Adventurer. Explorer. Vampire.

A Journey of Black and Red Book 6

Alex Gilbert

Copyright ©️ Alex Gilbert 2022

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover by Antti Akosaari

Formatting by Emily Godhand

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

The Story So Far

Chapter 101: Tempus Fugit

Chapter 102: Home

Chapter 103: Down She Goes

Chapter 104: Warrens of the World

Chapter 105: Trapped

Chapter 106: End of the Line

Chapter 107: Choosing Sides

Chapter 108: The Other Sphere

Chapter 109: Hell’s Gates

Chapter 110: Heart of the Nile

Chapter 111: Blue

Chapter 112: Third of Her Line

Chapter 113: Fist of the Drowned God

Chapter 114: The Lost World

Chapter 115: The Tourist

Chapter 116: Weaponized

Chapter 117: Break

End of Book 6

Afterword

Social Media

Other Books by the Author

Glossary

The Story So Far

After being turned into a vampire in 1803 by the first of their kind, Nirari, Ariane struggled to regain her freedom. First, she had to escape the claws of a coven of Lancaster vampires by feigning her death, then she hid in Georgia with an ancient mountain spirit named Loth. They had many adventures together with the assistance of a strange gentleman touched by fate named Bingle. Her stay culminated in a confrontation over an ancient artifact called the Key of Beriah in 1812. Ariane’s survival was exposed, and she was forced to flee after losing her Vassal and friend, Dalton.

Ari took refuge in a small town in Illinois called Marquette, which she controlled from the shadows. Helping the fae prince Sinead set her on a collision course with a Lancaster warrior determined to capture her. She won their duel and held long enough to claim the title of city master, giving her a way to reintegrate into vampire society. After a harrowing trial, she succeeded.

As a full-fledged member of the Accords, Ari gathered allies and fought off rivals to gain official control over the territory of Illinois. The year is now 1834. Ari is free to grow, to learn magic, perhaps even to explore the world.

What could go wrong?

A glossary at the end of this book lists previously-encountered characters.

Chapter 101: Tempus Fugit

Sinead comes in person to recover his newest ally, and I realize a few interesting details. First, Makyas of the Court of Wings and Keyholes is slightly more intimidating than I gave him credit for, if Sinead’s reaction is anything to go by. Second, Makyas is obviously not a bashful child. He drops the act as soon as he finds himself in the presence of a prince, and I get a glimpse of the playful malice beneath.

Sinead also uses the opportunity to flirt outrageously. I should have expected it.

I also learn that the Likaeans are busy working on a way back and, apparently, the space magic developed by Ricardo in Alexandria is the key. Sivaya is confident that she will finish a valid spell by the end of the century. When I remark that it is a long time, I am informed that creating an entirely new branch of magic in a rigid reality is a time-consuming effort and that I am welcome to try it myself.

Sinead’s condescending delivery is truly without match.

In any case, I foresee more shenanigans in the future and let them go on their way.

Over the next few months, I manage to keep up my magical studies with the mortals through immense effort and the occasional application of blood magic when some spells become too complex. No matter how hard I try, my fire spells remain pallid and pathetic, and my light spells are timid things, bright enough to be seen from afar but never giving the mortals any visibility. On the contrary, anything related to blood, shadows, and illusions comes to me naturally.

I have no more issues with Mireille or any of the local Roland vampires afterward, though I do continue sword practice. I eventually come to enjoy it, relishing the flexibility that swords can offer.

On the home front, I must handle a slew of issues, from the care of Sinead’s illegitimate children to the growth of the slave-catcher population moving north from Kentucky. My dream mage also marries a cake maker, to no one’s surprise. With the rescued children and the White Cabal’s presence, Marquette’s mage population explodes. Strangely, the werewolf population explodes as well, even though they cannot bear children. Every time I pass by, there are more of them following me around with their noses in the air, only keeping a respectful distance because of Metis’s fearsome reputation as an ear thief. Any attempt to wiggle the whole truth from Jeffrey ends in a two-hour declaration involving his cousins, nephews, friends from the coast, the Illuminati, that fisherwoman from Ottawa with the thick thighs…As far as I understand, their village’s fame as the safest and richest werewolf haven has grown, and it attracts those who would not do so well in traditional pack structures. Evidently, many of them prefer to be left alone, and the new town, amusingly named Moonside, affords them the tranquility they crave. Jeffrey assures me that they will fight when called and that is, in the end, all that I care about.

I still wish they would stop trying to smell me. I find it extremely vexing.

Last but not least, I offer Salim of the Rosenthal a protection detail in exchange for his blood, a deal he secretly accepts. Rosenthal essence is certainly among the most useful I have ever consumed. With its aid, I can recall things much more easily if I focus on them, and some tedious tasks like reading reports become significantly more relaxing. I complete them as if in a trance. Making paperwork less tedious is without a doubt one of the mightiest powers in creation.

Unfortunately, better memories only make the following ordeal that much more painful.

I’ve known this day would come. I knew it from the beginning, but I always managed to push the thought to the back of my mind. I had so much to do. There were always new foes to fight and problems to solve, things to learn. Now it has come, and I am at a loss.

I bump my head against Torran’s chest in a rare display of public affection. Others might see, but I care little. I breathe in deep and the cold spice of him overwhelms the brine on the air, soothing me and distressing me even more.

His hand pats the back of my head. We do not speak. We are beyond words. Everything that was worth saying was said a long time ago.

The fact remains that I have my life here and he has his own back in Hungary. There is no bridging that gap, not when travel between our territories takes months. A Dvor can only stay away from his fief for so long, after all. Torran will bring his fledgling back with him, and that is it.

I feel a strong mix of emotions now, not enough to cry but enough that to feel…good. I am alive now because of what we shared and must now leave behind. The bittersweet feeling dulls the throb of undirected anger threatening to overwhelm me. There is simply no one I can gut, stab, set on fire, or detonate to keep him around, and I find that extremely aggravating.

The pier around us is silent, even though sailors are loading the last of the goods and supplies they will carry over the Atlantic. No one interrupts us, but still, I let him go. I am delaying the inevitable.

“I release you from our bond, my star,” Torran finally says, his face showing no emotion.

“I release you from our bond,” I answer, finishing the ritual.

It hurts as much as I expected.

I can appreciate that we will not see each other for years, possibly decades, and that it would be unfair of me to expect celibacy from him on the off-chance that I might come back. I still feel robbed. I do not want to share.

If I come to visit and find some tart hanging about, I might just do something unfortunate. I warned him it would be the case; therefore, the responsibility of any future dismemberments will be placed solely at his feet.

I leave the pier behind and walk ‘round a warehouse. The city is mostly silent at this time of the night. I stop and lean against some stupid door.

Fuck.

I wait for some time. It doesn’t get better.

Someone comes, a familiar aura.

“Sister,” Jimena answers with a soft voice. She is dressed in form-fitting leather armor instead of knight garb for once. She drops a heavy-looking backpack and takes from it a case, which she gives to me. I unpack it to reveal a weapon.

A pistol, to be precise.

Never have I witnessed its like. It is the work of a mad genius, nay, a revolutionary! I caress the smooth, silvery surface and ask with unmitigated wonder, “What is this thing?”

“A prototype based on the design of a weapon dealer named Colt. It can shoot six times before being reloaded. It isn’t even in production yet. The cartridges go into that barrel over here.”

“Marvelous!”

“There is a group of outlaws who just robbed a Rosenthal carriage outside of town. Would you like to go kill them and get paid?”

This time, the emotion is too strong, and a single ruby tear drops down my cheek.

“Jimena, you are the best sister I could ever ask for.”

The smug woman catches the tear before it can drop and raises it to her lips, licking it after I give her leave.

“Aaaaah. Of course I am. I know you well, and this is what you need. Now go and test this barbaric tool of yours.”

“Heathen!”

At a corner of an empty road, beyond an overgrown path and the moss-covered room of a hunter’s rest, a few men have set up camp. They’ve dug a pit and lit a fire there, counting on the remoteness and the wild vegetation to hide the smoke from inquisitive eyes. It is, of course, not enough.

The sentinel is the first to notice me strutting forth with my fancy dress, my coat, and the undeniably imposing leather tricorn (which is totally appropriate and I would dare anyone to object).

The man squints at my approaching figure. His beady eyes widen in surprise as I enter the light halo of his dusty lantern. He stinks of alcohol.

“What the fuck?”

“Language, mongrel.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

I tut loudly, a gesture of intimidation that is known to make mortals cry if they know what is good for them.

“I am the law around these parts. You and your little friends have been very, very naughty.”

“You insane bitch. You got some plums coming here at night. I like that. Maybe I can reward you if you make me very happy.”

“I’ll only be happy when you hang from the neck until dead, rascal.”

The sentinel affects the smile of someone who is convinced his interlocutor suffers from severe delusion and who is ten seconds away from beating some sense into them. He shifts his coat aside to grab a knife. I mirror his gesture with one small difference, one he realizes as soon as he ends up face-to-maw with the business end of the six-shooter.

My pistol might be a prototype, but there is no mistaking its keen lines and metallic gleam. This is a tool of death.

“What the hell?”

“Hands in the air and you might just live to see the day. I am the hand of the law and my reach is long indeed!”

Somewhere behind me, a bush swears in Akkad and lets out a muffled laugh.

“Shit! Everyone! Help! A madwoman!”

“You won’t escape your punishment, miscreant!” I yell in my loudest human voice, as if I were as self-righteous as a Gabrielite.

I lightly jog after the fleeing man until we arrive at his camp.

“She’s right behind me! Shoot her, shoot her!”

A man fires a musket and the bullet misses me completely. What is he even aiming at? And now he is just standing there like a moron, gaping at the shadows.

I shoot him in the chest. He falls with a dreadful shriek and the rest of his band finally realizes that they are under attack. They pile behind crates of supplies and fire back.

I skip behind a thick trunk and take potshots at those who break cover, making no particular effort to aim. I have plenty of bullets in my bag and this is the time to experiment.

“It can’t be just the one, there are too many bullets flying. She must have help!” one of the men says in a panicked voice.

“Maybe it’s a whole band of she-devils!” another replies. “They’re here to cut off our cocks! I told ye not to touch those lasses!”

“Shut your mug!”

“Your sins are many!” I shout with a gravelly voice, “And you should all repent! Repeeeeeent!”

Hah, I can see why the Gabrielites would risk dismemberment. This is fun! I leave the cover of the trunk and empty all six bullets in my left gun in quick succession.

“She’s got this strange gun! Do you think that’s why?”

“Then it must be empty! Let’s rush her!” a brave soul screams before jumping on top of the crate.

I shoot the man down with the right gun like the dog he is. I then open the contraption to reload.

Instead of doing it cartridge by cartridge, I just remove the entire barrel and replace it with a fresh one. This is such a revolutionary invention! I am witnessing history in the making!

“Noooo, she shot Jerry! Jerryyyyyyy!”

“Let me die, fools. Run. Run for your lives!”

How very dramatic. It reminds me, I should buy an opera ticket for Mozart’s The Queen of the Night. An opera in German! I will go alone, have the waiters bring me a cup of coffee, and throw chocolate wrappers on the heads of the rich folks below. It will be grand. Or I could bring Nami and enjoy the outrage. Hmmm.

A bullet hits the trunks fairly close to my head, showering me with splinters.

Right! I am already in the middle of something fun! Carpe noctem and all that.

I lean to the side and shoot at the ass of someone attempting to crawl away. He howls and his friends drag him back. There are only three of them now, including the one who is no longer so cheeky.

Heh.

I turn once more and, this time, flick the hammer with one hand while I press the trigger with the other. This allows me to shoot faster, but I am still limited by the physics of the gun itself. Otherwise, I could shoot even faster! Incredible!

Could I make a larger version of this? Hmmm.

“We surrender!”

“WHAT, REALLY? ALREADY?” I scream in utter annoyance.

My legitimate question is received in stupefied silence. Jimena walks to me with a chuckle.

