have passed.

“You are insignificant and I have no time for you,” I reply candidly.

The officer looks hesitantly at Gregory, who smiles and shrugs.

“Not to add insult to injury but… she is right. We are not in the habit of going around mindlessly killing people.”

The Gabrielite takes a step back.

“Ok. I’m leaving. But one day your time will come.”

“On this we agree,” Gregory replies, “but it will not tonight, and certainly not by you. Farewell.”

The door closes.

Two minutes later, the carriage leaves and the Roland vampire and I resume ignoring each other.

***

The trip through Confederate patrols goes without a hitch, and we arrive very soon at the departed Yann’s center of power. This late in the year, most of the roads are snow and mud, but even I can tell that the dead Roland Lord made a genuine effort to make his little corner of the world pleasant. We turn into an alley of poplar trees near dawn, with fields extending on each side to forest hills in the distance. Yann’s compound is a massive, three-stories house painted white and blue, which does not surprise me. What does, is that he made a village for his slaves. Rows of cookie-cutter houses in neat lines take a large space, with paths leading to warehouses and the fields. I can tell that slaves live here on account of the four guard towers surrounding it and the cloudy breaths of sentinels facing inward. A golden prison, as it were.

The news of Yann’s demise spreads fast among the few staff members still awake. From their reaction, I can tell that he was well-loved. Curious how a backstabbing schemer can be so cruel around the table and so generous with the help, at least compared to others of his kind. We share this dichotomy with the mortals. It would make it hard for me to dislike the departed if he had not planned to help a man who intends to have me made into an example.

My occupation of their previous master’s quarters generates a reaction so intense that I fear I may have to impose upon them that they have no choice on the matter. Eventually, Gregory manages to calm them enough that I am allowed to move in, but I refrain from ordering hot water, lest I find saliva in it and be forced to execute someone on the first night.

It takes me half an hour to identify all the defenses I can activate before falling into slumber. Yann kept an entire half of the first floor to himself, with powerful shutters designed to withstand an artillery shelling. I activate everything I can find, from alarms to traps, and finally lay the last surprise in his opulent, personal bedroom. I open the passage leading to his escape tunnel and place my sarcophagus by the side, closed. I will not be using it.

Early afternoon.

I expected it, and am still disappointed. A vampire bypassed all the defenses without triggering them. I can tell from his aura and the lack of noise even as I rest beneath the ground.

Yes, I will not sleep in a sarcophagus if I can hide myself in the earth’s embrace instead. I can tolerate mud stuck to my hair if it means a successful ambush.

I wait a little more and heavy footsteps sound throughout the bedroom. A man, I think. Heavy. Not Gregory. The little aura I perceive speaks of excellent control, and I do not want to risk probing it, or I will alert the intruder to my presence.

He is up early, almost as early as me. It means a Master. I doubt that a foreign lord would risk themselves.

A Master, alone.

I will apprehend them and interrogate them. At the very least, I want to know what they are doing here if it is merely a local fighter come to meet me.

A spell and I explode from below the floor, fully armored. I manage to materialize Rose and aim it at the trespasser’s back as I emerge.

“Hahaha! Surprise!”

A red armor. The side of a golden mask turning towards me. Contemptuous eyes.

“OH SH—”

A backhanded blow. I am sent flying through the nearest wall with only one question burning on my lips.

What, in the name of the Watcher, is Bertrand doing here?

130. Plans within plans.

I land on the floor, rolling on myself and coming to my feet in a well-practiced move, only to exchange spells with another figure in Yann’s boudoir. Our spells devastate the precious furniture, sending shards and upholstery up in the air.

“Bolt.”

“Shield… Flay!”

“Hive. Bind.”

I slash with Rose and a claw to keep the chains at bay. They do not break. I merely manage to fend them off as I spring back.

My foe’s voice is calm and almost bored. I recognize my foe from the previous battle. She was the Lancaster archmage who tried to trap us, a short lady with black hair and eyes. She shares some of Melusine’s traits, including her voluptuous form.

Bertrand waits by the hole in the wall.

They are toying with me. ARROGANT. And correct. Unfortunately. The sun is still out and will be out for hours. The house is sealed, its only escape route blocked by the lord’s armored form. To be prosaic, I am truly and utterly fucked.

How did it come to this? How could they already be here?

“You know, I have heard that honorable foes are easier to predict than dishonorable ones. I find this simplistic theory amusing,” Bertrand says.

I back up against the wall as the powerful warrior steps forward unhurriedly. The petit Lancaster lady stays where she is and brushes a wood splinter off her dark armored robe. She does not spare me a glance.

“In truth, you can count on scoundrels to act like scoundrels. I always found Yann to be too arrogant for his own good, even when he was but a candidate peddling horses for the royal Musketeers. And I thought I would be the one to kill him.”

What to do, what to do? Can I get past him? I do not believe that I can. Even if I could, the escape tunnel leads outside at some point, where the sun still rules. I cannot stall for reinforcements because it will be days before they arrive.

I am completely done for.

Damn, I thought I would be killed by mortals in a clever trap, or by my sire. Not by them. How very frustrating.

Bertrand still waits by the wall, managing a casual poise in his heavy carmine armor.

“Remember our agreement. I want to know about her quirk,” the Lancaster lady says.

“Yes, yes, I do not forget my promises so easily, woman.”

I frown. My quirk?

“My dear Martha refers to your uncanny ability to charge your claws, and apparently soul weapon, with alien essence. Such techniques are rare outside of the Vanheim bloodline. I am confident that she will manage to… extract all relevant knowledge from your person.”

Not his again.

“Oh no, despair already? I expected more fire from the sane spawn. Let us see if I can revive the flames of hope. Hmm. Do you know why I am so powerful?”

I do not reply. I find him annoying, though I admit to some hypocrisy. After all, I too enjoy toying with my prey.

“My Magna Arqa is simply superior. Although lords are all mighty, some are simply mightier than others. And I am more than most. The length of time one can maintain a Magna Arqa also depends on willpower, and we Roland have that aplenty. The thing with Magna Arqa, is that it cannot be deployed during the day.”

My eyes widen. Does he mean…

“Yes. Right now, it is your magic and blade against my axe. We are both weakened, and the escape tunnel is so close, yes? If you reach it, I will not pursue.”

I expected Martha to protest his decision on account of the risk, but she merely rolls her eyes in an uncharacteristic display of impatience. Her confidence says a lot. She does not think I stand a chance.

I must still try it.

“Martha, do stay out of our little wager.”

“Just get it over with, you insufferable scoundrel.”

IT IS ON.

Lunge. Parry. Quick swipes. Bertrand deflects Rose with minimal movements of his massive battleaxe. His counter-strikes are simply devastating. I block the first and am sent through yet another wall into a receiving room with its French windows mercifully boarded. I deflect the second and it still bites painfully into my gauntleted forearm. I yelp in pain.

“Flay!”

Bertrand let the first spell harmlessly splash against the axe’s wide blade, ducks under the second and brings the axe back, cutting into the tip of my extended right foot. That hurts too.

I try to keep bertrand at a distance, making full use of Rose’s versatility to remain dangerous, but he always strikes where I will be, or close enough that his Herculean strength alters the trajectory. I feel like fighting someone who is in my head, though I am certain that he is not interfering. Bertrand’s battle experience is simply so massive that he must know what range of motions are available to me at all times. Even denying obvious baits and fake openings is not enough to remain one step ahead. It happens again. I mess up and an axe blow catches me in the flank.

I groan and jump back to my feet. I just thought of something. It is nasty, but I will attempt it anyway. It is FOLLY. No. I must try folly or I will fall.

I remove a smaller revolver from a back pocket, praying that the mud I am still covered in did not damage the mechanism.

“How unusual.”

I aim at Bertrand.

Then to the side.

And I pull the trigger. The magically-enhanced projectile damages the wall and the thinnest, tiniest ray of sunlight pierces the gloom between the Lord and me.

Bertrand jumps back with a hiss. I am already gone backward and to the side.

THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN. Shut up, me, I know. I made it happen.

The far wall separating the receiving room from the bedroom. It stands in my way.

“Shred.”

The spell blasts away the reinforced partition and I jump through. The bedroom. I rush to the central place. A trapdoor, still open.

There is a crash behind me and my back turns into a sea of fire. It hurts. IT HURTS. I scream.

Blinding pain.

CANNOT MOVE. I do not feel my legs anymore. Just pain. I try to move an arm, and stop with a gasp. It hurts so much.

Footsteps behind my back. I wish I could lose consciousness, but I cannot. This mercy is denied to me.

The man stops. I can only see the edge of the bed. Every movement is agony.

I hear a sound and my body buckles, then I hear a terrible crunching noise of flesh and bone as he tears off something from me, and my mind is lost.

P
A
I
N

“Ahaaaaa.”

The blade of an axe, glistening with dark blood. That bit deep. Fucker threw his weapon and took my spine. I think.

“Not bad, little Devourer. Very astute of you. I like your style. I do not, however, like the sun. I believe that you use it a bit too generously, for a vampire. Perhaps I should instill some fear back into that devious head of yours.”

The axe dematerializes and something drags me back. I can only see the walls and some cabinets now, then I am held upright. We are back in the receiving room. I did not realize it, but we thrashed that place completely.

Bertrand holds me by the neck and left arm. I can feel his hand on my neck, but the left arm flops uselessly. He brings it closer to…

Oh no.

“Please…”

Not this again. Not this again.

“Such a double-edged weapon for the likes of us, do you not agree?”

The armored arm gets ever closer to that thin ray of deadly radiance.

“Just a little bit, for the memory.”

Close so close now.

And then it stops.

“Did you feel that?” Martha, the Lancaster lady, asks from the other room. Please please please I only feel pain. Just get me away from that.

“Yes.”

Dragged back again, thank the Watcher. Just please get this horrible radiance away from me.

Still held upright. Still hurts. Back into the bedroom now, I can only focus on keeping my mind together. It takes all my Ekon essence and my experience fending off the insanity of the Thirst to keep paying attention to my surroundings. I perceive a… pulse. It comes from my sarcophagus? It does. But… why?

My old protection. My haven against the day. Loth designed it long ago, and Constantine reinforced it with intricate carvings and protective enchantments. Red light shines ominously along its silvery flanks. Martha grabs the lid and pulls, in vain.

“Keyed to her.”

“Can you crack it?”

“Not in a reasonable timeframe. The protections here are… impressive. I recognize two different styles, two masters at work. Besides, we do not need it. Simply place her hand against this lever and the artefact will recognize its master.”

So very strange, I do not recall a beacon being placed here and I carefully inspected the workings to make sure that Constantine had not left any surprise. And then I realize it. There are no beacons, this is just COnstantine’s essence powering the spells directly.

How is this possible?

As I muse the conundrum, Bertrand places my unresponsive hand against the handle and the lid slides open.

A defensive spell triggers anyway.

Powerful red light crashes against my two foes. I recognize an area-of-effect pain construct.

Bertrand bellows, and drops me.

A chain emerges from inside the lids and fastens around my wrist. I am pulled in just as the lord roars in anger.

Another set of chains emerges from other defensive constructs to attack my assailant. The lid snaps close while they are distracted. I hear powerful magic crashing against the shield spells. They should fail. They do not.

A mighty blow sends the entire sarcophagus flying through the air. My head bonks against the surface.

“Ow!”

I cough some blood. It appears that Bertrand grazed a lung. That would explain the horrible pain. The wound is only now starting to close with excruciating slowness.

An indicator flashes blue above my head. Sunlight exposure.

Hold on.

That moron catapulted me outside! I am safe! Even if he sends mortals, they will be pulverized by the traps. It would take a cannon to breach it.

I really hope that they do not find one. This is Virginia, after all. There are tens of thousands of soldiers around.

In any case, there is little I can do against that eventuality. I should focus on closing the gaping hole in my back, because I am bleeding on the velvet upholstery.

***

Nightfall.

I sigh when I feel the baleful orb dip below the horizon. I have managed to heal myself, though I am now Thirsty as a result. It took more courage than I would like to admit to pass a hand against my back after I was done closing it. I felt normal, if cold flesh, sticky with congealed blood. This section of my armor is now ravaged. Bertrand split me like a log. I find his manhandling aggravating. This is no way to treat a lady! He should have properly struck my heart instead.