“Why? How can they be such cowards?”

“They are bandits, Ariane, not fanatics dying for a cause.”

“But I’ve killed bandits before, and they hardly ever surrendered!”

“Did you even leave them enough time to do so? To understand their desperate circumstances?”

“Well…”

“Or did you just enter the fray and happily slaughter them?”

“I was not done with the test! I want to shoot at them and play with them and make them squirm. How dare they cower like useless sacks of flesh while Torran is leaving me? They have no right. It should not be happening like this! He is the first man I’ve loved in a romantic capacity in my entire Watcher-forsaken life, the only one I can even think of being intimate with. I love him dearly. I feel good with him, as myself and without a mask. He accepts me and my lack of experience and all my little flaws and he is patient and caring and loving. He knows so many stories. Also, he can kick my ass. And he builds swords. Fuck!”

“Ariane…”

“It is not fair! There are so many wastes of space already here, why can’t they leave instead?” I finish sulkily.

Jimena remains silent. She reaches up to lightly tap the top of my head. Because it is Jimena, I let her.

“Errrr,” a male voice says from behind, “Can we please lower our hands, or…?”

Torran’s departure leaves me ill-tempered for a few months, during which I take a more hands-off attitude to ruling Marquette and my budding business empire. Following Salim’s advice, I also invest in the real estate of my territory, apparently a vampire tradition. I sink my time and undirected anger into magical and physical training with the occasional help of a few war-minded Masters like Nami and Jimena. I also try to involve guns in my combat style but soon realize that the task is extremely arduous and that my training partners object to being shot at mid-practice. I will have to return to that at a later date.

The year 1836 brings an interesting event in the Natalis territory. Texans conduct a revolution and manage to capture the Mexican general Santa Anna, forcibly bringing him to the negotiation table and leading to the birth of the Republic of Texas. Lord Jarek’s territory is no longer part of Mexico as a result.

The new state of Arkansas joins the union, giving us a new, clearly-delimited territory. It is granted to the returning Lancasters. Lord Marion is their new leader, and he takes the time to come and greet me, bearing offerings and a juicy trade agreement that finally allows me to set up a proper gun factory. Because of that and his overall politeness, I support his claim even though deep inside I am fuming. A few diplomatic agreements and he obtains a state! Pah! Back in my day, you had to wallow knee-deep in werewolf blood to get a tiny piece of land. These newcomers do not know how good they have it.

The entry of Arkansas highlights a burning issue: slavery. The growth of the abolitionist movement leads to massive friction, and each new state that enters the union threatens the fragile equilibrium between the two sides. For now, Illinois is not a slave state, but there are slave-catchers operating on the southern border. And in the north, abolitionists assist fugitives on their way to Canada. Although I stick to my belief that a happy human is a tasty human and that no man, or woman, can truly be happy if they do not have free agency, I limit my actions to keeping the less honest catchers out of my area through heavy beatings whenever necessary.

At least three different clans have a vested interest in the institution, including the Cadiz, whose financial interests are closely tied to the South and its plantations. Vampirekind is thus equally split on the subject. The Ekon, Roland, and I are firmly in the abolitionist camp, with Sephare herself calling it ‘odious’, while the others argue that treating people as property is as old as history itself and therefore natural, if unfortunate.

I do not see this ending well.

In the meantime, I continue learning from Ezekiel until, in the month of January 1837, Margaret disappears.

The compass points to the factory in front of me, showing me that the girl still lives. The building is decently new and obviously busy during the daytime. The paint on the massive double gate is fresh, and the many windows clearly show a neat interior.

“That is not what I expected,” Ezekiel says. Without his ridiculous red robes, he looks more like an actual professor and less like some cheap, farcical villain. His keen eyes target the brick building like they can bore right through it.

I know what he means. Margaret has gone missing, and she has ways of contacting us. My vote is for kidnapping, mundane or otherwise.

“Let me infiltrate the place, just in case,” I request.

To my surprise, Ezekiel does not argue.

“Agreed, but be warned that after five minutes I shall break in gauntlet blazing. If you find some crime afoot, this is your window to reach a diplomatic agreement. After that…”

Ezekiel’s vehemence does not surprise me. The man is surprisingly protective of his pupils, a habit I can respect. I leave without a word and crawl up the wall with the grace and expertise of a cat burglar. This is not my first time breaking and entering.

I find an improperly latched window and open it with minimal noise and damage, then suddenly hear a gasp.

The factory district is mostly empty at this hour, so I expected no company. Cursing my carelessness, I turn around to find a very drunk man holding a half-empty bottle of gin and staring at me with bulging eyes.

Hmm.

I must strike a dashing figure, stuck like a lizard to the sheer wall in my conservative gray dress. Fortunately, the man has given me the very tool I need to defuse the situation. I wave at him with a manic smile then move into the building. I hear a curse, then the brittle noise of shattered glass followed by barely-coherent screams about she-devils and absinthe and whatnot.

Crisis averted.

The clock is still ticking, however, and I quickly make my way around what appears to be an accounting department and down two sets of stairs. Once I reach the ground floor, I realize that the door leading outside is warded and that it looks like professional work.

Fearing a trap, I slow down and focus my senses. There, behind a wall covered in advertisement posters, is a breathing person and what feels like a strong shield. The air tastes like nervous sweat. Fresh.

I sigh and kneel to fix my dress to my leggings so that it does not trail everywhere, then I lightly jump up and crawl across the ceiling like the world’s prettiest bat.

People never look up.

I pass the corner and find a set of stairs leading down into a well-lit basement. A man stands in the way, gauntlet down but active. The air before him shimmers with a half-deployed ward of respectable power.

He is also wearing a White Cabal battledress.

My unexpected opponent is very young, although his bushy dark beard suggests otherwise. He is not exactly inattentive either, and I salute his discipline.

In fact, his appearance reminds me of…

No way.

“Cedric?” I ask in surprise, recognizing one of the students I had enjoyed terrifying—I mean, one of the students I had generously prepared for the vagaries of life as a combat mage by direct request of his chief instructor.

The man jumps in fright and lets out a rather girly scream, then looks up as his shield activates.

His frown turns to an expression of pure delight, then morphs to a mask of aloof confidence. He leans against a railing, twirling his mustache.

“Oh, Ariane of the Nirari. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Cedric, is everything alright?” a voice comes from below.

“We have a guest, people!” Cedric declaims proudly as I drop from the ceiling and smooth my dress. We almost look the same age now. I do not believe I will ever get used to this.

Before testing this team, Jonathan had warned me that they were perhaps the most talented group Avalon had ever produced, and therefore he fully expected them to fail spectacularly, which they did. Impressive individual displays of skill could not make up for arrogance and recklessness. As three people climb up the stairs slowly and in tight formation, I see that this lesson was not lost on them.

I recognize the man in the front as the leader, Reginald. He holds the shield while the two ladies of the group cover him from behind. The first is a dark-haired girl with brown eyes and a magnetic charm, Mina. Her gauntlet practically shines with power begging to be unleashed. The second is an aristocratic young woman with blue eyes and blonde hair holding a silver sword at the ready. They all stop when they see me, but to their credit, they do not lower their guard.

“Oh. Hello,” Reginald says with a slightly ashamed expression. Our last interaction was indeed quite humiliating for the fearless leader.

I notice that the last member of the team is missing.

“Is Will circling around to attack me from behind?” I ask. Then I focus on my aura control and realize that the sneakiest member of their coterie is, in fact, right around the corner behind his allies. “Ah, no, he is right here. Now, let me ask the fateful question to get it out of the way: do you happen to have in your custody a young female warlock with dark hair, pale skin, and a chip on her shoulder the size of Bunker Hill?”

“Would she have a tendency to say things such as ‘Behold my dark power!’ and ‘You cannot comprehend my might’?”

I sigh. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Yeah, we have her; she’s downstairs. Unhurt. Apprentices of the dark arts are always so full of themselves,” Cedric explains, pleased.

“Yes, Cedric, pompous fools the lot of them. They always need some harrowing experience to remind them where they stand on the food chain,” I remark pointedly.

Cedric has the grace to blush while Reggie and his two flankers close the distance. The shields are still up, I notice. Will steps out into the open with an embarrassed smile.

“Would you consider releasing her into my care?” I politely ask, in a way that merely hints at the fact that this is not a request.

“Of course. It’s not like she’s the one we’re looking for, right??” Cedric states as he turns to his friends with a winning smile.

They remain unamused.

“I think that you talk too much,” the blonde woman retorts with a freezing voice that carries just a bit of German. Her name is Carmella if I remember correctly.

“Stop trying to flirt with the immortal mage-eater, Cedric, she already told you that you were too young—and that beard changes nothing,” Mina adds with genuine concern.

“Nonsense,” Cedric scoffs as he turns a delicate shade of tulip, “I did not grow it to look more mature and impress her!”

A very, very awkward silence spreads across the assembly. The shield mage pales as he realizes that his blabbering has become his downfall.

“Really? I had found the timing suspicious, of course, but to think…” Carmella observes.

“Gee, Cedric, you wax your mustache for that?” Reginald adds with disgust.

I clap my hands once to garner their attention and stop, or at least postpone, the merciless hazing.

“Please focus for one moment. Can I recover the witch?”

“If you guarantee us protection from her retribution, such as it is, we will gladly give her to you,” Reginald quickly answers.

“It is done then. Please wait a moment while I inform my associate.”

Everyone smiles pleasantly as we wind down our spells, including my own blood magic shield-piercer.

Allied, yes. Stupid, no.

I return to a restless Ezekiel and inform him that I reached an agreement with the kidnappers and that they are not, in fact, kidnappers, merely allies of mine who defended themselves. I can see the doubts in his eyes, though he is smart enough not to voice them. To call a vampire a liar is a painfully vain exercise.

I return to the White Cabal hideout and their basement. Stacks of crates filled with metal parts have been set aside to leave an open space. In it, the five war mages have created a workshop centered around a massive circle. Margaret is not in it. Instead, she's lying on her belly atop a pile of tarp, liberally bound with ropes, arms behind her and feet held up. She looks one skewer away from a roast pig.

Tear trails line her cheeks, the poor arrogant thing. I free her and she stands up, massaging her wrists to help with the blood flow and trying her best to melt into the wall. Perhaps there is a spell for that?

“So, I have a standing argument with one of the lads back in Avalon. He says that vampires and mages are natural enemies, while I say that it’s vampires and werewolves. What do you think?” Cedric asks me excitedly.

“I think you are both mistaken,” I reply sweetly, “From our perspective, you are all prey.”

A distinct chill freezes everyone in the room. William, who stands close to me, takes an instinctual step back.

All but Cedric.

“Hmm, that makes sense,” he comments as though I have shared a great pearl of wisdom. In a way, I have. He just did not get it.

Cedric caresses his lush beard, staring at the ceiling with a penetrating gaze as if it holds the secrets of the universe in its dusty recesses.

“Anyway,” Will continues with an embarrassed glare, “I now understand why we have been deployed here. The environment is sufficiently challenging, and we have an ally who can potentially come to our rescue. The Black Dog thought of everything.”

“Speaking of allies, would you consider assisting us?” Mina asks politely. I notice that both Will and Reginald give her their full attention as she makes her plea. There is a longing in their gaze that’s difficult to miss.

“We are looking for a ring of human traffickers who sometimes manage to intercept refugee mages as they get off the boat. Despicable people! We are here to dismantle their local branch and prevent them from preying on the weak!” she boasts with undisguised pride.

Hmm.

Will steps forward, the first to realize that asking me to act out of the kindness of my heart is a doomed prospect.

“We were given special shaped charges by Jonathan. They are designed to direct the blast in one direction only, thus sparing the people and materials engulfed in a normal powder blast’s area of effect. Perhaps you would consent to come with us and operate them yourself?”

Ooooh, the crafty lad. Does he think I am the kind of woman who would assault an unknown foe for a chance at testing a prototype explosive?

Because he is absolutely correct, but I cannot have him win so easily. It would set a dangerous precedent.

“That sounds fascinating. Good luck with that,” I inform a slightly crestfallen William.

“We would compensate you for your time, of course,” Reginald adds in a respectful tone.

“Yeah! I volunteer my blood! Are you thirsty?”

“Not now, Cedric. Ariane of the Nirari, our foe uses magic to hide themselves. It renders most standard tracking spells useless. We believe that this is extremely potent magic, and one of our secondary objectives is to recover it. I believe that I can negotiate for not only access to this spell, but also our help in mastering it, should you join us,” Reginald continues.

I do not need a way to hide myself thanks to Nashoba’s earrings, but it could still be extremely useful to mask allies, or even understand how to find somebody.

“Deal. Now show me those shaped charges you mentioned.”

As the night progresses and we work together, I realize that I do not mind keeping an eye on the team. They are pleasantly competent. Getting to know them and be known and relied on in return improves the chances that Jonathan’s alliance lasts for more than one generation.

We eventually find the kidnappers and both Ezekiel and Salazar join us for the rescue. Peace soon returns to the city, and I get a new blueprint for my trouble.

I spend the next four years alternating between Philadelphia and my own territory, stopping my studies only long enough to handle the odd crisis that my competent underlings cannot deal with themselves. Merritt eventually remarries and hires several associates, which I allow after vetting and intimidating them just a bit to make sure they understand that I will not tolerate duplicity. Urchin grows into a fine enforcer, to my pleasant surprise. He develops his own fighting style, which revolves around pulling objects out of seemingly nowhere and shoving them in someone’s back—or shooting them in the face with one of the many tiny pistols he had specially made.

Marquette develops relatively quickly while Chicago expands at a vertiginous speed with a little help from Melusine’s peerless business acumen, allowing both of us to consolidate our positions. I do not object when she recovers a few Lancaster exiles and even negotiates with Lord Marion to make sure there is no lingering resentment. Slowly, political blocs form around the Cadiz on one side and the Roland on the other, with a third force made from us weaker clans. And more and more issues crop up that require us to make collective decisions, leading us to today.

I look down at Lady Sephare’s intricate golden curls as she descends the stairs ahead of me. We proceed by pair, the state leader and their second side-by-side with Constantine leading the way.

I chose Melusine, not that there was much competition.

Servants, soldiers, and employees stick to the walls of the fortress’s cozy interior and watch us pass with a bit of awe, as is suitable. We have enough political and physical power here to overthrow a small nation.

The corridor widens and we soon tread across a crimson carpet to a set of double doors guarded on each side by Constantine’s bodyguards, who look as mysterious as ever. Our combined auras, though peaceful, have a curious effect on our surroundings. We are not mingling with mortals this time. We are walking together with a purpose, and the queer harmony changes the texture of reality ever so slightly.

It tastes thinner.

I wonder if the others feel it too.

The gates open for Constantine, and we follow him into a large circular room wide enough to fit a cottage. Sophia, Constantine’s assistant, is already sitting behind a large writing desk at the far end.

The floor at the center of the room is made from concentric rings of stone. As we approach, the Speaker lifts a gauntleted hand and seventeen of the rings slide up, one by one, with barely a noise. I count one for each pair of representatives and one for him. Finally, stone thrones emerge from the nineteenth ring to accommodate us.

We pretend not to be impressed while Constantine feigns indifference at our lack of reaction. Lesser minds may gasp and whisper at such a mighty display, but I know better. In a few hours, the attendants will realize that naked stone makes for poor cushions. Not everyone benefits from my, ahem, padding.

We take our places in silence. The massive central table is split like a pie by minor light magic so that each present state is clearly shown by its flag and its name in large, blocky letters when applicable. Right now, they are all grayed out. Only the Speaker’s pie slice is illuminated by a red glow. He stands up to address us.

“Welcome to the first Pan-American Council of Princes. The purpose of this assembly is to reach a collective decision regarding recent major events. As previously stated, we will take votes at the end of a debate, during which I will act as arbitrator. You will notice that my side of the table is lit and the others are grayed out. When someone has the floor, their side will be lit. If you do not have the floor, you should refrain from interrupting. Disruptive behavior will be punished.”

As if we would act like rowdy children.

“The first order of business tonight is the issue of slavery. With the recent ruling on the Amistad affair and the continuous clashes between abolitionists and their opponents, I have deemed it necessary that we establish a set of guidelines that all Houses should follow.”

Immediately, the atmosphere grows heavy. Kouakou and Naminata in particular fix Ceron and a few others with expressions of barely-disguised hostility. They wear their traditional red and yellow boubous with disdainful pride, the bright colors offering a stark contrast with the drabber outfits worn by their rivals.

“Several members of this assembly volunteered actionable plans. We will listen to their proposals and discuss their merits. House Ekon, you have the floor.”

“Thank you, Speaker,” Lord Kouakou replies in a smooth bass. He stabs a talon in the flesh of his thumb, then places the pearl of dark blood on the stone surface. A few runes flare and a map of North America appears on the table.

The next hour is spent in controlled arguments. We remain polite at all times, and discussions do not heat up because most of the negotiations have already happened behind closed doors. This is mostly a show of strength and of eloquence.

The Ekon argue that each state leader should decide who to favor on their own territory, leaving them free to act as they see fit. In the case of the Ekon, that means facilitating escapes and freely financing groups such as the Underground Railroad. The Cadiz retort that slaves can be regarded as House assets, and as such their recovery should be allowed across all territories. They add that abetting escapes is technically theft, and that any House engaged in such activities should be considered hostile in keeping with the Accords. At this stage, the fanged smiles strain noticeably.

The Ekon predictably counter that soon as the fugitives reach a state where slavery is illegal, they have the right of ownership over themselves and cannot be reacquired without breaking the laws of said state. Any attempt to recapture slaves would be poaching, as stated by the Accords. The arguments go back and forth for almost an hour before Lady Sephare asks to intervene. She makes a reasonable and impassioned speech about the dangers of giving open access to one’s territory. While the practice of slavery is an ancient tradition, she claims, the right of every vampire to protect their territory from outside influence should supersede it. An escaped prisoner must be considered lost, and that is that.

Her case is backed by every state leader who does not want foreign agents freely roaming their territory, including myself. The slavers among us will have to keep an eye on their merchandise themselves. We win that vote with a comfortable majority.

Constantine announces the result and Sophia writes it down for posterity, but I know that this merely delays the conflict. Unofficial support and funding of various groups will continue. Nothing is truly solved yet.

The second order of business is land control. The Union recently gained the states of Arkansas and Michigan, while the republic of Texas was formed from Santa Anna’s blunder. At the same time, the Roland have expanded into Quebec. The question is whether to intervene into mortal affairs and steer the formation of borders. This discussion is much more unanimous, and we quickly agree to leave them to their own devices. We will only intervene by mutual agreement if we consider our interests at risk.

Once all agreements are made, Constantine calls an end to the proceedings, and we file out in silence. We climb back up to the fortress’s living quarters and split up without conversation. As soon as we are all dispersed, Melusine and I do not have the time to reflect before we receive an invitation to visit the Ekon quarters. With this, the diplomatic dance begins anew.

Over the next five years, I focus on my spellcasting and even start to experiment with complex rituals and my sire’s spells. They are nasty things of power and rage, efficient and refined yet…inelegant. There is a spell that flings blades at random, one that sets up invisible caltrops of deleterious energy, one that flays its target alive…Nirari truly is talented, even though he relies more on power than subtlety.

Ten years have come and gone when suddenly, I find a letter waiting for me on my desk back in Marquette. This one bears the mark of the Rosenthal postal service and I freeze as I recognize a familiar cursive scrawl. I delicately pick at its creamy surface and slide it closer, my eyes widening in disbelief. I have not seen this specific handwriting in decades.

It could not be…

I flip the envelope and read the name of the sender with ever-increasing surprise.

It is.

Chapter 102: Home

April 1846

My feet tread the familiar ground in silence, and I bounce up the three small stairs to the entrance with the ease of familiarity. They have not changed. Neither have I.

The door could use another coat of paint, though.

I pull on a cord. Light chimes sound from inside and a pair of heavy steps heralds the coming of the house staff. It is late enough that a visit would be considered rude, but not so late that I may be greeted with a musket.

I do not recognize the woman who opens the door. She wears a light, conservative dress and a scowl as she squints, trying to recognize me.

“I am here to see Achille Reynaud,” I announce.

“And what business do you have with Mr. Reynaud?”

“He called me here.”

She finishes her inspection, and she clearly does not like what she sees. Some people have good instincts. I cannot help but smile. I am experiencing something new: nostalgia.

I have not been home in so long.

“Mr. Reynaud is indisposed.”

“I know.”

“Then you should also know better than to come so late. Return tomorrow.”

She goes to close the door and shows quite a bit of surprise when I press a hand against the heavy frame, pushing her aside with ease. Her expression turns scandalized.

“Madam, I will ask you to leave. Immediately!”

I take a deep breath to appreciate the moment, tasting the air. I am still welcome. The old magic has left me untouched.

I step forward.

“Fortunately, you are not my host. I do not need your agreement.”

I lightly push her protesting form aside and climb up the stairs, ignoring her pathetic invectives. My brother will rest in the master bedroom, and this is where my steps lead me.

The house smells of incense, sickness, old furniture, and old people. Girders and support beams creak like the knees of a crone, and the ticks of an ancient clock thrum like heartbeats. Still, this place lives, more solemn than decrepit. The pitted planks are lacquered and the shelves sag under the weight of well-ordered books and polished trinkets. Some of them even look quite expensive.

I finally reach the fateful door. When I was a child, this was my father’s domain. He would tolerate my presence there when he accepted no one else’s, not since mother had died. I would charge in to wake him up sometimes, jumping on the mattress and bumping my head against his as if I were a ram.

He is long gone and so is his scent.

I knock lightly on the door and enter. Most of the furniture must have been replaced at some point. Only the bed itself occupies the same space.

In it lies the prone form of my brother.

The years have not been kind.

I suppose that he is old now at sixty-four. Age does not explain the sunken cheek, the stringy beard, or the yellow skin stuck to his skeletal body. Sickness does. His breath comes out raspy. A desiccated hand grabs at his torso, the probable source of his pain, even as he fitfully sleeps. The air is heavy with the smell of medicine.

I step closer and find a comfortable chair. I am confident that I was quiet, and yet just as I finish sitting, he pops his eyes open and turns them on me with unerring purpose. They are bloodshot but still just as keen and blue as I remember them. His gaze turns to the table nearby, and I understand the unspoken request. I stand again and light a few candles before returning to his side. We scrutinize each other in silence. His jaw shifts several times as, I assume, he struggles to find the words that he perhaps prepared. I know better and did not even attempt the foolish exercise.

“You have not changed at all. Are you still…you?” he finally asks, his voice grating from an exhausted throat.

“I’m afraid that is up for debate, and I wish I could return the compliment.”

For a moment, the barb throws us back to a time when our conflicted relationship shaped the lives, and ears, of many a nurse. We both smile at those memories, and something clicks between us, a fleeting sense of camaraderie. When Achille next speaks, his voice is softer.

“Thank you for coming. I wish I’d sent for you sooner, but I had a few things to work through.”

“When did you learn that I was still, for lack of a better term, alive?”

“Father told me before he passed away.”

Achille’s eyes grow distant.

“It took me a long time to accept what he said as more than the delusions of a sick man and even longer to act. I apologize.”

“No need, Achille.”

“Yes, need,” he retorts. He painfully shifts in his bed and grabs an envelope from his bedside table. The paper is wrinkled and faded with old age and when he hands it to me, I feel a weight inside. His skin is dry and feverish.

“Father left this for you. There is a key inside. I did not want to give it to a monster. It took a lot of growing up to realize that it was not my decision to make.”

“Self-reflection? Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?” I retort teasingly as I accept the gift. Achille’s answering smile is brittle and bittersweet.

“You laugh. I spent entirely too much time growing a business and a family before realizing I had to grow as a person as well. A lot of events happening late in my life have changed my outlook. I had many certitudes. Now, much less so.”