I open the lid and jump out just as a crash heralds another dent in the manor’s wall. This side of the mansion is close enough to trees that I could perhaps attempt something, if I can run across a snow-covered lawn. I prepare to run and stop, surprised.

I have never felt such a domineering convergence of essence, even when we fled the field back in the Natalis compound. Power saturates the very air. The fabric of reality is so thin that spells should be empowered if cast here. For a moment, my senses are so overwhelmed that I cannot manage them, and I stumble to my knees. I feel more than hear the snap of a spell at my back.

Someone steps by my side and deflects the incoming blast with a thin foil, her other hand holding a black curved dagger. I see a yellow-dyed banded armor embracing a lithe form, and a curiously antique helmet with a Greek influence. Blonde hair cascade down my protector’s back.

She turns to me and I recognize Sephare’s icy gaze.

“I apologize for the delay, though, to be fair, we expected you to stay in your sarcophagus.”

I, being the rational and smart vampire that I am, formulate a witty answer.

“What?!”

By the Watcher, Ariane, well done. Very smooth.

Before I can get an answer, Bertrand stops a dozen paces away from us, with Martha on his right, and another lord wielding a halberd by his left. For the very first time since we met, I can spot wariness in the way he holds his axe. I do not have to wonder why for very long.

“Well well well, what a good catch,” a voice says from behind.

Constantine walks out of the tree edge, wearing a full plate and robe armor made vibrant with enchantments. His dark glare is the only part of his face I can see from behind a barbaric-looking helmet. His hands wield black chains and a massive obsidian staff that no human could carry. We mostly use gauntlets nowadays, but Constantine has always been a traditionalist, and he is not afraid of being recognized as what he is. Simply the second most powerful mage on the planet.

And he did not come alone.

Ceron in a conquistador garb, then Suarez in an old-fashioned chainmail ensemble emerge from the treeline behind him, then the Roland twins, Adrien and Adam in matching plate armors. Constantine’s two mysterious bodyguards are the last to arrive, standing on either side of the visibly-fuming Progenitor.

“How many layers of deception am I on?” I drily whisper to Sephare.

“I usually stop counting after I run out of fingers. Sorry.”

Across the clearing, Bertrand’s golden mask glitters under the moonlight. The night is clear despite the season, and I have the best seat to witness the prelude to the apocalyptic conflict to come.

“You are not the first one to believe you have trapped me, ‘Speaker’. I have never killed a Progenitor before.”

“I was hoping that you would say that,” Constantine replies with deceptive calm.

Not much for preliminaries then. I take a step back, as discreetly as I can.

“Magna Arqa.’

“Magna Arqa.”

“Magna Arq—”

I run. Once, we found a prairie dog stunned in the middle of a field we were using to conduct artillery tests. I know how the unfortunate creature felt then.

Behind me, reality cracks left and right as indestructible weapons collide, backed by cataclysmic strength. Shockwaves send mounds of soil flying. Pieces of masonry glide through the air as an entire section of the manor is vaporized.

I steal a glance back. I cannot resist.

The battle lords exchange blows faster than I can perceive, Bertrand holding his ground against their superior numbers, but the real show comes from Martha and Constantine.

I knew, intellectually, that the lady had not even made an effort to fend me off. I can now realize how much I was outmatched. Shields and projectiles, disruptor fields and subtle curses, the spells she chains blot the air in a blinding display of color. She could fight off a full army of mages. I cannot help but being impressed by the skill and dedication it must have taken to reach that level of mastery.

And she still cannot hold a candle to the Progenitor.

While Martha is a well-honed tactician, Constantine is an artist. His spells skewer the air with a living quality that turns him into an avatar of magic, half-humanoid, and half liquid essence flaying the world around him. Red chains bind, yellow chains explode, blue chains disrupt and scatter, then red chains scatter as well and other merge and combine effects, before coalescing into a massive, comet-like missile. The spells he weaves change with every moment, all the usual techniques and tricks pointless before the adaptive speed he now demonstrates. I spend only one second watching him work, and realize that I have no idea what he is doing. I would be completely unable to counter his magic, not knowing what tool to use on which spell. I might as well fight him blind for all the good it would do me. He is harnessing chaos.

I slow down and turn on myself, still moving away but unable to detach my sight from the awesome spectacle before me. Those are world-class monsters fighting it out now, immortal beasts centuries-old, at the top of their art. Every moment is a fugacious scene begging to be painted, but I simply cannot capture it. They move too fast! And the light… The light, it lives with them. The fabric is so thin. I would need a canvas that shifts and changes. I behold…

PERFECTION.

One day. One day, I will join and dance with them. And when they are no longer my match, when the illusion falters and I see them for the flawed beings they are, I will go after him.

But for now, time to run!

Amazing how Suarez and Bertrand are almost evenly matched. The old Roland is sporting deep gashes in his living armor where Suarez’ Magn Arqa pierced his strange flesh. The golden mask swivels my way.

Hold on.

Why is it swiveling my way?

“I AM TAKING YOU DOWN WITH ME!”

“Aaaaah! Why can’t you just sod off?!”

An arm flies off, but the lord rushes me and I cannot do anything but ALL IN. Wait, what?

Bubbling essence. Rupturing vitality.

Ah, no, not again!

A forest of thorny roots erupts from the ground as I spot the axe descending upon my—

“She is coming around.”

PAIN. Pain on my forehead. I taste mortal vitality on my tongue.

“Oooooooow.”

I crack an eye open through dried flakes of dark blood. A maid retreats, binding the wound on her wrist. She averts her gaze. I return to see Sephare and Constantine kneeling by my side.

“How are you feeling?” the blonde woman asks.

“Just a skull-splitting headache,” I reply.

“What a coincidence. What is the last thing you remember?”

I have to focus for a moment. I realize that my entire head is covered in blood. Mine, from the smell. I lick my lips and focus.

“Bertrand’s axe falling on my head.”

“Well,” Constantine notes, “gravity followed its course.”

“That bastard brained me?”

“Yes. Although, you seem to have regained your cognitive abilities.”

“That brutish ruffian! How dare he treat my beautiful face as if it were a log. Uncouth! Scandalous!”

“And I see that your personality is intact. I will now allow Sephare to explain everything, as I am myself not entirely sure how we managed to capture Bertrand and one of his lieutenants in one fell swoop. And with this, I bid you goodbye. There are secure coffins I must enchant to provide our guests with safe traveling arrangements. Goodbye.”

The tall vampire stands up and leaves, crimson armored robe swishing majestically as he walks. Very manly. I approve.

I turn to a very pleased, very smug Sephare. She makes no secret as to her satisfaction.

“You used me as bait.”

“Yes.”

“You suspected that Gregory might be a traitor as well.”

“No. I told you the truth. I did not believe that he had time to scheme, and we found his disabled body in his bedroom with a spike through the heart. I did, however, expect the expansion faction to have contact among the staff. Yann’s demise and your presence would be quickly known to our foes, and you were going to be attacked. Bertrand could allow this opportunity to fall through, but your presence was too strong a lure, or that was what I believed. In reality, they were already getting off a blockade runner further on the coast.”

“Constantine and you warned me to stay alive because you expected me to face overwhelming odds.”

“Yes, and you managed to attack the first person you came across instead of staying secured in your sarcophagus, behind, I may add, enchantments that Constantine could reinforce at will from afar.”

“You were nearby all long?”

“Yes, safe in a magically-powered golem construct in the form of a carriage, one of Constantine’s inventions. It allowed us to deploy very close to you, and protect you from a cruel fate.”

“Well, I mean, I just got axed. Twice.”

“And you live to be axed again.”

My glare fails to dampen her mood.

“I assume that we can consider this a major success.”

“Indeed. The enemies are not yet vanquished, but the loss of their war leader will be a terrible blow. One of my best coups.”

“You did not expect to catch Bertrand himself,” I tell her reproachfully.

She has the grace to show some embarrassment, though it is all a farce for my benefit.

“If you bait a trout and land a fat salmon, are you a bad fisherwoman?”

I roll my eyes.

“So what now?” I ask, “do we start negotiating an armistice?”

“That depends on them. We received dire news that Charleston was under attack. Unfortunately, there are chances that the city is lost and the nest captured. If so, we will need to discuss terms. There might be a few more battles before it comes to peace.”

“I guess that I should find a squad.”

“Well, the other lords and I share a different opinion. We believe that you should stay away from the field until you have your… problem… under control.”

She gestures at a few thorny roots, still intact.

“I… I am not incontinent!” I bellow, furious.

“Sorry, we cannot risk having a lord’s back covered by someone who may do an eldritch oopsie when under pressure.”

The Hastings lady turns around and leaves me sputtering on the ground. The indignity!

Unfortunately, she is right, and so I calm down after a few moments. I know what that effect means, though the others pretend to ignore me. The thorns are the first manifestation of a lord’s power, I believe. My next priority, after the war is over, is to become a lady. And I think I know of someone who could help, the only faction I have not contacted yet, and whose training capabilities are renowned across our world.

The Knights.

131. Uncivil

Our return to Boston is triumphant, and Sephare throws me a bone by publicly announcing that my contribution to Bertrand’s capture was decisive. Since she alone was the artisan of our victory, the exaggeration becomes public truth. Constantine, the only person apparently in the know, supports her version. I am nominated as coordinator for the Union war effort for both my service and the high contribution I already make by supplying most of the Union’s artillery guns. Although the vampires’ main concern now is the immortal war, I am given a contingent of Courtiers to work with and access to a treasure trove of information, including Sephare’s own network.

I am left with an ambivalent feeling about the whole affair. On the one hand, I survived Bertrand. On the other hand, I did not win against him, and so I did not claim his essence. It felt wrong. On one hand, I was once again used by Sephare, as Melusine had warned me. On the other hand, I had to commit to that last plan and I am satisfied with the result. It serves no purpose to rebel against my own side when my survival is at stake. On the one hand, I have been hurt, on the other hand, I have been rewarded. The results are quite grey.

January 1862 brings a few major events. First, the Union wins its first major victory at the battle of Logan’s Cross Roads, in Kentucky, halting a Confederate offensive. Although the battle is minor in the grand scheme of things, the success of General Thomas over a superior rebel force is vastly advertised in the newspapers, with a little bit of help from us. I remember young George Thomas from the Mexican war back when I was protecting my nephew. He had been instrumental in making the American artillery effective, and the artillery had been instrumental in several major victories, including Fort Brown and Resaca de la Palma. He is a good lad! I hope he can do well now too. The Watcher knows that the other side has its fair share of competent officers.

I am myself not idle. I spend a lot of time and effort securing, organizing, then latching our information system to the Union’s spy network, feeding them the right information and purging their ranks of a few double agents. In the meanwhile, Melusine proves her expertise as a Lancaster by proving a deep understanding of humanity. My various weapons manufacturers are merged and rebranded as Illinois’ Guns of Liberty with my approval. Melusine selects an eagle bearing down with its talons extended as the company’s image, with the logo ‘arms of victory’ under in nice letters. I work with the Dvergurs to design a water-proof, standardized and easily recognizable crate to contain the paper and metal cartridges we will provide to the fighters. Then, she works her magic.

Newspapers, announcers, and even artists sway the public in vast propaganda campaigns aimed at identifying our product with the patriotic love of the Union. Ferries and caravan masters everywhere find room for crates in their many containers, while trains soon come laden with wagons filled to the brim with ammunition at a nominal price. The effort of the whole populace of Illinois comes to bear as unseen-before amounts of powder are channeled south to the troops that need them, turning their winter quarters into training camps over which tangy clouds of spent powder hang like vultures. War fervor spreads everywhere the avian claws of IGL can reach, much to Melusine’s amusement as she no longer has to sustain the fires of mankind’s wrath. They manage that themselves.

January also sees the launch of the first Ironclads! So far they are ugly things, slow and ponderous, but I anticipate the time when new designs will launch ships made entirely out of metal to ride the waves, carrying enormous guns with them. What fun it will be.

On the diplomatic side of things, I manage to bring the White Cabal on board. They live in the north, hire dark-skinned mages as easily as the others, and dislike slavery in general. As a result, it only takes one polite speech before their council to obtain their support. Although they do not intervene directly, I successfully convince them to bring some medical support to the back lines to prevent additional losses of life and amputations. Rescued personnel can return to war, bringing their experience with them.

By February, the resupply operation is in full swing. It will take some time before the abundance of bullets translates into real effects, but we are in luck. Still on the western front, a general called Ulysses S. Grant takes two Confederates strongholds on the strategically significant Tennessee river. He even captures fourteen thousand men in his efforts, a resounding triumph. Although I have little to do with it, the success casts a favorable light on my leadership, a needed boost to our morale. Indeed, a few nights later, Consantine leads our army to recapture Charleston, and fails.

There are only a few casualties, mostly unfortunate Masters who died from grievous wounds, but it was all due to Constantine and our battle lords’ contribution. The plan was simple and the European forces were attacked by surprise, but they were rallied by one of Bertrand’s lieutenants, a patient and deliberate Lord by the name of Orpheus. There, the gap in experience was made manifest when their squad rallied and stabilized in mere moments while ours struggled to coordinate. Only a fighting retreat preserved the bulk of our forces. The conflict highlighted how inadequate our fighting force was compared to the European one, but also helped us obtain much-needed experience.

In the wake of the defeat, the Accords leadership dissolves subpar squads and forms new ones, while the more successful groups now take part in large-scale exercises. Time is on our side now, and underhanded tactics delay the European movements by denying them the support and intelligence they need to progress safely.

I also keep an eye on the Union leadership. Sola makes a discreet visit to the president’s house to save his son Willis from a fever. It would not do, to have the mortal head of state distracted by the death of a child.

Towards the end of the month, I receive word of a Confederate victory in the New Mexico territory, as well as skirmishes everywhere. The entire country is at war and frictions happen all across the new border. However, victory will be obtained in the east, and so it is there that I focus my efforts. Under the advice of the infamous Black Dog, head of the White Cabal security, we improve the Union’s communication line with the clever addition of a few mages capable of long-term communication, especially between telegraph posts and large mobile forces.

Early March brings a surprise. As I am back in my domain of Marquette, I feel Ollie coming with an interesting, eclectic group. The Dvor essence brings me a slight boost in abilities as long as I am within my territory, with the most interesting one being intuition. I find myself capable of guessing things with greater ease, something I use to hold my own at cards when I play with Urchin.

Ollie knocks and I allow him in. He files in with one of his seconds, but also a mundane officer in a cavalry uniform, and more interestingly, a werewolf. One of Jeffrey’s more stable minions.

“Welcome. Please, sit down,” I offer, and they take seats from my large working room to form a half-circle in front of my desk.

“We have come,” Ollie says in an unusually formal voice, “to announce the creation of the Red Cabal as a formal entity, with a statement of purpose as follows.”

He cleared his throat.

“We, the people of this world, in order to keep darkness at bay, and establish a sustainable alliance to that effect, do agree to the formation of the Red Cabal. We recognize that peace, progress, and safety, are at risk from a variety of enemies regardless of species. We recognize that the safeguard of the world forms the core of belief of many individuals regardless of species. Finally, we recognize that intent more than nature determines one’s actions. As such, we formally declare an alliance between such like-minded individuals so long as they obey our most basic tenets, so that we may all together work for a better tomorrow. From many origins, one purpose, and may the blood we share together protect our posterity.”

Huh.

Not bad.

“As the local representative of the vampire faction, I would like to formally offer my support.”

“That’s good because we’re broke,” the werewolf adds helpfully.

They tend to simply eat their production surplus.

In the end, we spend a few hours working on logistics and preparation. The idea is to have teams of mundane humans, mages, and werewolves working together to rid the world of threats by employing each species to their strength. We vampires would intervene when they need heavy support.

I admit to loving this idea. My little minions, keeping my territory clean of their own accords.

In the end, we end with a toast and a group picture.

The picture returns a night later. My form is blurred and unrecognizable.

That… might become a problem if photography becomes more popular.

Unfortunately, there is little I can do at that stage. I must focus on the war. The positive side is that I have, I think, achieved one of the hallmarks of good leadership.

Competent underlings.

***

The Ranger’s Tale

Illinois, vicinity of Springfield.

It was cold.

The shy sun of early March cast its rays on the land, providing light but little heat. Nature quietly slept away the cold season, and ice coated the branches like glassy ornaments. The caban was exactly ten miles away from the main road. Only a path, barely more than a trail, linked the two, just the way the Gages liked it. If they wanted people to come on their lands, they would bring them themselves.

Just now, Harry Gage, the eldest brother, had walked out to relieve himself. His glare went over the familiar landscape. There were leafless skeletons that would sprout leaves soon enough, rusted pines in the distance, and a large pond to his right that produced the occasional fish. He passed a hand through his dark, scraggly beard.

Something was wrong.

Just then, he heard it. A horse was making its way down the path to them at a leisurely gait. Harry could see signs of movement through the white and brown of the surrounding vegetation. He felt… violated. No one came here without their approval. No one. Not if they had a lick of sense.

Harry turned and banged the door.

“Come on out, we have a visitor!”

Curses flew through the thick partition. Only a few seconds later, it smashed against the far wall, and his three brothers spread around the railing surrounding their house. The cabin was built high and away from the wet ground.

Gus, the fattest of them all, handed him his musket. It was fortunately loaded. Gus himself had an axe while Jeb frantically loaded an antique pistol. Lucius, the youngest, stepped to the side and disappeared in a shadowy corner with his “liberated” repeater.

Not a moment too soon. The intruder cleared the edge of the forest and moved forward on a very tall brown stallion. Handsome beast, that. Could sell for quite a lot.

The man himself wore a very neat jacket, waistcoat and even a tie in shades of white and blue. He was all clean and proper and slightly intimidating in a rich folk kind of way, but the most curious thing was the hat. It was a wide-brim affair that cast a shadow, masking his features. Harry found the sight mildly upsetting, and just like every time something upset him, he turned it to anger instead.

“This is a private property, stranger. You have no business here,” he declared with confidence.

A white-gloved hand reached through the cloak to grab something in the man’s inner pockets. He used a match to light a thin cigar. For a moment, the flaring flame showed them a trimmed moustache and judgemental brown eyes, then the fugacious image was gone, and only a red, smoldering ember remained.

“Y’all took two crates of IGL ammo from Chicago with a promise to deliver them to Louisville, Kentucky, against payment. The crates never arrived. I’m here to retrieve them.”

Harry froze. A complex mix of emotions twisted his face but in the end, anger won.

“Yeah? I say we didn’t.”

“Y’all are the Gage brothers and you did. Signed for it too. Everyone knows you took the crates, boys, stop wasting my time.”

Fists tightened over weapons. The brothers had rushed out from a toasty inside and they did not wear enough. Their breath formed white cloud in the frigid air. Tension rose.

“I’m getting those crates back, one way or another,” the man added with terrible finality.

Harry spoke between his teeth.

“As I said, this is a private property old man, and you can’t come and tell us what to do.”

In answer, the man pulled on the left side of his jacket to reveal a shiny silver star. It caught the afternoon light with a strange red hue.

“Badge here says I can.”

“Fuck your badge. On this here land, I’m the law, and I got my brothers to back me up. It’s four of us against you, asshole.”

The rider’s eyes shifted to the corner where Lucius was hiding. Poorly. His breath had revealed him immediately.

Slowly, he pulled the other side of his jacket. The thick fabric withdrew like a curtain to reveal a revolver in its holster.

It was, they could see, a nice gun.

It looked like a Colt 1860 in the same way that a timber wolf looked like a cocker spaniel. The big iron was customized to the gills. Its grip was engraved bone that showed much use, and its barrel was long and heavy, the muzzle pointing out of its sheath. Minuscule decorations bent the light in a disturbing way.

Harry, who was positioned to see it fully, noticed that the gun’s maw had a different color, as if it had been fired a great many times, and the paint had been twisted by countless clouds of overheated salpeter.

“Got enough for two more right here,” the man said uncaringly.

Then, he fell silent. He had said all he had to say. The ember of his cigar shone rhythmically with his breath as he waited.

Harry’s breath turned fast and deep. Blood flushed his body. He was practically fuming.

A glacial wind blew over the plain. It brought with it the crisp scent of pure air. None of the statuesque trees moved, frozen as they were, and their immobility gave the scene a feeling of suspense as if the world held its breath.

Harry sighed.

“Of course, let me just—”

Things happened very fast.

With a cruel rictus, Harry twisted and aimed his musket. Caught by surprise, his three brothers still raised their weapons with commendable speed.

A massive boom shook the very earth and Harry’s chest bloomed in a crimson flower. The rider leaned right on his saddle. He moved his gun in a smooth arc that went from brother to brother.

Lucius was next. Another boom, and a hole appeared in the barrel that he had used as a hiding place.

The rider’s horse twisted to the side. He was almost parallel to the ground now, and the shift of his mount gave him a clear view of his last target.

The top of Jeb’s head disappeared and a shot went off. The bullet dug harmlessly into the ground.

Time ran again.

Harry fell back. Lucius collapsed against the barrel, gurgling his lifeblood away. Jeb’s beheaded body crashed down like a puppet with its strings cut.

Gus bellowed, hands still grasping the axe. He had barely had the time to move.

The rider calmly sat back in his saddle. He still held the instrument of death. It smoked like the mouth of hell.

“Noooooooo! You killed them! You killed them all! What am I gonna tell Ma?!”

The rider stepped down unhurriedly while his stallion snorted, unamused by the sudden noise. He walked with no rush and no remorse, cigar still clinging to his lips.

“The crates,” he said with no emotion.

“Fuck! Why did you have to go and kill them…”

For the first time, the rider showed a modicum of emotion.

It was rage.

He threw a mighty hook into the fat man’s belly, bending him over in one blow. Gus fell to his knees and gasped, then shrieked when the rider placed the still-smoking muzzle of his pistol against his ear. It burned.

The rider removed the gun and hissed.

“You listen well, boy. You see them dead and think it’s tragic. I say they’re lucky. I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. I’ve gazed at what lurks in the valley of death. We are at war with more than you know and we, the humans, we ain’t winning. I need my side to work smoothly and that means those crates going to where they need to go, even if I have to wipe out every last degenerate in-bred on the way, one family at the time. Now, boy, you got two knees and I got three bullets. Where. Are. The. Crates?”

“At the back, Jesus!”

The rider pistol-whipped Gus, and he fell to the ground insensate.

Silence returned to the clearing, until a young woman stood up from a nearby ditch. She wore brown forrester clothes and a metal gauntlet on her left hand. In the other, she held a fancy short rifle.

The woman pushed back her hood to reveal light brown eyes and hair. They had a strange radiance, as if they were on fire.

“Aw man, now we have to carry the crates ourselves!”

“You stay right there, Daisy, I got it. Bring the carriage forward.”

She whistled as the rider walked into the empty house.

***

The Gambler’s Tale.

April 8th, 1862, Shiloh, Tennessee.

The night had fallen on a battlefield that had seen the death of five thousand men. In some places, a soldier could walk from one end of a field to another without stepping foot on the ground, so thick the dead lay. On the south of Pittsburg landing, some enterprising soul had set up a temporary bar for officers to drown their sorrows i. Most of them had given a good account of themselves on the previous day, but there were memories that only the blurry haze of liquor could dull.

Such was not the case for the man in a bottle-green coat. He was a reporter, and had not stepped a foot near the frontline. He was, in addition, quite satisfied with himself. He and some of his colleagues had managed quite the coup. They had reported that the surprise attack on Union line had nearly succeeded, because their commanding officer, Hiram Ulysses Grant, had been drunk. Drunkenness was a common character flaw in the leadership of the war, and that rumor was like a wine stain, easy to inflict and impossible to remove. That would show the young upstart. His successes at Fort Henry and Donelson had made him too big for his shoes, the man thought.

There were rumors that parts of the line had dug in because some mysterious, last-minute informers had betrayed the Confederate approach. He gave no credit to those. Transfer of information was notoriously hard in those wooded, untamed lands. It would take a level of organization that neither side had.

Just then, a man opened the door and walked in, and the reporter turned to take his measure.

It did not take a genius to see that the newcomer was not an army man. He wore an impeccable suit in tones of charcoal under a heavy black coat of excellent make. The temperatures were still frigid, but his face was not flush.