“Je suis surprise,” I admit, temporarily reverting to French.

“Do not be, petite soeur. It is never too late to change.”

Our moment is interrupted by heavy steps trampling the floor on their way to the bedroom. I recognize the decisive struts, quick breath, and dancing heartbeat of a terrified human desperately trying to rally their spirits.

The door bangs open and a woman crashes in, head high and armed with an iron poker.

A strange sensation of uncanny otherness overcomes me, and I grip the couch, fangs almost bared in an instinctive response. It takes all of my self-control to shut my mouth and force myself to relax. She is not me. This is just an illusion, a phantom born from decades spent away from my own blood.

She is not me.

Her hair is darker and her face smoother. There could be other details, but I forget. I have not seen my own face in so long. I notice with some amusement that her reaction mirrors my own, and that the threats and imprecations the iron poker was supposed to back up die on her lips the moment she takes me in. We could be sisters.

“Who are you?” she asks with a trembling voice.

“My guest,” Achille interrupts before I can reply. I let him. Host privilege.

“Grand-pere, the doctor said that you should rest, especially at night.”

“I know, ma petite. This meeting could not wait.”

“Grand-pere! Please, you have to take care of yourself. Mademoiselle, can you not come back tomorrow morning?” she asks, turning to me.

“June, listen to me.” Achille speaks in a kind voice that I do not recognize.

My brother has changed a lot. The Achille I knew could not tolerate objections or refusals. He had a very firm idea of his place in the world and everyone else’s too. Those who opposed his orders were severely reprimanded and their objections immediately dismissed as the ramblings of an inferior getting out of line and, therefore, unwise. This Achille is reasonable and patient.

“June, my dear. You know that some things cannot wait. Please.”

Tears pearl at the corner of the girl’s eyelids. She furiously tries to chase them away by blinking very fast and scowling mightily before turning away and stomping back into the corridor where she stays to eavesdrop with all the spying acumen of a five-year-old.

“You have mellowed in your old age,” I remark, not unkindly.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Achille replies with a strangled chuckle. “That was June by the way.”

“Your second son’s daughter. I know.”

He welcomes my revelation with pleasant surprise. “You kept an eye on us?”

“Yes. I would have acted if you were facing a true menace, mundane or otherwise.”

“I see, I see. That is good. To return to my change of heart, a great many events have rocked my perception of the world in the past few years. June is one of them. My second son turned out to be a major disappointment, while June herself is kind, smart, and responsible. It certainly impacted my opinion on family hierarchy and the merits of male-only inheritance.”

“You are not considering…”

“I am. When I die, she will inherit the property and quite a few assets besides.”

“You impress me,” I admit with genuine care.

“Thank you. I am sorry that I could not reconsider things before disease and circumstances made it an imperative. I called you here for a favor.”

Supplicant. It has been a while since I last felt the intimate bond created by such a request. The ingrained urge to demand a price for my help fights a short war with an old sense of loyalty and loses. I will not ask for a price from Achille.

“Speak.”

“My youngest son, Richard, enrolled in the US rmy last year following our increased tensions with Mexico. Are you familiar with the situation?”

Naturally. The Natalis under Lord Jarek are monitoring it with great attention. They favor the American side for a variety of causes ranging from security against the Comanches to the benefits of having a stable government for one full year.

“We are on the brink of war. President Polk ordered Taylor’s men south into the Nueces Strip, and Mexico will react.”

Achille nods.

“Correct. Richard is now a proud dragoon in the second brigade. Full of bluster, that one. ‘The nation this! Our honor that!’ His blood runs white-hot with the fury of unbridled patriotism!”

His mocking tone surprises me. I always took him for someone who would support traditional institutions with the firm belief of a man whose position in life depends on them. He must have reconsidered his values at a fundamental level over the past decade.

Achille’s breathing grows hard as the memory of his son’s departure agitates him. It takes a few seconds for him to take a deep, relaxed sigh.

“Funny things, wars. Victory or defeat, there will always be one foolhardy charge or one vainglorious assault that kills all its participants. Then, ten years from now, some Washington asshole will paint a nice scene about the whole affair.”

“You want me to get him out?”

“I wish, but no. If life has taught me one thing, it is that we must learn some lessons ourselves. I do not expect you to shield him from bayonets. I only wish for him not to lose his life in a stupid, preventable way. Can you do that?”

“I can travel west and keep an eye on him, if you wish. I may not save him, but I will extract him if he is taken prisoner or if he is on the run.”

“Good enough. Yes, good enough.”

We keep quiet for a while, Achille lost to his musings and me to observing him.

“Say, I did not offer payment,” he mentions as an afterthought.

“No need. I think of us as family.”

He laughs at that, a short exhalation that soon turns into a wince of pain.

“I will keep you apprised,” I tell him.

“No need. I have an understanding with my doctor. When you are gone, he will increase the dosage of some of my medicines and thus shorten my already minute lifespan. All my affairs are in order and I have no intention to dawdle and be a burden on June and the staff.”

“You will let go of the world?” I ask.

“You do not age, do you? Then you will be spared the indignities of your own body failing you. Waking every morning, weakened. Dimmer. A slow wreck that nothing can stop.”

His gaze grows clouded as he contemplates his own mortality.

“Death is not a failure. I am eager to shed this body and see what lies beyond. Not because I despair, but because I can no longer grow in this crumbling vessel. You will stay here and look after our family, won’t you?”

“For as long as I live.”

“Good. Now, I have never been one for long farewells. You must go to the wine cave.”

“I thought it was never finished?”

“Papa completed it a few years before he died. I think he left you something there. I sealed it after his passing and never entered it, but I cleared the entrance every spring. It should still be easily-accessible.”

“I see.”

“This is goodbye, you who may or may not be my sister. For what it’s worth, I think Papa is right and whatever you have become is still you.”

“Thank you, Achille.”

“Yes, yes. Now begone with you! And look after everyone.”

“I will. Hopefully for a very, very long time. Farewell, Achille. It was a pleasure seeing you one last time.”

My brother chuckles and sinks back into his pillow, closing his eyes. I can tell that he is in pain and do not wish to annoy him further.

I do feel something, though the cold of my mind significantly dampens the intensity of the emotion. I close the door quietly behind me on my way out.

June is gone. For now.

I do not return to the entrance. My steps carry me further into the old house until I finally arrive at my old bedroom, but I do not walk in. I will not find anything that belongs to me within this place I used to know better than any other. Several occupants have since left their marks. The only prize I would reap is a sense of violation, of breached den. I feel agitated and fear that bringing too many strong emotions to the surface would be unwise, and so I stop my hand before it can grip the handle and turn around, heading back the way I came.

If I had not been taken that night decades ago and turned into what I have become, I would have followed a much different path. There would have been no midnight rides, no battles and no heists. No guns. Well, fewer guns in any case. I would have probably found a suitable husband I could have loved and trusted, who would have supported me and my projects rather than impose his will as some tend to do. I would have built a rum distillery and managed it for years. I would be here now, in this room, caring for my dying brother supported by my children and grandchildren. We would have had massive family reunions with luncheons lasting well into the night.

I think that I would have been happy.

Just as I am now.

The life I’ve led has had much to discover and many incredible people to meet. A mortal could not understand the ecstasy of the Hunt, of killing a werewolf and drinking them dry, of dancing amidst immortals dressed in fineries from another age.

Yes. It is, in many ways, a worthy life I have lived so far. I’ve made it so through my own efforts.

Bah, enough! I am on a schedule. I retrace my steps and make for the exit.

June is waiting in the main hall. Her expression is complicated. I climb down the stairs, taking care to make some noise, and still she does not turn her eyes. Her mind remains fully captured by a painting on the wall that I had ignored on my way up. Now, I finally look at it.

Half a century ago, our father had sat us down to celebrate Achille’s twenty-first birthday in a way that would immortalize the occasion. Some cheap artist from Baton-Rouge came with his brushes and meek manners and drew a portrait of our family. His work had been awkward. I can now easily spot the flaws in his style, some too-hasty strokes that blur the contours of our father’s face. Despite the shoddy work, there is no mistaking the people captured in the frame, as one of them has not changed at all.

June finally turns to me, mouth open in mixed horror and surprise, so I do the most vampiric thing I can. I lightly tap her shoulder, smile mysteriously, and take my leave before she can recover.

Being darkly secretive is a form of boasting.

Outside, the smell of wet earth from recent rain and the sounds of nature renew my sense of nostalgia. The property has changed and has also stayed the same. Like me.

The path to the wine cave is overgrown now, with Achille unable to clear it himself. I tread it with ease and end up at the edge of a gate seemingly carved into a small hill. The surrounding vegetation assaults it from all sides in a furious attempt to close the gap. Green sprouts and other tendrils grasp towards each other like limbs frozen in time.

I insert the iron key into the lock and push. The door protests the intrusion with a deafening creak.

Papa built himself a nice little haven here, away from prying eyes, and I immediately realize why. Two of the walls are lined with moldy bookshelves filled with cheap editions of magic theory books. A desk nearby collects dust, its surface barren. The entire far side of the room is covered by a large workshop filled with curious tools, including a few optical ones with their lenses shining strangely in the darkness. On it sits a box and a sealed envelope.

I neglect the books. Most of them are easily-obtainable and I know their contents already, having spent a decade learning from one of the greatest arcane smiths who ever lived. A quick inspection of the desk yields nothing of value; the room was thoroughly cleaned before it was vacated.

This is it.

I open the envelope with trepidation and take my time unfolding the yellowed paper. My father’s smooth cursive greets me in all its comforting familiarity. My hand goes to my neck, to the pendant where his last instruction rests, locked forever in a case of steel.

Do not die before me.

I’ve fulfilled that request. Now I read the letter, written in French, to see if there is another one.

“My dearest daughter,

When you read this, I will probably be in a better place, or at least I hope so! How I wish I could have held you in my arms one more time, but despite your absence I find comfort in the knowledge that you are safe. Jimena kept me aware of your progress through small missives slipped here and there throughout the years. The woman is paranoid! But considering who you face, I suppose caution is warranted.

I am leaving soon. As I am writing these words, I have finished tidying up the cave and getting rid of the more incriminating correspondences. Know that I have not spent all of my last few years in idle occupation, sipping rum and flirting with the ladies. Only the majority of them. I also did a little bit of trading here and there. You know your old man!

Eventually, I got my hands on something that will help you. Jimena informed me that it would be some time before you could use it and I find that I do not mind. I very much enjoy the idea of you carrying this present into eternity, a last gift from me by your side forever. Please take good care of it and give your enemies hell!

This is farewell, my daughter. I wish I could have helped you start your own family and open that distillery. Fate had something else in store for you, and you faced it head-on like the indomitable woman I raised. Remember me, remember us, and keep an eye out for Achille and his swarm; God knows he needs all the help he can get!

Your mother would be proud.

With all my love,

Your Papa.”

Silly, silly Papa. Silly. I did get my family, and my distillery too. And now I am crying blood on the silly paper. Bah!

I fold the letter religiously, replacing it in the envelope. The container is locked, so I try the key in the envelope Achille gave me. It opens to reveal a velvet-padded interior like a jewelry box, and enshrined within, a mage gauntlet.

And what a gauntlet it is. Smooth, elegant lines of the darkest black shine ominously like midnight stars on a glove that redefines threatening grace. If there was ever a vampire empress, she would have worn this. I recognize obsidian as the primary material for the frame, one that is as potent as it is difficult to handle. Chains of silver alloy bind the lithe knuckles to grant the artifact even more power. This is, perhaps, one of the mightiest foci one can make, and it looks good. An exquisite tool and a fashion statement. A small, hand-written note lies near the wrist.

Celestine ‘Blackhand’ MacDhuibh’s regalia. Certificate of authenticity from the Rosenthal Consortium.

Wow.