The reporter saw peculiar features under a suspiciously clean bowler hat. This curious man could certainly not be called handsome by any stretch of language, but he had about him a sort of rakish charm, a vulgar magnetism that caught the eye. He immediately noticed the reporter’s attention and tipped his headdress, sending water to drip on the wooden boards below.

“Some night, heh?”

Once more, the man’s accent was difficult to place. It was some sort of northern slang that evoked ships and docks and crates loaded in the dead of night. The reporter watched, bemused, as the man took the stool by his side. He ordered a whisky, double. A silver dollar appeared from out of nowhere and flicked from knuckle to knuckle in a mesmerizing dance. More curiously, the reporter could not see the dollar pass from one hand to another. That was some trick, alright, and no mistake.

“We all need a little pick me up,” the man continued, “a night like this can drain all the warmth from a red-blooded American. Say, stranger, how about a wager to make it memorable? I bet ten dollars against an answer that you can’t figure out my little mystery.”

Ten dollars? Ten dollars?! Was the man so loaded?

The reporter frowned and passed a hand over his Van Dyke brown beard. His instincts warned him of a scam, for the slick stranger certainly had this sort of air. However, the reporter was not too worried. As long as he himself did not bet money, he would be fine. Besides, it was getting tedious. All the officers around were deep in their drinks in the dark recess of the makeshift tavern. They would not talk to him.

“Alright, you got me. Lay it on.”

The stranger gave a lopsided smile, and poked the hastily nailed wooden plank on which his glass was resting. The light of a lantern cast interesting shadows on the irregular surface as the stranger’s fingers started a little jig.

“A friend of mine mentioned an interesting theory. A correlation, if you will, between human traits in a subject, and empathy towards said subject. Now imagine this. On a vertical axis, we have empathy, and on the horizontal axis, we have a degree of resemblance to a human. At the lowest point stands, let’s say, a worm. Who feels sympathy for a worm when they attach it to a hook?”

The reporter hesitated.

“Err, no one?”

“Exactly!” the man of the bowler hat said, pleased, “only the most bleeding hearts would feel sorry for a worm. How about a fish then? A little bit closer to us because it has two eyes and one mouth. Still low eh?”

“I suppose?”

“But if you see a fish flopping on the ground, opening its mouth because it is quite literally choking to death, you would consider it, at least, while nobody cares about a worm.”

The reporter frowned. Perhaps it was also because a fish was bigger? It was difficult to tell.

“But anyway, still low, still low… but what about a cow then? You can grow attached to a cow if you raise it for a long time, even if it’s technically food. It has two eyes, four limbs, it can understand you. It can recognize you.”

“I would still not hesitate to kill one for a burger,” the reporter added. He was invested now, though he was not sure why. It had turned into a debate.

“Indeed. Still low, still low. But a dog is a bit higher. A dog shows loyalty, understands obedience, and those are traits that we like in others, do we not? And those cute little eyes when they beg…”

The reporter frowned. He was still not entirely convinced about the theory, though it certainly had merits.

“I will grant you this point.”

“Much obliged,” the stranger answered pleasantly. “Now, we are pretty high in the list. It might be even more primates like monkeys, though I am not sure myself. But plush bears, puppets, drawings of humans, they are very close to us, and we can identify with them. We recognize cute puppets as representations of people, and we can feel emotions watching a good, well-planned puppet show, can we not?”

“We certainly can! Why, I remember when I was young…”

“I am delighted that you would see my point,” the stranger interrupted with a light smile.

The reporter blinked. Yes, it made sense. The representations of humans, even if they were approximative, could garner empathy from any viewer.

“So we are here on the chart, yes? High resemblance, high empathy. But what happens when something is almost human, but not quite?”

The reporter blinked again. He had liked the theory so far. It was something light and harmless you could share in good society, that would provide insight, and give the speaker an aura of brilliance. There was still more?

“Let’s say, someone who looks human, but with erratic movements. Like a man suffering from convulsions. There is something intrinsically disturbing about such sights. Or a human with a missing jaw! As long as something is at the very edge of humanity without quite fitting, suddenly, their view horrifies most witnesses. Have you ever noticed?”

The reporter frowned. At the edge but not quite? For some reason, he was reminded of one of the memories of his youth. There had been a book, he remembered. On the cover, a tiny gnome was depicted sitting on a mushroom. One fateful night, a thunderbolt had struck nearby and the brief illumination had played tricks on the child’s mind, turning the fairy’s smile into a forest of jagged edge angled inwards, those mad eyes looking at him, ready to jump from—

“You have noticed, then.”

The remark woke the reporter from his daydreaming.

“Yes. Some… some dolls are like that.”

The stranger was closer now, and the reporter felt pulled by those amber eyes. The room closed around him, and the others ceased to matter, to exist even. There was just the stranger and the theory.

“Exactly. Here, just at the edge of humanity itself, the curve dips precipitously. And completely. It even goes into the negative! Interesting, is it not? Here is the kicker though. All human instincts have a cause, yes? Bad smells prevent the ingestion of rotten foods. You turn when something moves at the edge of your vision to protect you from attacks. Why then, does that instinct exist? Why does the sight of otherness in the familiar lead to such a visceral, horrifying response?”

“I don’t know?” the reporter breathed.

The stranger smiled, eyes half-lidded.

“Tut tut my dear, this is the subject of our wager. Give it a try.”

But the man could not. Would not. He wanted to know.

“Just tell me why, man, I grant you your question.”

The stranger chuckled then.

“Not everything is as it seems. Too much was hidden that should have been remembered, and too much dismissed that used to be common wisdom. In a darker age, the ability to see the stranger knocking at your door for what he was could have saved your life, for the world was, and still is, vast, and filled with cruel things.”

It started slow. The reporter’s captured gaze traveled down, and down, from the stranger’s liquid eyes to the deathly pale skin of his cheeks, then to those teeth now revealed and the fangs that were there. The reporter tried to scream then, but he found that he could not. Only a wheezy moan escaped his lips, but inside, his heart beat a maddening waltz. In vain. He was already taken. Tears of terror rolled down his face in warm trails. No one saw a thing. The susurrus of conversations had blanketed the room, hiding the monster within.

“My question then,” the stranger said, “would you like to live?”

The reporter clawed at that lifeline with frantic hope. The stranger leaned forward and whispered in his ear. His breath was cold, and smelled faintly of blood.

“The strands of fate have been disturbed by shameless fabrications, and we are most upset. Your article has been lost somewhere along the telegraph line. Tomorrow, you will send another and it will be truthful, or I shall return and silence the voices of discord. Forever. Do we understand each other?”

“Y—yes…”

“Good.”

The reporter let out a heart-wrenching sob and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the lantern had dimmed. Most officers had left. Of the stranger, there was no trace.

The reporter felt something in his right hand. He opened it and the silver dollar fell down from it. It was still cold.

132. Snapped shut

June 1st 1862, Boston. Accords Headquarters.

“Pierce. Shred. Bind.”

Constantine moves lazily and counters each attack one by one, slipping a bolt between two deflects. I expected it this time, and I manage to shield it.

“I need a break,” I finally say, as I feel a painful drain on my essence. The Speaker nods and vanishes his soul weapon.

“You are making progress. I must admit that I was wrong. Your style is compatible with magical duels after all.”

“A work in progress,” I admit as I check for damage on my dueling gear. There are a few marks where the fabric was singed, but Constantine refrained from using too much power. Once more, my pride is the only casualty here.

“I am intrigued as to how you manage to cast correct spell sequences while moving and fighting.”

“My intuition allows me to feel which spell would be right if I focus enough,” I admit. I could hide this piece of information from Constantine, but I see no reason to do so. I must improve quickly, and he is the best magic teacher around now that I have mastered the basics.

“The rest will come with experience,” Constantine continues, “I admit my lack of experience when it comes to battle. Wilhelm told me that I was too static, and that I made poor use of my soul weapon. What do you think?” he asks.

I consider the question in silence. I have more experience than him when it comes to scraps. Magic requires a lot of attention, one of the reasons why a lot of mages deploy shields to shelter them while they cast. To fight and cast at the same time is an art that only vampires can truly master, as others lack the time to do so.

“I think that spells are your main weapon. If you use your soul chain defensively, they are not being underused, they are simply your backup. Your main opportunity probably lies in proper repositioning. Sometimes, it is better to be at the right place and right time rather than throw artillery spells from behind. Especially in a vampire battle.”

“You are probably right. I will work with my bodyguards to be more mobile across the battlefield. It will allow me to support more squads. Enough of this. The lesson is over for tonight.”

I unlatch my breastplate and give it to an attendant. The fortress’ sparring room is unusually large, and quite empty at the moment. All squads have gathered in preparation for an offensive that I am not privy to, due to safety concerns. I would be annoyed if I had not such a great control over the way we influence the civil war, with the trusting support of the rest of the Accords, and with minimal oversight.

“How are things progressing with the mortal conflict? Are you satisfied with the conduct of the war?” Constantine asks as we move up the fortress.

I frown as I consider my answer.

“It goes slowly. Every month we spend without major victories in the East increases the risk that the Confederacy receives international recognition. The English may have been scalded by the French recklessness in Mexico, but they will jump on an opportunity if the rebels offer them a good one. It will happen if they grow desperate.”

“Hmmm, the English only ever support the winning side,” Constantine judges, “but more importantly, do you think that you can assist the Union’s army? The eastern theater has remained inconclusive.”

“Lincoln is pressuring general McClellan to move. The relationship between those two is frayed, but the president has so far declined to dismiss him. I am, myself, worried. Several skirmishes have gone in the Confederates’ favor despite Union superiority in terms of, well, everything. Save for commanding skills apparently. General McClellan’s slowness is a poor omen. The upcoming campaign will show whether or not my worries are warranted.”

“And in the West?”

“That is the thing. Union forces have forced a withdrawal from the major crossroad of Corinth just yesterday. Our more minor theater has an overabundance of skilled and aggressive leaders, while the eastern one, a dearth. I was hoping to force a transfer but I was advised not to push the issue in the middle of a campaign.”

“You do not change a general mid-battle.”

“Indeed. Much relies on individual decisions. I considered sabotaging the Confederate leadership, but I was strongly advised against it. Apparently, there is a taboo on disabling civilian and military leaders.”

“There are no entities on the continent that we need to justify ourselves to.”

“And yet it would create a dangerous precedent, and lead to questions we want to avoid among the mortals. Or at least that is how Suarez put it.”

Constantine raises an eyebrow.

“Not Sephare?”

“She does not have a monopoly on covert actions. In any case, sabotaging Confederate infrastructures has led to some difficulties.”

“There is not much to sabotage?” Constantine asks with amusement.

“Essentially, yes. The resources used when compared to the effects obtained makes such maneuver prohibitive. The Roland twins also told me that most of their mortal agents harbor a strong loyalty towards their own state. They are unwilling to reduce them to cattle to fit our agenda, something I can appreciate. Southern production facilities are also spread out. It makes much more sense for us to reinforce the north.”

“I understand. Save for a military disaster, the only possibility of defeat lies in the next elections. I have ordered our networks to give you their full support when it comes to information control. Many of us Wardens have taken over the major newspapers in our own states. I trust that you have done the same?”

“Melusine and I consolidated our holds years ago,” I scoff. As if I could let some louts slander and rabble-rouse to their heart’s content! Many of those journalists are more interested in provoking a response than in informing the public in a responsible, truthful manner. Upstart, social-climbing little careerists, the lot of them. Ugh.

“You should not frown that much Ariane, you are scaring the staff.”

“Sorry. Some of those paper-pushers left a metaphorical bad taste on my tongue that I had to wash away with their blood.”

“Not helping.”

We finally arrived at Constantine’s office. His aide Sophia stands and we both greet her. I turn to the Speaker one last time before I go to attend to my own matters.

“In any case, we have further stacked the odds in favor of a side that was already the likely winner. The rest is in the hand of the mortals.”

Especially McClellan. I hope he delivers.

We exchange a few farewells, and I return to the ‘mortal intelligence room’, a large open space in the basement with a map at its center showing the current border and current troop concentrations. Access is restricted to approved vampires and mundane mortals with a knack for organization and data analysis.

A pale man wearing a monocle charges me, brandishing a sheaf of papers. He slows down as he approaches but blabbers with the air of a scholar with too many thoughts bouncing around his head.