I recognize that name. Celestine MacDhuibh was an unconventional fifteenth-century Scottish mage known for her brilliance and her short fuse. She invented several interesting spells, including a short-range killing one that afforded her the Blackhand moniker, but also an explosive diarrhea hex she would use on rivals. Now, her gauntlet belongs to me, thanks to my papa.

I caress the smooth surface lovingly and consider how lucky I am.

When I came back to my home after my escape from Lancaster custody, I almost expected him to be gone, or dead. I hesitated and delayed because I knew the most likely outcome of our reunion would be curses and screams. Instead, he welcomed me and sent me on my way with a gun and a promise.

He was wrong in a way. Dalton, Loth, and Jimena became my family. Without them, my path would have been much darker. It would have been cut short as well. I do not know how I would have behaved if rage and bitterness had guided my actions. My memories of that time remain dark. I traveled the land harried by time, filth, and the Thirst. A Gabrielite almost killed me. Instead of disappearing like a ghost, I could have slaughtered my way through the countryside in a fit of rage and despair.

I would not be the same person without them.

I grab the gauntlet and place it in a small bag by my side, replacing the standard focus I had purchased before. I recover the books, just in case, and leave the wine cave. On my way out I meet an old man waiting by the road. He smokes a pipe with dignity, dressed in comfortable and clean outdoor clothes, but his eyes are laughing. I raise an eyebrow as, in my mind, mortals do not have the right to be silent and mysterious. I should maintain the exclusivity.

“Hello, cousin,” the man greets me.

I freeze and dig through my memories, the Rosenthal essence proving necessary for this one.

Cousin? I have some cousins. I even met one on the night I returned.

“Lucien?” I blurt out.

“Hah! I knew it. All those years and people telling me I had dreamt it, but no! My cousin Ariane is immortal! So, are you some sort of Greek hero or something? Is it a mythic item taken from a dead god?”

“Something of the sort…” I mumble, completely out of sorts. I was recognized! Twice!

“Alright then. Are you on your way to keep an eye on Richard?”

“How did you know?”

Argh! By the Watcher, I am supposed to be the one who surprises people! Being emotional interferes with my darkly charismatic femme fatale persona!

The man nods wisely.

“I thought old Achille would come around eventually. On your way, then! I’ll keep the house safe while you go slay hydras or something. Good luck!”

“Um. Fine. Goodbye, Lucien, it was good seeing you again. I apologize for, uh, coming back from the dead?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Everything in life is relative, including your relatives. Bye-bye!”

Ugh.

Chapter 103: Down She Goes

May 1, 1846

I was not granted the time to return to my home base and muster a force. Taylor probably would have welcomed a hundred disciplined militiamen since there was a dire need for more trained troops. Unfortunately, fate forces 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 has failed before it could even begin.

I still remember losing a potential Vassal decades ago because I overestimated myself , 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 cautious with the lives 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 necessary focus. Fortunately, I need only contact Boston to inform them that I will be lightly interfering with the military and request access to Natalis land, which their local representative agrees to immediately. I manage to set up a meeting with the one caster capable of message spells at the edge of their territory. With the diplomatic aspect of the problem solved, I can set out without concern.

I make use of a more recent series of safehouses set up by Constantine on my way west. They’re maintained by multiple 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 of my ride along the coast, then find myself in the wilds on the fourth, at the edge of Texas.

As the night ends, I decide to stop in a cove with tall leafy trees and the sea lapping against a rocky beach further down. 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. 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 to it 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’s 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! Urgh, 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 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 less arid regions further west, but this is not one of them.

For one irrational moment 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. Perhaps a mighty barrier might descend from the heavens to protect the hallowed ground, smiting the inhuman beings in their midst. Then I spot a vigorous young couple behind a barn engaging in what I will generously call a ‘Corpus Christi Tussle’. I also pass the Corpus Christi whorehouse and all my worries disappear like a wrinkled bank note 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 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, 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, 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 to 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 the 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 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 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, there are flurries of activity.

I hide behind a few trees and change into a clean dark green traveling dress, smooth my hair into a decent chignon, and ride forth. I come across a foot patrol 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 keeps track of things.

They do 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, particularly 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, a girl riding 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, and 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 me 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 out of him. 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 perfection. Even his buttons have been shined so thoroughly that they reflect the flickering light of the torches.

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 preparation for some furious tirade, no doubt. I do not have time for this and so I slip from Metis’s back, 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 scowls.

“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 pester you so under normal circumstances, but our father just passed away. It was his dying wish that I carry his last words to my brother as soon as I could. Please, I only need to see him for a moment.”

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.

“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…Argh! It takes all of my self-control to mask my rage and affect a tragic expression. I force my poor mouth into a ‘o’ of surprise instead of an ‘a’ of anger.

Have I failed 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 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 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 chained in some dungeon. Isolation, stale water, and hard bread are equally conducive 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 Mexican base in Matamoros. The war has not lasted long enough, nor have 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 refuse 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 has 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—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 this 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 materials being handled by poorly-paid men. Nervousness tempered by discipline gives a spring to the step of patrolling officers, and extra strength in the arms 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 until I can take a proper bath.

Closing my eyes allows me to focus on the heartbeats of a 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 has 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 them 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.

I grab my bag and rummage through it to find my gray cloak, the only piece of cold-weather clothing 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 dims, and shadows stretch 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 brains screaming for the safety of cave and campfire.

I am home.

And now, I feel something else. Not exactly an imbalance, 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 sometimes occurs 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 illusory dance that teases and cheats.

Dark purple orbs drift from the branch, which I prune into a shape like gnawed bones.

“Hey, do you see that?” a voice whispers from the meadow.

Metis perks up, as she likes teasing mortals almost as much as she enjoys 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 beam of some hellish lighthouse. Her red, horrifying gaze catches 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 contents 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 occasional tree. 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.

The weight of destiny drives 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 what I might face. To my knowledge, there are no foes here.

We trudge through more tall grass. I see a tiny mound on my right beneath 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, these soldiers lack something that my instincts recognize as drive. There was a sort of hunger hanging over the other army, an excitement, an 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 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 Besses 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 vampires are any different—there are only a handful of us in Illinois, after all.

We barely have twenty Lords in total. You could pick up more in Europe by carrying a bleeding Likaean from Basel to Paris.

I really hope the deterrence Constantine offers and the old clans’ arrogance will protect us for a few more decades. Let them dismember India. Let them rend China. Let them not come here…

I shake my head. There is nothing I can do right now. I am still a small fry in the grand scheme of things. Worse comes to worst, I have weathered storms before. I am confident that I can find a way to survive this one as well.

I assume that the shore will be guarded, or at least populated, and decide to head north again. Metis carries me away from the many lights and into fields of colorful flowers dancing in the gentle 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 towards the road again. 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 has cast a rudimentary spell across the trampled road. I can taste their unstable aura, 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 foresee is the language barrier. 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 second of stupefied silence this grants me before the road swarms with yelling militiamen brandishing rusty weapons and polished facial hair. I am soon surrounded on all sides by pilosity. After much ordering around—Para! Para!—a sneering irregular steps forward to, I assume, grab the reins.

I am most amused by his expression of absolute disbelief when he realizes that there are none. Sadly for him, he makes the mistake of keeping his hand in the air.

A snap, a yell, and the man now holds the mutilated stump of his little finger. More screams arise on all sides while Metis chews the lost appendage without breaking eye contact.

Good pony.

The man reaches for a pistol, and I believe that negotiations will fail until a clear and distinctively female voice brings order to the screaming mob.

“Ya basta!”

Silence descends upon the quivering assembly and their nine-fingered irregular. The men part to let pass 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 bound in a tight braid and shifts to gray at the temples. Her skin speaks of decades under the sun, so brown and wrinkled is it, 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 owns 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 out my natural height advantage.

“What is it, pendeja? First time seeing a soldadera?”

“You are a combatant?”

“No, I keep the knife to skewer pumpkins. Of course I’m a combatant.”

I keep my face impassive and dismiss the comment. She is the one who laid the ‘spell’. 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: 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 understand 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. She will likely 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 must sense that something is off, because they close rank on both sides (though they give Metis’s 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’s 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. This isn’t your papa’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 female.”

I bore my essence through 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.

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 on 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 rolling down a slope. This is it. The last few nights of spine-tingling 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. I would be unwise to shirk this calling.

I have not felt so strong a pull since I saved Melusine back in Louisiana. 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. 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 expression twists 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 side 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 happen in the past.”

“Madre de Dios, I just felt someone step over my tomb. Brrr.” She crosses herself and I grit my teeth, as the gesture sets me on edge. “It must be a sign from 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.

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 another vampire. By the Watcher, I hope it is not a vampire.

The dusty road snakes down towards the river until the tall grass gives way to tended fields of wheat and corn. After a minute, we reach the Rio Grande and the path angles right. The village itself appears to be 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 rolls 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 gray, bloodshot, and they display the most manic rage, the most desperate hatred I have ever felt in my life. Their raw, bleeding intensity freezes me to my very soul.

His left hand is buried deep in the soldadera’s ribcage. She gasps in immense pain as the buried limb keeps her upright.

He has no aura.

Nothing.

On instinct, I send out 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’s 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 bringing any weapons. What an idiot I am, spending ten years in safety and 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 mirrored 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, dyeing the dress in a darker shade.

This is bad.

He’s 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 with 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 reaching 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.

I still cannot 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 pressed 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, arching an imperious brow as if asking me: really?

The lantern impacts against its intended target, covering it in burning oil.

For the first time, my foe shows a sign of hesitation as an ear-piercing, horrendous screech assaults his senses. He turns just in time to be pelted by the flaming wreck of the pen gate. Several hundred pounds of porcine fury charge with the might of a creature with nothing to lose.

I…I did it.

I channeled chaos!

“Hah!” I boast as I escape the death trap through the newly-made emergency exit. I land in an enclosure and take off as fast as I can. I see the river in the distance. Perhaps I can—

Something grabs my neck and flings me against a post. Sharp things dig into my heel before I can even push myself away.

Another post.

Grabbed again. Left arm snapped.

I grunt in pain and fight back with claws and feet. Too strong. He punches me in the face. I see stars.

Not giving up yet.

Another wall. I push back but he holds my head against the unyielding bricks.

Agony.

I scream this time. Too much. He…severed my spine?

Cannot move.

The sky. I gasp. Cannot angle my gauntlet.

The man is there. For the first time, his smile broadens.

Fangs.

Four.

Six.

Eight.

Eight fangs total.

A Devourer.

“Hello, sister.”

I am so—

He kneels by my side with casual grace. A bloody hand exposes my neck despite my weak struggles, then he bites.

The eight little stilettos dig into my essence like needly spider legs. The pain they cause is intimate and exquisite. Agony expands to smother my thoughts, my instincts. He has not even drawn it in yet. Toying with me.

“That is enough, Malakim.”

A voice I have not heard in decades now breaks the silence, warm and soft as desert sand. I cling to it despite knowing better because I teeter on the edge of the abyss and any buoy is better than none. One pull is all Malakim needs to destroy me. I am powerless. I hate being powerless. Everything hurts so much.

“Let her go.”

I flop back to the ground. Less suffering now. I regain enough presence of mind to take in the newcomer. I know who he is. I would recognize the dark hair, the intimidating presence, and the kingly beard from among a million faces. I simply cannot believe it. He should not be here. They should not be here!

“Greetings, little princess. It has been quite some time. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

I am so fucked.

Chapter 104: Warrens of the World

The ancient king kneels by my prone form. His expression is one 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 presences so completely that I find myself incapable of even guessing at his state of mind. It does not matter. I know with certainty what the consequences are here, because his blood became mine and so did some of his instincts.

I am defeated. I will yield or I will die. There are no other alternatives.

I nod to signify assent, and he stands back up. It is done. I am his prisoner. I will no longer fight.

“Take her to the side.”

Malakim picks me up by the collar and drags me through the mud to a patch of grass beneath a tall apple tree at the edge of the village. I take inventory of my body 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. Though I fed only a few days ago, the wounds are slow to heal since they were inflicted by Malakim’s claws. All in all, it hurts like a bitch.

My dress is a rag and all my belongings besides the gauntlet are gone, not that I had brought 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 finishes knitting itself together.

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 shadow I have lived under for decades 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. 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 amid a royal hunt, more interested in conferring 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 dye 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 laxer. The sensation is slightly euphoric, and I 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 has 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 panic 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 the conductor of a hellish orchestra, stabbing, gouging, cleaving with simple gestures, and not once does his expression betray anything but 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 amidst the smells of loam, grass, and flowers. They do not make noise, nor do they have auras. Every time I turn my head, they disappear. Their stealth upsets me almost as much as the fact that I am wearing filthy rags.

Up to this point, I have always been the one sneaking up on people. 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 inside a circle of beige tents. Their skin is golden, and their limbs are lean and muscular in the manner of hunters. Tattoos adorn them and their 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 have 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 the entrance to a mausoleum. It must have started as a natural cavern at some point in the past, then someone enlarged it and added decorations to the side walls that shine an organic yellow in the darkness like so many veins. The assembled strange people apparently spent a significant amount of time clearing debris to free the path, as small piles of broken rocks, sand, and gravel 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 soon angle downward into a passage. Some of the walls are still wet, soil staining the glistening surface. This continues 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 cavern felt almost primal, this one has been transformed into a workshop of sorts, now abandoned. Great tables of pale stone pitted from repetitive impacts and marred by puddles of molten metal speak of great works in a distant past. A large brick smelter takes up a significant part of the right wall, while the left appears to have once boasted a storage area—now empty save for a few broken remnants of stone and ceramics. As deserted as it seems now, this place must have been quite a sight when active. The only things left intact are the runes engraved into almost every surface that still shine with dregs 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 one of molding and twisting.

This is an artifact production facility.

My sire lifts a fist and the ground rumbles. Blocks of stone emerge from the stone in compact formation, then some stop while others keep rising. In seconds, he has formed a massive throne out of cyclopean gray slabs. He sits on it, and 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’s salute, head bent and right hand raised before my arm.

I believe that the state of my wardrobe and the obvious signs of battle grant me the right to claim I am a soldier rather than a captured princess. There is a risk that he’ll 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 nears its end. I maintain my poise and will do so until he gives me leave 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 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 mouth sends a chill along my newly-repaired spine. I pushed him away from my thoughts, he and the other old monster, like a child hiding her feet beneath the covers 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 southwest.”

“A relative?”

“My nephew.”

He allows himself the shadow of a smile.

“Ah, yes. I remember having a clear lineage to protect. Children. Grandchildren. It has been so long…I am pleased to learn that the tradition is still alive. Well then, little princess, you do not seem to know what we are here for so I will allow you to live and serve. I have an inkling as to how you may assist. After all, you did successfully cast one of my spells.”

He lifts a finger and a sound like chimes spreads over the cavern.

“Send me Violet. I have a task for her,” he orders.

A few seconds later, I hear hurried footsteps from the corridor and soon, one of the strange humans appears before us. Just like the others, she is dressed in layers of white linen revealing golden skin decorated with intricate tattoos. Now that I am close enough, I notice that they are magical in nature, though she herself is no mage. She walks forward without hesitation and kneels before my sire, placing her forehead on the ground.

“You will serve my Spawn, Ariane, until I rescind the 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 blasphemy?

Sensing my disapproval, Nirari smirks, this time genuinely.

“Violet, open your mouth.”

She obeys, revealing a scarred stump. Someone cut off the tip of her tongue.

Well, I suppose that works. 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 set into 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 thing 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’s easy for her to remain one step ahead when one of hers is ten of ours.

But 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. 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 defunct 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 place 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 intentionally as they are 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 the quarters of Nirari and his minion. I have no intention of disturbing them.

Further down, the corridor ends in a three-way junction. 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. 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 are raw and irregular. I assume that workers here processed stones, but I cannot be sure.

One thing is certain: a woman by herself would have had no use for such a large place. I had expected both Semiramis and Nirari to work alone. I was wrong. What bothers me is that the tables, now that I’m standing beside them, look just a bit too low for adult humans.

I should not dwell on that. My priority should be finding a way to leave. Surrendering does not prevent me from planning an escape. That will have to take place tomorrow, however; now it is far too late to be running around 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 potpourri exhales a perfume of rose and lavender, while a single lit candle casts a warm glow onto the naked stone.

They’ve made a real effort to turn this jail into a bedroom.

I close the door behind me and settle in for the morning, hugging myself in the ruins of my dress. Tomorrow will be a long day.

Chapter 105: Trapped

Tonight, my sire sits on a new throne in the stone workshop as I enter from my bedroom, servant in tow. The unceasing noise of his servants clearing rubble must bother 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 thunderstorms. I was led to understand that such an undertaking requires fine-tuned control. I’d known 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 rise from my respectful bow while Violet remains prostrated. I was thankfully given a hastily-made white linen dress of strange design 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. This was crafted 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 of setting us on a collision course when we least expect it. Do you not 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 Semiramis and I had already met.

“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 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 gray 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 this only scratches the surface. Their animosity stems from an irreparable 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 only creatures of power, but of conquest. There is always 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 he speaks of this dream with no animation, no gesture nor smile. He recites the words like an automaton, as though they have lost any meaning to him. 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 when we could achieve so much as a unified people under my wise rule. Mortals, mages, vampires, all working towards common purposes for the benefit of all, for who can envision a more agreeable future than one who has lived as long as I? 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 subjugation. Until he tickles something too powerful, and our entire civilization is wiped out from an uncaring universe.

That is not the worst of it. 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 into 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 and 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, but I should be fine for another day or two.

Maybe.

Restricting access to one’s supply of blood is a common, if risky, method of strengthening control. Constant Thirst is not conducive to deep thought and planning.

Nirari dismisses me with a casual gesture, and I leave through 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 return to their labor with renewed energy.

The corridor beckons.

I stop at the edge of the pool of blood and turn to Violet. 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 had suspected such a thing given the obvious camouflage, but I hadn’t been 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 revealed.

Hmm.

I suppose the 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. 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? He and his mother spend a significant amount of energy and resources destroying each other’s fiefs. Perhaps some have started to survive. I fear the implication.

I turn back to the empty alley, pick up a few pebbles, and throw them forward. After five or so, I have thoroughly explored the boundaries of the illusion. The false image starts six or seven paces away, just outside the edges of the bloodstain. It curves outward slightly because the enchantments are embedded in the wall. This will make my task easier.

Violet returns in short order with everything I asked for, 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 as 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. The runes soon shine blue and eager.

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

At first nothing happens. Then the air shimmers and the color of the stones beneath shifts 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, sterile rocks. Complex glyphs now adorn the walls, bordering metal panes set in the very stone. Above, the strange yellow lines that illuminate the caverns radiate with renewed ardor.

A few glyphs fizzle where the threshold used to be and reveal 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 nostrils, 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. Who knows, perhaps I can escape this way and leave a few traps active?

I immediately start to inspect the defenses and I am once more grateful for my enhanced vision, which allows me to decipher the defenses without getting closer. The first trap, the one that has already claimed a victim, is a magical motion-triggered mechanism that launches blades from both walls. 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 them is trapped as well.

And this is just the first layer of defenses. There are two others, plus some contraption where the corridor angles connect 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 this dress would leave my eyes 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 area. 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 fit 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. How will I get 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 reference. I dig my talons into 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 through 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 stakes 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 had 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 discharge a massive jolt 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 single-use, so I trigger the electrical part from afar, then walk closer and jam a metal bar in the opening mechanism of the pit.

Someone who could only see the mechanical trap might try crawling under, which would have triggered the flame spell. Or they might have tried rushing through with some very powerful armor or a werewolf body, in which case the second trap would have done them in no matter how sturdy they were.

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 entice someone 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 acid spits 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 have 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’d 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 turn 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 the trap if the metal bar skewering his chest is any indication. He wears a full purple robe with 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 inside.

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, so I start working, well aware of Violet’s regular breathing as she watches me work. Her heartbeat thumps in my ears and her scent soon dispels memories of the earlier fetid stench.

I do not have to report immediately. I could explore a bit, and, if I find an exit, drain the 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 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 takes only 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 over 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 dark leather armor adorned with an assortment of weapons and phials. His throat is covered by a gray 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 turns 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 weaken 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 to 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. And then he laughs, like I’ve made a good jest. The sound would be warm if it were not so bitter.

“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 does not have 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 an attempt smart enough, daring enough, that he gives you to me. I never had the opportunity to share everything he taught me, 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 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?”

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 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, and now I am a slave of our dear sire. There has never been a time when I was free and, until I die, there never will be.”

“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 at the time I had been focused on more pressing matters. More specifically, killing him. Now, I am left to wonder how distracted I had been.

The fabric is a strange material that looks like snakeskin, interspersed with pearlescent scales. It does not reflect the yellow light above. Instead, it shines from inside with an otherworldly light that’s as delicate as it is precious. I feel a sense of wonder taking it in, and then horror when I see the outlines of several runes. Such potential, such ethereal grace, and Nirari turned it into shackles with 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 only my preoccupation with the collar, for which I am grateful. If he happened to suspect me of encountering Semiramis previously, it 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, 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 push it open and 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 a metal blade of sorts, and both sides and the innards spill 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, along with racks still covered in coats and a few crates. The doorway has been collapsed, rocks and gravel spilling into the room.

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

I peer 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 major security concerns if the traps are any indication. They were not enough, though: at least one mana hound escaped containment, possibly triggering some sort of quarantine measure that sealed the entrance. In any case, if the inhabitants of the base have not left through other means, they should still have a strong presence here. There should be at least a few mages and a few soldiers remaining. 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 been here 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 my other senses. There is something on the other side, the familiar taste of an alarm spell.

A few years back I would not 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 is empty, and the smell of soap and excrement 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 a fetal position. Malakim places his gore-covered finger against the man’s temple. He inspects me thoughtfully, aware that I am the unwilling witness to this farce. I despise him for this show. He is making a mockery of what we are by toying with 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 needle-prick pain wakes the man long enough for him 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 blocks his mouth and nose with one imperious hand as he lifts 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 the people he lives with are dead. 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 shown 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 wipes 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 indignities in the past and I will suffer them in the future. What matters is living 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 neck bones 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 artifact. 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 with 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 stench of blood, piss, and shit. Only a few gurgles 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 is 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 pulling a prank, and upends it. The tangle of limbs crashes to the ground with swears and shrieks. The muscular man is the first to jump to 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 away.

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, yet 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 the 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 it covers 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 of 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 has enough time to look surprised before 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 through 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 into 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 his 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 learned 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 self-control, but eventually I manage to regain some measure of calm. I am holding, for now.

Malakim gives me 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 waste 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 large gate left here. It’s sealed with redundant layers of protection. Even with the caster dead, the runes covering it still shimmer under the pale light of the yellow 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, 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 a 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.

Chapter 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 for 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 side 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 to 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 has 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. 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’s 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 I am 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 away 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 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 to aural invisibility as possible.

I feel constrained, as though wearing 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 gray! Three paths. Left, forward, and right, all of them twisted so I do not see where they lead. Unless I missed something, I should go 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 lead 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, 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’d 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. 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 is 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 snow.

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 gray to a deep sapphire blue. The temperature drops to lows I have 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. I 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 powdered diamonds. The sky is 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 of such a thing.

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 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 through 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 indecipherable 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 gray needs canvas 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 it, sir!” the bearded man protests.

“You there,” a newcomer with graying hair 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 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 other 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 butS, 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 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 Jarek 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’ve 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 and in return he’d pay us and leave us alone. Lord Jarek agreed, and we only had half an hour to send messages warning that we would close communication. Our mage could not join you. Lord Jarek 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 thorny plant, now severed at the end. It clicks with something in my memory.

“Where did you find this?” I ask suspiciously.

“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 meadow. I take a few wobbly steps before a familiar stomp makes me turn my head.