“Black Dog Hopkins sends words of the White Cabal progress. They have seeded infirmaries with agents, but apparently there has been a drive to do that on both sides to preserve lives regardless of allegiance.”

The Watcher save me from bleeding hearts. I use my superior discipline to prevent my eyes from inspecting the back of my skull.

Though, come to think of it, medical mages capable of long-range communication from behind enemy lines would be a boon.

“I will discuss it with him later. What else do you have for me?”

“Johnston and McClellan are clashing today. Reports are still inconclusive.”

“You should have started with that. What else?”

We go over several things and I take a few decisions that cannot wait, as well as a few others that my advisors and I worked on before. I do not believe that I am particularly smart myself, but I do have access to a broad range of talents to help me. Sometimes, I make mistakes. Such a thing is inevitable in the chaotic environment we find ourselves in. I do not allow it to sway me. It is better to be decisive and sometimes err than be late and allow opportunities to pass me by.

Besides, those are unknown mortals dying, and I cannot find it in me to care overmuch.

I retire to my quarters as dawn approaches. I already petitioned to travel south, to the human frontline, in order to better understand and coordinate our resources, but Constantine refused me for safety reasons. I would complain, but I would rather not wake up to a hostile lord again, and so I have remained in the relative safety of our fortress. I have to make do with cold reports for now.

I know little about the vampire side of the war, save that our side has won several skirmishes through clever use of the home advantage. The civil war has helped us a lot by having locals more wary of sudden influxes of foreigners, and we have used it to our advantage. It also appears that the enemy’s supply of Fae blood, which had given them an edge in early battle, is running out with no opportunity for a quick replacement. I have high hopes that the foe’s position will soon become untenable. I just have to be patient.

June 2nd, middle of the afternoon.

Every day is the same. I wake up, find more reports waiting for me, and soak up all those changes. For the first time in my life, the Rosenthal essence has become the most useful one. The late afternoon is usually reserved for sparring and this time, it will be with Wilhelm of the Erenwald under whose authority the fortress functions. I am therefore surprised when he knocks on my door as I finish getting dressed.

“Yes?”

“You could have warned me that soldiers would be conducting training nearby. Any troop concentration in the vicinity makes me nervous.”

I freeze. And freeze some more. I comb my memories for any related report, and find none.

“As they should! We are being attacked!” I spit.

Wilhelm stares at me for one second, then grabs a medallion from around his neck. He presses its metal surface, and a siren sounds throughout the complex. The windows behind me, already shuttered, vibrate as heavy steel plates descend to seal them shut. The same is happening everywhere throughout the complex. On the ground floor, I hear the mustering yells of the garrison.

It suddenly occurs to me that I may have been hasty in my judgement. It could have been an unscheduled…

“Do not second guess yourself. If it is not enemy action, then it is at the very least a good exercise. Now, go to Constantine’s office, I will be there shortly.”

I run back into my bedroom to grab the case containing my gear and rush down to the Speaker’s quarters. His door lies open, and a stairway, previously covered, descends into a cave that I did not know existed. Melitone, Constantine’s servant and twin sister, urges me on.

“Join him. I will fetch Marshal and we will take shelter separately.”

Marshal, huh? I always call Sheridan Sheridan. The two of them are getting awfully comfortable with each other.

Focus, Ariane. Battle first, possibly catastrophic consequences of Constantine’s and my human being a thing later.

I step down into a large rectangular room of surprisingly large dimensions, leading me to believe that the rock beneath the manor has the structure of Swiss cheese and more chambers than a beehive. All sass dies in my mind as I take in Constantine’s seat, not of political power, but of magical might. We are in his sanctum. There, he holds the bindings to most of the land’s defenses.

“Your warning came just in time for the village guards to retreat, though I fear that for the outer gate men, it was too late.”

The tall Progenitor faces a far wall entirely filled with rows upon rows of reflective surface rendering a kaleidoscope of sceneries, so many that my mind suffers an unusual feeling of vertigo. I see trees, rooms, corridors, fixed defenses. I narrow my focus on the few that Constantine currently focuses on. The silvery, deformed shapes of impostors in Union uniforms sprint across a small clearing. Two sentries lie on the ground, quite dead.

Constantine raises his heavily decorated staff and two golems burst out from the trunks of dead trees. They are thin, insectile shapes made of blades and hard edges. They mangle the attackers with a level of savagery that even I would not match. In mere moments, the squad of a dozen attackers is meat across the ground.

“Well,” I remark laconically, “that’s the end of that.”

“No,” Constantine answers with a deep, throaty voice. He turns around and I see for the first time in thirty years a new emotion on the Speaker’s face.

Rage.

“I have only just begun.”

The next few minutes are the very embodiment of something I fear: bloodshed without the pleasure of the Hunt. Murder on an industrial scale. As soon as the last elderly attendants passed the gate, Constantine turned the forest, lower village, and path to the manor into a death trap of unprecedented proportions. I watch, mesmerized, as soldiers spread out only to be taken out by those thin, mantis-like golems, then they regroup around mages who can disable their simple frames with spells.

“Fire mage, mark twenty-seven,” I inform Constantine at his request.

“Excellent. Thank you. Now, to give them a warm welcome.

Incinerate,

Burn to cinders,

Those intruders,

That I did bait.

Doomfire rain.”

The circle around the standing Progenitor ignites in furious crimson and a large ‘boom’ shakes the manor to its foundations. Through layers upon layers of rock and enchanted steel, I hear a sound like a dozen tea kettles about to boil over. Three seconds later, the mirror goes blind.

I brush some dust from the top of my dress.

“I think we lost vision on mark twenty-seven,” I say.

“That is quite alright. So did everyone else. Another target, if you please?”

I look around, but our foes are in full retreat. Out of the three or found hundred impostors converging on the manor, more than a hundred have perished in the span of twenty minutes. There are pit traps lined with serrated spikes that opened on major paths now with corpses clogging their surface, the dozens of spikes running red with lifeblood. A steel cable snaps out of nowhere and plucks one of the retreating men from his line before sliding back like a snake with its prey. Some trees have exploded to reveal golems while others, a more immediate payload. Magical wires, previously inactive, triggered as a careless foot came by to catch them in sharpened bear traps. Parts of the forest are on fire. Others are glassed over. Plumes of smoke obscure several mirrors.

“Err, I think they are retreating to their main lines. Mirrors one to, hmm, seven.”

“Ah yes, the edge of the property.”

“They will probably wait for nightfall. I see sarcophagi and secured carriages. How did they even come so close?”

“That is for Wilhelm to find out later. For now, let us continue with our task. Come with me please.”

We climb back up, then down through the main stairway with Constantine’s bodyguards in tow. The manor’s surface is deserted. According to protocol, all non-combatant personnel should have reached the secured vaults at the bottom of the hill. The vault has several escape tunnels that can only be opened from the inside, and not without Constantine’s knowledge to limit the risk of a traitor letting enemies in. This is only one of the many measures in place to assure the safety of the fortress denizens. For once, Constantine’s meticulous efforts are bearing fruits.

“How many traps are there anyway? How long did it take to prepare that many devices.” I ask as we calmly walk down.

“I have been working and upgrading the defenses since I first moved here, so one hundred years, give or take? As for the number of traps, your question makes no sense. Some of those can be rearmed or remade if they are disabled, while others toe the line between spell aides for me and traps proper. Does the giant mutated fish by the river count as a trap, or as a guardian?”

“We have a mutated fish?” I sputter.

“Indeed. Which reminds me, I have to tell the cooks not to throw potato peels in the waters. Wilhelm says the fish has trouble digesting them. The potato peels, I mean, good chefs are hard to come by. Ah, here we are.”

Constantine presses a segment of rock that looks like just any other surface around. It depresses, and a concealed passage opens. I must have passed this specific place a thousand times. I never noticed it.

Inside, I find a square room with a tall ceiling, as well as the two largest golems I have ever seen encased in complex scaffoldings.

I have assisted the Speaker in building constructs before, and they had always struck me as objects of exquisite precision. His past as a watchmaker was more vocation than employment, and it shows in his work.

Those golem are different. Only passion and inspiration could produce such seamless union of art and deadly efficiency.

And they are huge.

Easily as tall as three men, the behemoths shine under the golden light of enchanted lanterns, their surface as smooth as that of placid lakes. The air whistles around magically-sharpened blades, unmoving, for now. Helmets suitable for emperors hide their most delicate systems. I manage to hide my awe through great effort.

“Quite a sight eh?”

“Oh. Yes,” I reply neutrally.

“No need to pretend, you have been staring for a whole minute already. I was about to launch them.”

Dammit.

Constantine smirks and approaches a small pulpit. I join him, only to see a single, massive red knob the size of an orange popping out of its center, with ‘launch’ inscribed in fat runes underneath.

Constantine blinks and turns to me.

“I have been looking forward to this. Not the attack. This.”

His fist smashes the thing and, with a strange sound like something winding up, the golems detach from their protective frames. They step forward. The ground trembles!

Two openings in the far wall slide up, then down after their passage.

“I have created a vestibule to protect the operators from the touch of sunlight,” Constantine says, proud with his foresight.

“Can you not call it a lock like everybody else?”

“I made them, Ariane. I call them however I please. Now, look behind the frame where the left golem used to be. There should be a mirror there. I planned on slaving both golems to the central control, but having another pair of eyes will serve just as well.”

I follow his instructions and find a chair hidden within the depths of the scaffolding, hidden under several tons of enchanted steel and other exotic elements. I sit gingerly, and swallow a yelp when the mirror before me comes to life and displays the manor’s exterior, close to the ramp leading up the hill. The two golems are walking down the path to the mortal village beneath. Everything feels so… tiny.

“You have but to touch the mirror and repeat a simple command for the golem to obey. It will recognize kill, capture, take, and destroy. Do not attempt anything too complicated. Only I have the full knowledge of their programming,” Constantine mutters as he fiddles with an array of instruments like an organist at a concert.

The mortals are fighting with shotguns and basic rifles. Meanwhile, we use war golems the size of egyptian statues that we control remotely. Unbelievable.

And yet the armies to our south are more than a hundred thousand strong. Each.

Such a strange world this is.

The golems reach flat ground and accelerate, treading the land with disorienting speed. Each of their strides covers so much ground that the difference between what I see and what my body feels sends me reeling for a moment. The mind boggles. If I were still mortal, the sight would make me nauseous.

Wilhelm, the fortress’ steward, enters the room, distracting me from the eerie sensation. He wears a full chain and leather armor in brown tones, a helmet that covers everything but his brown eyes, and his long blond beard falls in his chest in a small, rather cute braid.

“The evacuation is complete. The manor is secure. May I ask how things are on your end?”

Constantine answers with a hungry smile.

“The mortals have fallen back beyond the limits of the domain, where they think they are safe. I intend to show them the extent of their mistake. How did you put it? When you have secured an area, make sure the enemy knows it too?”

Wilhelm nods, but he does not share the Speaker’s enthusiasm.

“This is all well and good, but we have to plan for tonight. This is but a prelude to a major vampire offensive.”

“And where, do you think, are their resting places?”

“In close proximity to us, protected by three hundred cattle and assorted mage?”

“And where, do you think, are my golems going?”

Wilhelm’s stoic air morphs into one of cruel glee. He watches one of the mirrors as the two war machines charge up the road.

I do not think I will ever forget the facial expressions of the sentries shortly before the head golem pulps them. A mix of horror, shock, and disbelief. The war machines enter the encampment unchallenged. Cattles are not the most responsive beings.

There is no battle. A mage — one of Martha of the Lancaster’s peoples — is the first to order something and the line of carriages moves. They split up and down the road immediately at great speed, heading south towards Quincy and north to Boston proper.

I watch uselessly as my own golem uses its massive blade for a bloody harvest. This is pointless. Those cattle were meant to die in droves, though perhaps not as pointlessly as they have done so far. They are of no importance.

Killing the mages would help, but they were the first to scatter.

I cannot destroy the carriages either. If any vampire slumbers unprotected, I would be condemning them to a fiery death that would make future conflicts more pitiless, something that my side wishes to avoid.

I can only capture one.

I inspect the screen and find the gaudiest, most gold-plated coach. I point at it and yell ‘capture!’

“You know, you do not have to scream,” Constantine remarks with a hint of condescension.

Gah!

“I see that you two have things well in hand,” Wilhelm says, “I asked for reports as to how we could be approached so easily. I will return shortly.”

“Wait a moment, please. It appears that Ariane and I both managed to capture a carriage. Please, do ask my bodyguards to come in and then return promptly. We will open our presents soon, and see what fate brought to our door.”

“Is that what we call those now?” I ask.

“As you will. Make sure that you and your protegee wait for us, no matter how confident you are in your own abilities,” Wilhelm answers as he turns around.

Wait.

Hold on.

His what now?

“We are not fools, Wilhelm. Do hurry.”

His PROTEGE? As in, the one trained to replace him? Me? I did not even consider the remote possibility of a peaceful transition of power! I was ready to laugh over his defeated form and say ‘hah, this is for having me tortured all those decades ago’. What will happen if he just abdicates in my favor? Is it a better revenge or a worse one?

And Constantine did not even deny it.

As I am left stewing in my own surprise, Wilhelm and the two mysterious bodyguards come back, then I am sent upstairs to pick up my battle gear which I had forgotten in the Speaker’s sanctum. I quickly get changed and run back wearing Loth’s repaired armor and a lot of weaponry.

The return of the golems is announced by the tortured scream of abused metal.

“It appears that your lock is too small to accommodate both golem and carriage,” I note.

“Vestibule, Ariane. My vestibule is too small. No matter, the golem will wait. We drag the carriages in ourselves.”

The mortals never see how much we are forced to improvise and make do. Thankfully. Or our supernatural aura of omniscience would fade with the sound of complaints about who should push, who should pull, and who should just get out of the way. Eventually, our grumbling gaggle of undying horrors capable of bending reality itself gathers around the main lock while I stay behind and let the lords take the initiative. I do not trust myself in a life or death situation. Last time, I lost control over my essence. It bubbled over and burnt itself out. I cannot afford a repeat.

It takes Constantine fifteen minutes to crack the lock of the carriage. They decided to start with the gaudy one, the one I picked, and the most secure. The door finally creaks on abused hinges to reveal… crates upon crates of beans and desiccated vegetables.

Uh.

“We have been baited,” Constantine gracefully says, covering for my mistake, “they must have anticipated an attack.”

“This bears the mark of Orpheus, their strategist. He has a keen and devious mind,” Wilhelm comments.

“We can discuss this later. Push the carriage against the wall so that we may inspect the other. Hopefully, our catch this time will be better.”

With the benefit of the previous experience, the second coach delivers its content with more ease. A lord in full plate armor casually takes down the steps, holding a heavy mace in one hand and a gauntlet in the other. Only a pair of deep green eyes are revealed by the form-fitting protection. He inspects us, then the gaudy carriage.

“Ah, I see that you have found Lord Bertrand’s favored means of transportation. A shame that a man cannot be captured twice, is it not?” he asks with no hint of apprehension in a smooth voice that belies his war-like accoutrement. His eyes travel to a crate poking out of the door.

“His carriage was used to transport dry leeks? By the Eye, seeing this almost made my capture worth it. Please tell me there is bacon as well.”

“Beans, in fact. And who might you be?” Constantine asks drily. The siege we find ourselves under is fraying his patience.

“My name is Lucas, at your service.”

He bows smartly.

“Can we discuss terms, or should I prepare myself for some unpleasantness?”

“You will have a cell with amenities, regular access to blood, and a book of your choosing that you may change every night, just like your fellow captives. Your belongings will be returned to you once your freedom is granted. You can either go to that cell on your own two feet, or with them in a separate box,” Constantine replies.

“Would these terms extend to the two Masters I have with me?”

“Yes.”

Two vampires, a man and a woman, peek out from behind the shape of their protector, who then steps down.

“You do not wish to interrogate me about our plan?” he asks with a bored voice. I know he is feigning calm, but I also find his countenance commendable.

“Will you talk without torture?”

“No.”

“Please drop your weapons and stop wasting my time.”

The newest prisoners are led to jail, and we reconvene in the lobby. Besides me, there are no battle masters here. All trained warriors have gathered in a single army that is now… I do not know where, but far. Too far to arrive before nightfall. The only vampires here are support staff like Sophia and visitors here to seek asylum — despite the ongoing conflict — who shall remain neutral by oath. Wilhelm begins.

“I have news. The attackers arrived by ship shortly after dawn, with one frigate escorting two transports. They had legal authorization to land, but the irregularity of the situation, and the presence of many armed men, created such a ruckus that they were stuck on the dock until ten. We rang the alarm before they could fully deploy.”

“We have been saved by bureaucracy, I am not sure what to say. How many carriages are we talking about?” the Speaker replies.

“Eyewitnesses taken from the city say nine.”

We all ponder this for a moment.

“They must be desperate,” Constantine finally says.

I steal a glance in his direction. I had no idea that he felt so confident about taking on seven lords and their squads with only four. The progenitor is strong, but is he that strong?

The others apparently share my doubt.

“Orpheus will have come in person for such a project. He will have the cream of the crop with him,” Wilhelm says lightly, with the voice of someone trying to goad a small child.

“Excellent. I was looking forward to testing the inner defenses.”

The bodyguards shrug, faces hidden behind black helmets. I cannot read their auras.

“I will require your participation for the next phase. We will have much fun together.”

Nightfall.

The invaders have successfully regrouped. They know that with enough time to call upon our resources, we will unmask their ‘Union’ troops for the impostors they are and they will be without escort in enemy territory. They must strike hard, and they must strike fast. Instead of spreading out, the squads deploy in formation at the edge of the property. They deploy vampire mages on the side. Shields shimmer everywhere.

They move.

As they approach the edge of the human village, the traps, so far hidden, all spring at the same time. Pits open and hidden whips lash out. Spells explode. The surface of the hill leading to the manor opens and cannons vomit canister shot at the densely packed formation, but those are not mindless cattle making their way to the fortress. Lashes are dodged, then torn out. Shields soak up shrapnel and blast waves alike. The troop does not relent. They move in with confidence through explosion and an unknown, particularly vicious cloud of blood magic.

Then the cloud’s full effect is made manifest.

Masters and Lords scream as the fog, which they had ignored, eats at their flesh. Red mist melts undying flesh with voracious hunger. The army is forced to push through despite their pain, for to falter is to fail. The first squad steps foot on the path leading up, and the side of the mountain spits a cloud of steam at them.

It burns.

The hiss of gaseous water cooking its surroundings is soon answered by yelps of pain. Speed is of little use when the obstacle is omnipresent. A thick barrier now separates the attackers from their target.

But those are not backwater mercenaries now assaulting the fortress. Without being told, a few spellcasters dig up wind spells from the depths of their memories. Gauntlets are modified on the fly to assist with the casting, and the steam is warded off. The attackers do not follow the path up. Instead, they start climbing the sheer rocks of the cliff, thus activating a new layer of defenses.

Hidden mechanisms throw spears through layers of dirt and vegetation, skewering the climbers at their most vulnerable time before retracting. Worse, the traps emit no aura, making detection all but impossible before they are sprung. Spells howl down with enervating precision. The attackers’ numbers play against them as they are forced to dodge into others or risk being destroyed, and still, they climb.

The first of the nimble figures jumps over the edge of the garden, on the northern side of the manor proper, where I am waiting.

“Finally,” a petite Master in a fuming dress gasps as she stumbles through a bed of roses.

“Congratulations!” I scream.

I shoot her in the head.

And the next person after that, though he successfully blocks with an enchanted bracelet.

“It’s her!”

“The blonde bitch!”

“Get her!”

I spring back to the manor, hissing and sputtering on my way. Blonde bitch?! When did I get demoted from Devourer to blonde bitch? Absolutely scandalous.

I wish the enemy had followed piecemeal, but they regroup into squads in moments. Some of our foes are still down there, busy with being turned lobster-red.

I dive into the complex through one of the few open doors, followed by a Lady in light armor using a whip. Her squad fans out behind her.

I dodge to the side as her soul weapon extends and rakes through several yards of wall. Under the destroyed upholstery, I can spot the silvery shine of the fortress’ bones. This is Constantine’s playground.

I come across stairs and climb up. The lady jumps… and crashes against a shield, which just appeared.

“You are just delaying the inevitable,” she hisses.

I say nothing, it would be covered by the loud rumble now shaking the corridor. Steel barriers descend from the ceiling to separate us.

The predators are being herded. Everywhere across the complex, squads are split and directed like sheep to the slaughter. I climb to the second floor and come across the chained bodies of half a squad, caught like flies in a spider web. They look annoyed and ignore me. It appears that the enterprising lot tried to get in from the balcony, and the manor obliged, only to cut off their escape routes as soon as they were in.

A wall shifts to my side, and a mirror appears. Constantine’s slightly strained voice sounds muffled through this means, though perhaps I am simply distracted by the explosions in the background.

“Ariane dear, Orpheus attempts to make his way down to the jails as we speak. I believe that you cannot assist with the current battle. There is, however, something you can do to solidify our position in the incoming negotiations.”

“And what would that be?”

“You need to capture the ships the Expansion Faction came in. They are staying put a little ways off the bay.”

Oh.

Yes.

“I can do that.”

Three miles off the Boston Harbor.

Two men stood tense on the deck of a frigate. They had the documentation needed not to fall prey to blockading ships. They were heavily armed, just as they knew that none of that would matter. Only a specific signal would steer them from their current, circular course. They scrutated the horizon with anxiety, just like the crow's nest was doing the same. And quite a few pairs of eyes besides.

“Still no signal,” one of them said, adjusting his marine officer uniform. It did not quite fit his broad shoulders.

“I can see that,” the other retorted. He had taken the garb of a Union captain, and wore it with ease.

“Ramming speed, Mr. Rolf!” a female voice bellowed behind them. Or was it a trick of the wind, come to torture them through the haze of stress?

“Did you hear that?” the captain asked.

There was a sound now, like mumbled protests.

The female voice returned. It was closer. There was no mistaking it for an auditory hallucination now.

“The time for stealth is passed, I say,” it yelled, “brace for impact!”

A veil was lifted, a steamship hybrid appeared starboard as if vomited by the depths of the ocean. The men could only see the prow clad in steel aiming right for their deck, and on it, a lithe figure wearing a tricorn.

“YOU HAVE RAN AFOUL OF THE DREAD PIRATE ARIA—”

Impact. The two men were sent rolling on hardwood like pinwheels. The captain winced and tried to climb back to his feet despite his disorientation. They were under attack! He had to do something!

Someone landed besides him with barely a whisper of fabric.

“I have to work on the timing for that delivery,” she said. “Anyway. You are my prisoners now! Are you ready to surrender all your booties?” the female voice said from above.

The captain’s eyes traveled up. He considered correcting the woman’s mistake — at least he hoped that was a mistake — but then his gaze reached her smile, and he reconsidered.

133. Hive.

The room chosen for the negotiations is an office on the second floor. The room has been cleared save for a long table with three seats on each side. Couches adorn the corner for a handful of spectators.

To my surprise, I have been asked to attend by Sephare as an observer. Our side is represented by Constantine, Sephare herself, and Islaev. The Natalis lord acts as Jarek’s second and his representative since the old monster is still captive. By pushing for this, Sephare effectively made a show of solidarity for a minor faction while disabling a third, possibly discordant voice. The major lords will attend as observers. Although she had to align with them on bottom line and objectives, the control of the negotiation is essentially hers.

The expansion faction is represented by Martha of the Lancaster, the pint-sized archmage, Bertrand the grudge-bearing monumental twit, and Orpheus, the yet-to-be-insulted. I stare at the last man for a very simple reason.

He is very, very handsome.

Orpheus is the model I would use to paint an angel. Come to think of it, I may just do that. He would be falling, wings afire, impotent rage and grief plain on his delicate features. Hmm. And he would be naked, of course.

I return my attention to the matter at hand. The Expansion faction wears luxurious but slightly ill-fitting clothes on account of being caught in armor. If the deal breaks down, they will be allowed to reequip and return to the jail where they will be given a chance to fight their way out.

It is a doomed prospect. They know it.