Metis’s 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 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’s and Metis’s 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 from 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 instinct. But 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’ve earned from this 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 a 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 Jarek. 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 and had been shoved into a coffin.”

“I see.”

I consider his words in silence. I am…so full of questions and uncertainty, but they all flit around my head, eluding 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 upon. 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 will not fail to fulfill 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.

Chapter 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 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 continue, “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 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 just like he used to. Truly, we have lost none of our teamwork.

He shrugs and readjusts his posture. Massive muscles roll under his well-cut clothes like tectonic plates. Great 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 chemical reaction unfurls 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 even 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 his humongous 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 of 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, 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 softly. Surprise, then grief, animate the soldier in a controlled display of emotion. 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’s 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 built in vastly different architectural styles. 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 thatch with its entire façade displaying the wooden beams underneath the plaster. There is even a sort of massive circular hut.

Even at this late hour, the land is filled with workers and their many children. The people are definitely on the muscular side. 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 isn’t sure 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’s back and follow the subservient man to the side of the hacienda and onto a rectangular field dotted with athletic tools, deserted at this time of 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 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 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 the torches. Their reflections flicker like fireflies trapped within the 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.

That boulder is on the verge 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, here 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 was 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. 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 rhythmic background.

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

“I find it beautiful. If you’ll 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 desires of the Progenitor, yes?”

“Correct. I briefly met the first of our line. 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: strength and tranquility.”

“Tranquility?”

“Yes, tranquility. A storm of thoughts rages in all minds, vampire and mortal alike. Suggestions, ideas, criticisms, memories: your spirit flies from one concept to another like a bumblebee 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 into 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 lives. They flocked to my banner in unexpected numbers and turned this domain into a proper village. The locals were only too happy to receive our protection from raiders and beasts. They think we are sorcerers and do not mind the blood and unusual hours.”

“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 Santorini.”

“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 fledgling will not make a difference.”

“But…”

Jarek lifts a hand to forestall my protests.

“You are scrambling for power. Newly-ascended Masters do the same. Sephare does it because she cut herself off 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 such 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 says mildly. 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, within my clan and without. 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 and flicks it into 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 even though you’ve only been with us for 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 understand that. That is why you have not scoured the land imbibing blood wherever you go. 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 now.

“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 ones.”

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

“Indeed. We expect our European cousins to start testing us quite soon. There are some in 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 will 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 the clans 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 for 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 artifacts and magic to oppose Lord Nirari! What a revelation. We, who have been the custodians of our kin for 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 used 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 into 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.

Chapter 108: The Other Sphere

When I arrived in camp, dysentery did not rate highly on my list of probable causes of death for Richard. I clearly underestimated 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 squalid dens carries over 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 will 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 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’s steps kick puffs of dust into 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 chose not to settle 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 taste the remnants of a fire spell in the smoke and embers. A lone human heartbeat thumps angrily in defiance of the desolation. 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 through 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 have left the region. The cult, however remains, or at least some of it does.

All three carriages were left in a line by the side of the open ground, and the center is occupied by a cooking fire. Only the last item was ever meant to be ignited. Cultist handymen in simple clothes lie here and there. Their four guards clutch 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 and exsanguinated. His lifeblood smears his shirt and improvised bandages, shining a delicate shade of crimson against the steady fire. The pool around his prone figure 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 like you doing here alone at this hour?” he demands.

I inspect him with some interest, and he returns the favor. 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, and a wide-brimmed 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 ask innocently.

The man is cautious, and I respect him for that. His gaze 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’s 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 telltale signs of a man at the end of his rope. His nerves are raw and exposed, visible in the erratic movements of his hands and his bloodshot 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 lot of them! Lunatics! I’ve 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 the strangest thing you have witnessed tonight, hmmm? A bit of wizardry, perhaps?”

“How did you know?” he asks distrustfully.

“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—to my rifle, and to the revolvers on my hips.

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

I draw and shoot his hat off.

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

I do not move except to pat the gun I used to unhat him. Metis snorts, as is her wont when someone is humiliated in 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 be the twelfth time.

“I must be mad.”

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

“I’ve 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 asks uncertainly.

I give him my most cold, unmoving 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 this loathsome 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 myself 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 stars 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. “Damn it 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.”

I silently assist Sheridan with the gruesome task 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 remain 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 now with a horrified horse. Instead, the poor gelding is merely made nervous by Metis’s scent.

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

“We have patrols in the area. They’ll be found in a couple days, what with all 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 was misunderstood and mysterious. Soldiers and peasants in the Middle Ages accepted magic as a fact of everyday life, marking few differences between the potions of an herbalist and the hexes of a witch burnt at the stake. Even madmen or epileptics were considered part of the supernatural world alongside gnomes, elves, and korrigans.

Enlightenment and the rise of the natural sciences have lifted the veil somewhat. 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 stands out in sharper contrast. Worse, the development of reliable means of communication, newspapers, and centralized governments have 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. This status quo will not last forever.

I believe it is only a matter of time before we are revealed to 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 towards a series of hills in the distance. The night is as bright as a winter day, with a gibbous moon in 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.”

“Uh-huh,” I answer noncommittally.

Nevermind.

“And there was that time 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 oversized fauna.”

Truth be told, they are much less amusing to hunt than feral werewolves. They lack the vicious cunning that makes 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 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 has asked 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’ve 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 for 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 chewing tobacco 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, but 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 comprised 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 those 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 may have anything from Brown Besses to M1841s they filched off 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 they go missing. Bandits, raiders— hell, sometimes they just get lost or die from disease. We help whenever we can. I suppose that’s the cult’s other source of funds, eh?”

“Ransoms? No. Abduction is a strange choice for them. Relatives of their victims may try to locate them to rescue their 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 human would stoop so low. They also share a dreadful tendency towards poor hygiene, which makes feeding a much less pleasurable experience. Also, lice.

My latest remark sours the mood. Sheridan does not object when I 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’s harness and place a hand on the mare’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 simply pretends not to understand when it fits her temperament and her stomach. A bit like a cat, if cats shattered ribcages for fun.

“You’re not tying her up?” Sheridan asks.

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

“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.”

“Ask away.”

“It’s just that I have never seen real magic. I mean, I’ve seen street magicians who can guess cards and the like, but I suppose that’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 looks 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 gauge his reaction, I might as well go all the way.

“I am sixty-four.”

“Wow! Just like my nanna, then!” His face turns 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 very sensitive skin. The sun is bad for it.”

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

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

We move forward in silence. 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 putting myself at 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 1841 needle gun from Prussia with a custom firing pin and spring for improved reliability, a self-cooling bolt-action mechanism and percussion-cap, and 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. Quiet, now: we must find their lair and decide how to approach.”

We spend half an hour in silence, moving 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 is 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. He’s 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. The slope we climbed was blanketed with soil, but 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 allowing space for houses and other buildings. The settlement huddles around a central well, next to 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 from 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 contents: 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 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 can’t sneak in to—”

He stops when the scene changes before us. A group of three people exits the largest building. They wield torches so bright 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 though 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 against 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 closed. 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.

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 has yet 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. No, 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’ve 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 and 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 from 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 a 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 explosion takes the cultists by surprise, in particular 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 is about to turn away 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 into its deadly little cradle.

The man carrying the unknown artifact is 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 toes of his boots as he scrambles behind the well and its 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 artifact 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 abductees’ 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 away.

“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. I dare not 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 a revolver. 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 into its misshapen maw.

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

Silence returns.

I flip the revolvers on my index fingers 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 skill 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. 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 peek over the edge, only to see the man with the artifact lift it. Now that I’m getting 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 had 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’ve been 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 moreso 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 wardrobe!? The insufferable…. curs!

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

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

This kind of mindless observation only deserves the hardest of rebukes. 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 an idea comes crashing down.

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

Someone has fastened a restraint around what passes for a neck on this horrid creature. The apparatus is unlike anything I have ever seen. Segments of straight, dull metal alternate with modular, spring-like contraptions that keep the collar affixed to the beast while allowing a full range of motion. A larger cylinder on the side houses a glassy capsule sloshing with 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 meticulous 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 learned the names of the creatures from books she had found. I had realized the implication, of course. Our dull world had not always been dying, its magic shredded from its physical anchor. No. Someone had caused the cataclysm.

I’d always assumed the perpetrators had 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 doorways left and right, leaving the key to piercing the veil at their very feet.

Enough of this.

I let my aura go, discarding the restraints 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 the magic around me changes. 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. 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.

“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 or 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! Watcher save me from these superstitious monkeys.

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

“The…the hounds of hell consume 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 is 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 the mage 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 surrender to my companion without any effort on my part.

“You may go,” I finally inform the mage as I toss him to the side. By the time I finish, Sheridan has already freed the surviving abductees and gathered them in a semblance of order. Many of them stare 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.”

Chapter 109: Hell’s Gates

The following two months see me alternate 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 (and rescue a few more mortals from becoming hound chow) before the rest figure out that someone is after them. Sheridan is only slightly disappointed when it turns out that the second group of rescued captives are 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. We 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 an important revelation while cleaning shredded liver from his hat.

“You know,” he finally replies, “given the circumstances, 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 though he has brought me home after a night of dancing. I am unsure how to express that I am more than ready to consummate our union, as it were, 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 ‘oppressive’ from ‘one of the circles of hell’ and the hostilities resume anew. The American army moves south and assaults the Mexican troops in Monterrey. Three days of hard-fought combat follow, during which Richard makes a name for himself through decisive action 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: Merritt, Melusine and, surprisingly, Urchin. My presence near the army also means that I can 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 and two brain cells to rub together prefer to keep it that way.

Texas, early October

My rented room inside the Natalis safehouse 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 the 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 competent civil servant and more sharp investor.

“Being a Master suits you,” I say.

“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 this state.”

“Surely you are exaggerating. 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 that 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 of a formal alliance for 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 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 a 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. But your confusion is understandable: this august event has never taken place in your fair country. Yet.” Then, after a pause: “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 has not crossed 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’s happened several times already, too. What are these things?

“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 sea. I will arrange for a light protection detail and see what 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 has presumably led to the confession of many a ruffian.

“I had a genuine lettre 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.”

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 Gate.”

“I beg your 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 Gate.”

“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.

“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 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 snap, 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’ve 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 runs 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 will not meet my eyes.

“You will have to make a choice, and soon,” I finish.

The arena where I fought is also the plague 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 with 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 scents of cayenne and paprika fill my heart with nostalgia, even more 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 unassuming 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 it climbs up to the third story. Guards in the white uniforms 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’re most vulnerable? Bring your enemies to your doorstep? Unless you have a way to control them.”

“We have multiple countermeasures as far as security is concerned. A successful attack would require a convergence of factors, 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 us. Like duplicity, for example.”

“Hrm. Really? Then what am I thinking about right now?”

“You are unnerved 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. The floor is a wide mosaic of a tragedy mask in black and white. A massive wood lobby lines the left wall, with a few attendants idling behind. The large gate to the arena where I first had 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, and the sober clothes all serve to welcome the guests to an intimate setting and help 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’s jacket and a tidy mustache. The Rosenthal Master wears a black ensemble of exquisite make with a white shirt that seems to radiate from within. Somehow, I reach out 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 now 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 neither an unknown quantity nor a valuable investment.

“And you must be Sheridan!” Isaac continues.

The introductions 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 up in a loge, much like an opera box. The circular arena where I once 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, along with 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. 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 from showing any reaction to the outrageous sum. I mustn’t look like 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 number of carriage-sized 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 so 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 succeed,” 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 invasions 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 number 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 hasn’t been, 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 fire-spitting snake 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 through 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 retrace the paths 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 direst circumstances will force such powers 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, except half of the vipers are 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 highest floor.

John looms, arms crossed over his prodigious pectorals. The ever-loyal man has raised looming to an artform, one he has mastered. No one else can quite match his 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 his train of 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 minds are quiet places. The 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 to saving the world if I live long enough. Has John been a seer all along?

“No. I do not see the future.”

“How can you be so sure that protecting me is important?”