During the battle, Constantine realized that he could not stop Orpheus from freeing Bertrand. The angelic lord had imbibed a significant amount of fae essence, allowing him to brute force his way through any barrier. Constantine simply allowed him to waste essence on a vain attack and locked down the entire prison afterward. The Expansion faction leaders realized that the risk of being caught on our territory at dawn was too much, and proposed a truce. Now, it is up to Sephare to turn this truce into a favorable treaty, and quickly, because the omen has come to pass.

We have lost contact with remote villages.

My warning proved useful and our agents have been instructed to keep an eye out for rumors of mass disappearance. Similarly, the lords take the situation extremely seriously. The problem is that we are stretched extremely thin for now. Between the mortal war paralyzing a great many assets, and the vampire war mobilizing our fighters, we can barely spare a squad or two. The knights have already started to move, but we have received no news from them. Nor can we rely on them to solve everything by themselves.

When the ‘talks’ begin, I am left extremely disappointed. There is no grandstanding, no eloquent declamations. In fact, the six barely talk at all. One side proposes and the other demands something in return. If they disagree, they search for acceptable alternatives, otherwise they move on for now. I can tell that Sephare is being very aggressive while Bertrand is, for once, measured and accommodating. Not that he has much of a choice.

The discussion lasts long into the night despite the total lack of emotion displayed. There are long periods of silence during which no one moves, no one speaks, and not one aura flickers. Both sides communicate by gestures they hide from their counterparts. I find the whole thing extremely tedious.

Islaev only intervenes when it comes to the Natalis land. They are to be returned in their entirety in exchange for safe passage. Bertrand categorically refuses to leave the American Continent. The two sides finally agree on a line ranging east west from Monterrey all the way to La Paz in the Pacific Ocean as a border. It helps that the French force, under Mask impulse, still has to conquer most of the country including Mexico city.

Back and forth the arguments go, using money and other treasures to grease the gears of diplomacy. I regret joining long before the discussion is over. I hate it, every aspect of it. We have won, and still we must make concessions to guarantee a long-lasting peace. I wish we could just all CRUSH THEM.

But I am too weak, and only have myself to blame for my lack of power. Even my presence is already a favor rather than a necessity.

Dawn approaches when the final document is signed. The Expansion Faction is allowed to spread its influence in Mexico, while we retain control of the rest. If we had created permanent holds there before the war, we could have leveraged their existence. Once more, our main problem is only made more manifest by this treaty. there are too few of us. We do not even have the numbers to satisfactorily control the Mexican capital. We cannot spread indefinitely either since a lone vampire remains vulnerable to a determined assault.

“You focus too much on the negative,” Sephare informs me as we move to our personal quarters, “the Accords now have an existence in the eyes of our world. Before, it was merely a figurehead, an agora used to solve grievances peacefully. Now, we are a government recognized by all, a new player. The loss of the Mexican south is meaningless because we never controlled it. Our opponents are merely filling a vacuum. Rather than clinging on something we cannot control anyway, we obtain several significant political and diplomatic prizes.”

“They will attack us again.”

“Yes, in fifty years, when we have consolidated our position and they have something to lose besides reputation. Let us find what the disappearances are about while we are in peace instead of having to endure years of costly skirmishes. The Expansion Faction is not the only opportunistic predator we have to fear.”

“I suppose.”

The agreement leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. We placed the entire Expansion Faction in checkmate. We should be sending them home by boat with a spike up the nether regions and they should thank us for letting them live. Instead, we have to tolerate their despicable presence on our southern doorstep out of fear that the war might escalate and we start going after each other’s mortals. The moment I become a lady, I am gathering an army and leading it to throw every last one of those pricks into the Atlantic, with their heads in separate garbage bins.

I really hope that the vampire knights can help me with that. Jimena said that she would make some inquiries. I merely have to wait.

June 18th 1862. Two weeks later.

Four riders thunder down the path south as the moon rises over Virginia’s valleys and hills. Through forest and field we trot. Yes, trot. The thunder comes from Jarek’s humongous nightmare.

I stare at the imposing back of our fearless leader. A custom-made Union uniform, that of first lieutenant of the cavalry, strains over his massive shoulders. I notice that they are quite tense. Behind us, two mortals ride at a respectable distance also in Union uniforms. I wear a pale blue light traveling dress with a soft cotton cloak plus hood, so that I can hide my features.

And gloves.

And guns, but I always have a gun somewhere.

“The forward base is just ahead,” Sheridan whispers, “I sincerely hope that our documents will be enough.”

I cannot comprehend how he could spend so much time with me and still approach such situations with anxiety. I could wave the music sheet of a raunchy song under the nose of a group of sentries and convince them that it is a presidential decree. And that I am, in fact, the Princess of Wales. Here to visit my lover. I believe that some stubborn remnant of obedience prevents him from ever being at ease during a deception. By the Watcher, how is he such a straight arrow? We have engaged in piracy. Goodness me. Some people never grow up.

The last member of our expedition is Cedric Birmingham, shield mage extraordinaire and representative of the White Cabal in this endeavor. His presence does not help with Jarek’s mood.

We slow down as sentries hail us down, and wait as Jarek convinces the thin mustachioed man in an open vest and kepi to let us through. The poor sergeant takes one look at Jarek’s face and decides to look elsewhere, mostly at the folded paper he was sullenly given. A helpful private comes bearing a lantern. The shy light allows them to take in the full appearance of their visitor.

Once more, they decide it preferable to avert their eyes. They find me.

“A woman?” the sergeant asks.

“Private.”

Jarek’s voice is low, rumbling, and usually warm, but now it holds an undercurrent of threat that they cannot miss. Silence ensues.

“You can read, yes?” the living earthquake continues.

A nod.

“What is the word at the very top of the sheet I just gave you?”

“Err. ‘Confidential’, sir. Ahem. Right. No more questions. You may pass.”

We move on. The sentries guard a road between two forested hills, and we continue through to an open plain entirely covered by a camp as massive as a proper city.

I have to stop for a moment to imprint that image in my mind. Rows upon rows of white tents lined up in tight ranks. Most of the cooking is done for the night, but the smell of stew remains strong in the air, as well as that of sweat and human refuse. The camp is well-ordered and the soldiers serene, as if the bloodshed to come could not affect them. Many are young, I notice, and have this green air that I associate with recruits. To think that ten years ago, the army had fifteen thousand men. Now, hundreds of thousands serve under their respective flags, an entire generation rushed to the slaughter under officers as clueless as themselves. They watch us pass with curiosity.

The camp lives.

I hear violins in the distance, and on an open field, soldiers play a strange game with bats and bases and a thrown ball.

I think that my fellow Illinois soldiers might be somewhere around here.

It takes us several minutes to reach the other end of the massive encampment, during which we are observed but not hailed. The uniform of officer certainly helps, but not as much as Jarek’s annoyed sneer.

Then we are across, and through the risky land separating the Union force from Lee’s army of Northern Virginia. Nothing has changed in the landscape, but the tension is now palpable. We tread contested land.

“Ariane, could you not also wear a uniform to avoid questions?” Cedric asks innocently enough.

“I could not be prevailed upon to don male garments,” I lie haughtily. My retort shuts him up.

“She is too… shapely… to pass for a man,” Sheridan whispers to his neighbor a little bit later.

“Sheridaaaaaaan, I will cut off your cigar supply!” I threaten without turning.

In the distance, an owl kills something small and furry.

“Should we not change into confederate garb?” Cedric finally asks as we do not slow down.

“No need,” Jarek growls, “we will use stealth. Observe.”

A few miles off, I taste the waiting auras of a few mortals and smell their nervousness on the air. Jarek must have done so as well. We slow down, but do not stop.

A single old man in a confederate officer uniform stands proudly across our path on a bay mount. He tips his chin back as we approach, lush white beard on display.

I love watching reactions to Jarek when he does not soften the blow of his presence with Charm. The gaze of the moon gives even mortals a good visibility, and the one facing us bears a torch as well. There will be no hiding it this time.

It starts with a glare, because we wear hostile uniforms, then a frown as his mind registers that his depth perception might be playing tricks on him, then to a stunned look when Jarek comes close enough and he realized the sheer absurdity of the Natalis lord’s size. Above his nightmare, he towers over his lessers by at least half again their size. A colossus. A monster.

Then Jarek stops by his side and the physicality of his presence awakens the most primitive, ancestral part of the person’s brain. Jarek has no use for hidden threats or sheathed fangs. He is not a creature of the ballroom, like most of us. His nature is plain to see, and the officer realizes it now.

Jarek looms.

He is quite proficient at looming.

As the distance between the two men shortens, the human leans back and the vampire simply exists around and above his counterpart, seemingly covering the dry stature of the underfed fighter in a massive, muscular embrace. Jarek’s voice resounds once more, as ineluctable and gravelly as a landslide.

“You and your fifteen friends hidden on the side of the road have two choices. You can choose to have seen us. Or you can choose to let us go. I swear to you that we are not here to harm your interests. I also swear that, should you fight, I will kill every last one of you and wear your innards as garlands across my chest. So. What will it be?”

I will give the officer credit. He manages to remain upright. It takes him a few seconds to formulate a response but when he does, his voice is almost clear.

A respectable attempt.

“Well, that is a rather unchivalrous offer,” he says.

In answer, Jarek pulls back and grabs for the weapon  hanging from his thin saddle: a giant battle axe. He waves the titanic implement before his interlocutor’s sweaty brow.

“I don’t know about chivalrous, but I can do medieval.”

Oh please.

“I think we can let him go sir, I think he’s telling the truth. Oh, and they have a lady with them,” a voice bleats from the side as the officer attempts to keep control of his mount, who caught a whiff of something predatory.

The pale man grabs on that excuse like a drowning man to a buoy.

“Well. If they are escorting a lady. Clearly. I can let them through. Yes. You are clear to go. Let it not be known that the rigors of war would find our gentlemanly honor wanting.”

We ride forth unimpeded.

“So. Vampire stealth. Huh,” Cedric comments.

When Jarek was freed, he returned to his land and found it methodically looted, up to the grain he needed to seed his fields. Most of it was recovered as part of the peace settlement, but the sting on his pride has not let out. It shows in the way he handles the current affairs. His people have requested him to leave so that they could focus on repairs while he brooded his annoyance away.

I do not mind Jarek’s presence, or his short temper. The ancient Natalis has not crossed the line yet between curtness and indiscriminate violence, at least not with our allies. He was the most vocal in support of the continuation of war. The invasion of his home still blazes in his heart with righteous fury, but he has remained faithful to our organization. For this, I will tolerate his small hissy fit. He is a sweetheart.

At least according to vampire standards.

Also, we fought side by side in battle and he sacrificed himself to allow me to escape, so I would unleash all the guns in Illinois if he only asked. No need to tell him, or he might be tempted.

The mood is more subdued as the night goes on and we follow a complex set of directions to our target. On one occasion, we stop to ask our way to a pair of southern soldiers leaning lazily under a lantern. They very politely inform us that, yes, we are on the right track. They even wish us a prompt journey.

“I told you that this was the right direction,” I hiss.

“It cost us nothing to confirm it,” Jarek retorts.

We arrive on the outskirts of Dodgetown a little bit after midnight. Dodgetown was unimaginatively named after its founder, like many other hamlets across the country. It barely qualifies as a town to begin with.

We decided to come after a report was intercepted that the town had been evacuated. This information was recovered by one of our agents and immediately dismissed as minor by the local authorities. I find the lack of seriousness of the scouts frankly unacceptable. Indeed, the truth becomes manifest as soon as we arrive.

The forested path opens into a humble valley nestled between several low hills, with a small  river snaking its way between patches of statuesque stalks loaded with berries. Flowers in rainbow shades adorn squares of ripening wheat, the golden treasure a boon to the surrounding soldiers. Or at least they would be, if there was anyone left to harvest them. The serenity here is a lie. It wields the color of nature like a torn skin to pass for tranquility, when in truth, it is the silence of the grave. The stench of death and old blood saturates the air, as well as another one, bitter and defiled, that sets my teeth on edge.

“By the Eye. No…”

“Jarek?”

“No. I may be mistaken. Let us continue, but be vigilant.”

Then to the mortals.

“If I tell you to run, you gallop away. Is that clear?”

The two know better than to object.

We ride on and it soon becomes obvious that whoever reported on an ‘evacuation’ was either blind or a complete idiot. We pass a one-story farmstead with its door kept open. Farming implements and a stove can be seen from the road, as well as the remnants of smashed ceramics. No one in their right mind would have left their houses unlocked and messy, not unless they left in a second.

I do not believe that they managed it.

We dismount and walk in. I cross the threshold without difficulty, confirming my hypothesis.

Its previous occupants have died to the last child.

“Claw marks. Here,” Sheridan says.

I turn and see rips in the door frame.

“Too small to be a werewolf, too strong to be a human,” Cedric notes. He is right. A transformed werewolf would have ripped off the entire beam. The remnants of aura are wrong as well. Werewolves are cursed, but they do not feel as… tainted as that.

Jarek stands silent before a spot of blood. There is surprisingly little of it on the ground considering how heavy the smell hangs in the air. The precious liquid is pinkish and… wrong. Deeply wrong. It STINKS.

“By the Watcher, what is that thing?”

“Disaster. Absolute disaster. I thought the vilebloods extinct since the fourteenth century. How could they still be alive, here? This makes no sense. Unless… Those insane cockroaches unleashed them as vengeance? But no. They are too greedy to be this stupid.”

“Jarek, I find your behavior concerning.”

“My behavior is the least concerning thing tonight. You do not know. You cannot know. We believed that we had rid the world of this evil forever. Our opponents, our opposites. The locusts to our lion. The blood-starved hive. The vilebloods. I must see it with my own eyes. Come on, we must find tracks. There is nothing left in this village.”

I follow him outside without understanding. The two mortals come along as well although they are subdued before his darkening spirits. We mount and circle around the ghost town, inspect its empty arterial roads and gutted houses. We find nothing. Or rather, we find too much. Too many scrambled tracks.

“They could be anywhere, whatever they are. We need to make a bigger circle,” Cedric says.

“No, wait,” I reply.

Something tugs at my soul once more. It calls to me like back in Boston when the tide of death overran the map.

“That way.”

Cedric frowns.

“Are you—”

“We go. Now!” Jarek roars. The urgency has spread to all of us now, and we trot at a good pace through what amount to little more than a forest track. The land is dark, our allies blind, but we do not stop and neither do they. We soon burst into a deserted clearing around a lone stone. Nothing seems out of place save for the diseased appearance of some of the vegetation, yet I can feel a deep unease, a discordance of sorts.

“The fabric is so thin here. Something has disturbed this world,” Cedric comments, now fully aware of the wrongness. Even Sheridan frowns.

“We must press on,” Jarek says. And we do.

I smell it first. More blood in the air.

“We must hurry,” I mutter.

“No!” Jarek interrupts, “no, we cannot risk the mortals laming their horse. Not now. They will have to run hard soon. Let them keep their strength, we are too late anyway.”

And we are. We arrive at the edge of the next hamlet to find devastation. In the previous village, the slaughter was cold. Here, it is fresh and leaking. A single house has caught on fire, possibly due to a fallen lantern. The blaze rises high into the sky and hides the heaven under a cloak of soot and embers. Only the red light remains, and it shines over savaged bodies drowning in their own blood. Men. Women. Children. They lie where they have fallen in torn heaps, still clutching gaping wounds with rigid fingers. A cattle of some sort must have been caught in the open, or so I assume. Only a single bell and frayed pieces of hide bear witness to the feast that occured. The air is thick with terror.

Jarek stops Cedric as he dismounts.

“No. Stay on your horse, ready your weapons, and whatever you do, do not get hit. I know what we will find, but I need to swear seeing it with my own eyes when the Council of Wardens asks me. Stay close.”

“Will you finally tell us what those vilebloods are?” I hiss.

“You will see for yourself. Keep them off your Nightmare.”

I grumble. All those ominous declarations tire me. We are the APEX. and those… whatever they are, their stench upsets me.

We cross an orchard and reach the main road, well-lit by the flames.

“We leave that way on my command,” Jarek orders.

The street is thick with bodies. Twenty paces before us, a woman gasps her last breaths, bloody hands clutching the ruin of her abdomen. She sees us and gurgles a few inintelligible words through the haze of pain.

“I’m going,” Cedric says.

“You are not. You will sit on your saddle and watch,” Jarek says.

“But…”

“And when you are done, you will report what you saw to your precious White Cabal.”

The shield mage returns his gaze to the dying villager. It does not take a doctor to realize that she is beyond help. She convulses a few more times, then her back arches despite her wounds, and she falls back.

And keeps moving.

It starts as a tremor, then her muscles cramp and creak with such shattering intensity that her bones break. Her spilled blood inexplicably runs back to her vein. Ridges appear on her skull as hair falls in clumps, and ivory shards erupt from her bleeding fingertips. All around her, other bodies join in the macabre transformation. The corpses are turning to monsters at a speed that I would never have believed possible if I had not been here in person. Everything I know about magic and transformation, all that I have studied, even my own experience and Dalton’s murderer’s fate at the hand of the Key of Beriah, all agree that what I see is an impossibility. Such speed cannot be achieved in our native realm. And yet, with one last sickening crack, the thing that used to be a woman stands up on spindly, spiked limbs. Two dark orbs land squarely on us. There are no iris, no pupils. On the inky void of what this creature represents.

I understand it now.

The all-devouring hunger.

We are shepherds of this world, in a way. We live and die around humans. The wise among us invest and build, but not that thing. They — no — it, too, is a stranger, but one that lacks ego. It exists to consume and move on. It is vile and defiled and it does NOT BELONG.

The thing shrieks. It calls with a high-pitched trill that finds answers around us.

All around us.

“About face. Cedric, take point. Don’t stop for anything! Go. Go!”

The mortal’s horses do not need to be asked twice. They neigh and gallop as fast as they can. The shrill calls spur on a mad dash. Pale, shambling shapes surge from the nearby bushes. Some are the size of buffalos!

“What the fuck?” Sheridan says.

I share in his opinion.

The jaws of the ambush close around us, but we are not some harmless farmers.

“Shield!”

Cedric forms a transparent wedge that throws aside the first opponents as they rush him. Meanwhile, Sheridan and I unload into the creatures assaulting our flanks. I watch, mesmerized, as one of the creatures still crawls forward in a demented gait with half of its chest missing.

“Ari, he—”

Rose slashes above and across a creature’s chest on Sheridan’s side, sending two mangled pieces careening on the ground.

I can barely absorb the essence I gain. All I taste is the shadow of a fading entity that thrashes and bites in its death throes, the remnant of something great. The creature I killed is but a tiny part of a distant whole.

“Take it,” I tell Sheridan, handing him my revolver. I shall wield spells and blades from now on.

Behind us, Jarek covers our retreat. Some of the larger specimens can catch up to the humans’ tired horses, and he keeps them off our backs.

“Flay.”

More creatures die. Some, we leave behind as they trail vestigial organs from mortal wounds in their eagerness to kill us. I successfully manage to cover Sheridan while he reloads. As for Cedric, he holds the shield stably for the few minutes it takes us to plow through the entrapment.

The forest slows our pursuers down.

Eventually, the pursuers let go.

We only slow down after we have returned to the first empty hamlet. The extent of the devastation and lost life becomes more obvious as I start counting houses and assess how many lives were lost, then turned.

“I think that now is a good time for explanation,” I inform Jarek. politely.

We wait in silence for the Natalis lord to speak. He looks worried for the first time since I have met him. Even the inevitability of his capture did not provoke such a strong reaction. Eventually, his gaze lowers to the three of us in turn.

“Children, all of you. Ah, but it matters not. I was a child as well. Where should I start? Ah yes. Half a millennium ago, a third of the world’s human population died in the span of five years.”

I stand, flabbergasted.

“What?”

But Jarek only scoffs.

“Children indeed. This event was well-recorded. We call it the Black Death, the mother of all plagues. It was not caused by the vilebloods, but it lured them in. The suffering and agony of a hundred million humans brought the hive to our realm.”

“They are one among many. Shadows,” I whisper.

Jarek nods.

“Indeed. We fought the hive for over thirty years. Thirty long years of attrition and carnage. Thirty years cowering by day with our mortals in impregnable fortresses of stones, watching them die of disease. Thirty years of red nights and ceaseless slaughter. Poland was our battlefield, and we only found out about the hive because we lost the Dvor lords dwelling there. You see, the problem is not just their savagery, or the way they reproduce. The problem is their intellect.”

What?

“Intellect? But those things—”

“—were cunning enough to ambush us, to wait until we were close enough before rushing in from all sides. A lone vileblood presents little danger to a vampire, but a hundred lays traps, a thousand plan battles, and ten times that number plan a war. To this day, I am not quite sure why they tried to extinguish us instead of moving on to the tender heart of Europe. Perhaps it was aggression, or perhaps it was part of some eldritch scheme that we cannot comprehend. The few of us who tasted their essence figured out their true nature. As Ariane put it, they are shadows. Imprints of something alien and unfathomable. The more vessels there are, and the more of the mind can bleed into the torrent of flesh that heralds its coming.”

“So, we need to prevent them from reaching a tipping point,” Sheridan observes.

“And there lies the problem. They will be cunning enough to avoid armies and large towns until they are ready, By that time, it will be too late. The chaos of war only helps them in this task. No one will bat an eye at losing communication with the frontier, especially along the border. I will warn the council. You, Ariane, will go to Washington.”

“You want me to warn Sephare?” I ask with a raised brow. I can contact her from here just fine.

“No. Not her. The humans.”

We all recoil in shock at this… preposterous proposal. Talk with the human authorities? What madness is this?

“We have no choice. I will ask for the council’s approval, but you must go there.”

I close my eyes in annoyance, smoothe my long skirt and reclaim my revolver from a confused Sheridan.

“What are you doing?” Jarek asks, surprised.

“If I don’t want to Charm the entire Congress, I shall need solid proof. I will be right back.”

Ten minutes later.

Do not kill that thing, Ariane, do not kill that thing, Ariane, do not kill that thing or you will have to fetch another one.

Jarek watches me as I drag a smaller drone behind me. It stopped screeching after I damaged its throat a bit. I hold it by the neck so that it fails to attack me. Apparently, the creature’s suicidal tendencies do not extend to snapping its own joints. Good to know.

“Ariane. What, in the name of the Eye, are you doing?”

“Yes, err, far from me to criticize or anything…” Cedric adds.

“I already told you lots,” I reply with undisguised annoyance, “if I want to convince anyone that a wave of horrible magical locusts is descending upon us without being thrown in the loony bin, I will need irrefutable proof. Even a dead thing could arguably be the work of a gifted taxidermist. This claim becomes more difficult to sustain when said thing is desperately trying to claw your face off. Jarek, would you kindly, kindly help me bind it? Much obliged.”

We easily find ropes in a nearby warehouse. The main problem is that we will not be able to carry the drone around on a leash.

“I need to build a cage. A container of sorts…” I say.

We look around and find no such a thing. Unsurprisingly, since the average Virginian mudhole rarely keeps bears around for entertainment purposes. I do find nails and solid planks. I decide to put my advanced engineering skills to build a crate. There is a joke in here somewhere.

Cedric stares at me as I dry-fit planks together to form a solid base. We are going to need something sturdy.

“Should you not be standing guard?” I finally snap at the man looking over my shoulder.

“Sorry, it’s just… It’s not everyday that I see a vampire Master doing manual labor.”

“If you could waddle a hammer as easily as that tongue of yours, we could have avoided that situation entirely!”

“Jeeesus, woman. Alright, I’m going!”

The alliance against the end of the world is off to a great start.

Table of Contents

- 103. Down she goes.
- 104. Warrens of the World
- 105. Trapped
- 106. End of the Line.
- 107. Choosing Sides
- 108. The Other Sphere
- 109. Hell's Gates
- 110. The Heart of the Nile
- 111. Blue
- 112. Third of her Name.
- 113. Fist of the Drowned God
- 114. The Lost World.
- 115. Otto
- 116. The Tourist.
- 117. Weaponized.
- 118. Break
- 119. Välkommen till Sverige!
- 120. The Hall of the Mountain King
- 121. Folly
- 122. Disheartening Moments
- 123. The Underworld
- 124. Hearts and Masks
- 125. Tempus Iterum Fugit
- 126. Shadow Diplomacy
- 127. A House Divided
- 128. First Blood
- 129. Vampire War
- 130. Plans within plans.
- 131. Uncivil
- 132. Snapped shut
- 133. Hive.