“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 only I understand, 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 up a steel candelabra and presses it between his large hands. He maintains eye contact as the decorative metal bends under his power as if it were wax, until only a tiny ball of twisted scrap remains.

“Like this.”

Chapter 110: 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 crossed her arms and turned her head wistfully. Her instincts had never failed her, and right now they were telling her this was a Bad Idea.

“It’s too risky. We can just hit a few more banks and use the cash to disappear.”

“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 made such an important decision without checking with me first? You know we can’t back out on a contract with a coven!”

“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’d been 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 couples did things together, not behind each other’s backs.

“This is the last time, Chris.”

“It is. I promise.”

Kate wanted to believe him.

The cellar under their safehouse was Chris’s domain. He moved confidently from the table to a map pinned against the wall, then to the supplies spread across the ground near the entrance. Never did he look more alive than when he was planning a job. Under the pressure, he gained 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 told 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 pushed it away, but it always came 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 white-bearded man in his fifties beard wearing the black and white clerical collar of a Catholic priest. Her aura control was decent for someone without formal training, and she could tell he was a mage too. She didn’t know of many caster priests, but 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, just 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 gutted 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 mission. If it looks like we’ve been made before that, we bail.”

“Let’s not get carried away. I need the money,” their long-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 wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t 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’s answer was to flip a card from the deck he always kept, one of his 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’s promise that he would never touch her soothed Kate enough to trust him on a heist. 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 team’s mover for almost two years now. Kate wasn’t sure why he kept working with them. It probably had something to do with money, since he still had the same ratty clothes he’d always worn despite the hauls they had already made.

“Moreau will stay next to our exit with a carriage and make sure that we do not dally. As for my dearest Kate, she has a special set of skills that will get us into the basement,” Chris continued smoothly.

“Does she, now?” MacCormick asked doubtfully.

Kate’s anger settled tight as a ball inside her stomach, but she didn’t 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 floor, 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 them on the way.”

He moved to the wall and pointed 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 loge 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 happens every time they open the doors to let an item through.”

“How do you know all of this?” MacCormick asked skeptically.

“My contact, Alva, is part of the organizer’s retinue. He’s 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 her somewhat.

“She confessed everything. We know most of their security measures, except for the vault’s. 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 leave 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 shouldn’t draw any attention. Though, make sure that they don’t get a good look at you,” he told Kate.

“In the meantime, Griggs will return to the main room so no one gets suspicious. Kate will go there.” He pointed to a spot indicating a 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 work in pairs: one pair carries up the goods, and the other patrols 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 muttered, 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, with two of them always covering the vault. The basement is large enough that a small scuffle should remain unheard. After we disable the pair with the gods, 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 others 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’re not mages and should have no adequate defenses against spells.”

“How does their security look? None of this will work 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 asked with obvious concern.

“There will be three of them. Isaac is the organizer, and he will present the items himself, so he shouldn’t leave the 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 entrance with the alarm 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 asked.

Kate raised her brows in surprise. Moreau usually stayed quiet unless he had specific questions about the plan. Maybe he didn’t 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 aren’t that many of them.”

“They’re 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 the monsters weren’t as bad as the rumors made them to be.

“Still worried?” Chris asked afterwards, when they were alone upstairs. His voice betrayed his seriousness. 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’ll still go with it?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, yes, you convinced me, oh great genius.”

Chris chuckled knowingly, and the familiar sound warmed her heart. He had that look, the one he wore when there was another step to the plan. 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 to the shoulders, a tapered waist, and a big, flaring hem. It would cover her breasts but leave her 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, “And as for your body, I have a passing knowledge of it.” His hands trailed 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 appeared at the corner of a street like an ephemeral palace from a fairy tale, the ones that disappeared at the 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, princely in their pressed uniforms and shiny buttons. This 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 a 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 as 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 on a whole different level. The ceiling was so high and the room so large that her childhood home could fit inside with room to spare. The floor was covered in tiles that made up a picture of some sort of mask, and the place smelled exquisite, a delicate 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 as well. She and Chris had joined a queue behind an old man wearing a suit of cobalt blue. The aura he emanated was incredible. If she held out her hands, she worried her fingers would freeze and blacken before she even reached 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. 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 stood at the base of a double set of stairs, dressed in a magnificent lavender gown that embraced her form 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 stood at her side, his expression alternating between flustered and angry.

“As I previously mentioned,” the woman said, “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 your kind around, vampire.”

Kate’s eyes widened. This was the vampire? She looked so normal! Her cheeks were flushed a light pink and she breathed and blinked normally. Not at all how Kate imagined a monster to look. Perhaps that was part of the disguise? Approach unsuspecting men and bite them when they lean in for a kiss?

“Your safety is guaranteed as a guest for tonight. I will ask you to comply, however, or 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 crowd’s whispered died at the naked desperation in his voice. “Don’t say it. Don’t finish that sentence. You really, really don’t want to do that,” he hastily continued, his face reddening. 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 stupid. Once 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 tutted once and something peculiar happened. She started to talk and as she did, she changed. Her skin gained an unearthly pallor and her bearing, 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—glistened in the lamplight as her carmine lips peeled back. Her eyes were half-lidded now, like a waiting cat’s.

“…that they would not help.”

A cold wave washed over Kate. She and most of the other mages took a reflexive step back. It was like opening the door to a winter 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 elegance 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 in her otherwise dark mop. How had she not noticed the girl before? The tensions must have addled her mind. And she was young enough to be the man’s granddaughter, too. 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 granted him 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 well, 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’m 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, moved on soon after, and then it was their 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 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 another further to 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 in her chest at the spectacle before her.

They were in a tiny loge 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, 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 up. Scaffolding she assumed, yet soon her questions were subsumed by awe. 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 to it now.

A profound feeling of unease assailed her as she looked more closely at the fresco. The men and women it depicted were as varied as could be. One displayed great strength. Another was a Mediterranean woman with her eyes closed, seemingly asleep. Her eyes rested on a black man holding a miniature sun, his expression one of 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 of the tableau.

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 looked down. The loges 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 up 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 loge as if they expected trouble. People dressed like royalty. Others dressed like soldiers. A ship captain. A trapper. A gypsy 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 immediately. There was something about him 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 hid 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 bustled with activity.

“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 gray 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 their strangeness. One, for example, was a painting of an eye that mesmerized 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, “I’m 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 a stone stairwell opening into a corridor well-lit by lanterns. The basement was clearly designed to be lived in. Paintings depicting grisly scenes from some heathen mythology adorned the walls.

She stumbled. The shell was almost back in their loge. 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 gotten 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 door 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 that carried water out. 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 echoed from the gloomy darkness and set 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 loges 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 come to understand 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.

Here, 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 he had to do was 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. Some looked like men, but others depicted strange wolf-like creatures and other chimeras. A fortress rose from the earth at some distance, with white walls and 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.

This 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.

But 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 resisted his shifting. It was as if the thorns had marked him. He noticed something else, too: every time he stopped, roots quested towards his feet.

Finally, he emerged into 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 jaws 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’s 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’s heart. It had a flat face and cruel 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, pushed to his feet, and jumped forward.

The titan pursued him. But it 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’s cudgel’s blow, 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 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 ever run in her entire life.

“Shield!"

She knew that it would not be enough.

MacCormick’s shriek turned into a gurgle as he crashed to 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’s eyes now, something that almost never happened.

He was angry.

And anger made him stupid. It made him stubborn and defensive. She could guess the cause only 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’s shoulder and dragged him 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 stopped 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 with 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’s breaths came in gasps and pants. She forced herself to ignore 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 end, 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 water tore a gasp from her chest, and she would have drowned then 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 turbid 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 away 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 to a 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 were they with their own self-righteousness. 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 said between his teeth.

She waited.

“She is merely reaping the consequence of her own actions, 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…steer you in the right direction. God knows you need the guidance.”

He did not see the vampire roll her eyes.

“So. Hrm. 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 seal 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 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.”

Chapter 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 was not due to a sudden revival of Mexico’s scattered armed forces, but the very reason why their armed forces were 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 1847 are spent on several projects. Most of my time is dedicated to spying, 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 Spawn.

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 have 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 will 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 how sorcerers are treated by 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 board 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 an expression of sheer relief.

“Hello Ariane, and gentlemen,” she greets. Sheridan and John politely remove their hats and I make the introductions. To her credit, she does not appear intimidated by John’s presence even after I reveal his true nature. I credit John himself for his performance. He has 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, ah, 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 ask 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.

June shakes her head. “Ahem. Yes. My father 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 father 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 out 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 Headquarters 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 put 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 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 a 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.

It is a portrait of him as seen from above, taken 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 he has memorized 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 engage in casual sex with those they trust.

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 his 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, 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 whatever arrangements 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 outside 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.

Alas, all pleasant times must come to an end. We eventually return to his office, where he shows me 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 a 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, admittedly, 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 must account for.”

“The island was submerged?”

“Possible, but unlikely. We have no records of any 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 in 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 raises the question: if it has 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 stele 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 steer 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—and 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 by 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. To me, at least. 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 aft of the ship, and it includes a large rectangular hatch to the outside. My sarcophagus rests on rails aimed toward it, with an addition stuck to it for the duration of the trip. Should the vessel 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, Syrrin dear?”

The fish-woman replies with a throaty sound, her malevolent yellow eyes fixed on the door. She has scars on her greenish tail, across her pale white chest, on one cheek, and she is missing parts of her fins and two webbed fingers. She looks like she was on the receiving end of a canister shot. Her nose is absent, replaced by twin vertical slits, but she’s had that since 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 though it’s 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.

I have fifteen hours of activity per day. 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 dislike 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, and 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 in to wait. Syrrin comes to stand by my side and hides her presence.

I find the fish-woman curious. I am still unsure why she is sticking to me. It cannot be the food, since she barely touched the salted cod I requisitioned 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. Sirryn is still an unknown, and yet her presence does not bother me in the slightest, as if we are complementary instead of competitive.

I dismiss the thought. Heavy footsteps announce the approach 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 have dubious hygiene and faces turned scarlet by alcohol abuse. The smell of my space downgrades from  salon to 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. I will 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. My 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 them to take a step forward. I hear a few muttered prayers. White noise rings in my ear as they do so.

“First order of business, you will return that 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, as the powder ignites 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 that shot 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 dig its apathetic claws into 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 anything…peculiar. I suspect some rogue cabal fishing for artifacts with disposable assets. Isaac is going to have a field day. He loves to pull the string of clues until he reveals 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 has 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 say 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 wanted 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 has lost its appeal anyway.

“Leave my ship,” I begrudge, “and remember the rules, because 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 up these brains!” I tell his retreating back.

Hmph.

Syrrin lowers her camouflage and points 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 an alcohol-induced coma.”

Sirryn 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 crueler 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... 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.

And as for boredom, I’ve 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 its 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 gray 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.

Chapter 112: Third of Her Line

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 gray 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 here 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 is 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 from 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 yet born when Dalton fell.

“Madam, you must remain onboard until we have inspected and cleared the ship,” the officer says with a mighty frown.

I glare. He is young, with the marks of a lieutenant. His waxed mustache and polished buttons indicate a great attention to his appearance, an 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’re gonna prank the sentries, aren’t you?”

“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 which combines several cultural influences and time periods. 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 gray 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 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—to Sheridan’s cell in the brig, in particular. The tall man sports a bruise on his left eye that’s 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 ask.

“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 ‘til I started travelling with you. Recently though, I’ve been…I don’t know, feeling stronger. And faster than I have any right to be. And when I sent them to the ground it felt…good. Like I was meant to be there, and they were meant to crawl on the ground. It lasted until that guard clobbered me in the face.”

“Ah yes. I’ve been expecting this.”

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 my instincts as well.”

“It scares me that I might not be entirely myself anymore.”

“You are yourself,” I reassure him, “Consider this…a shot of liquid courage.”

“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. You look like you got that bruise three days ago, not twelve hours ago.”

He turns pensive.

“It doesn’t sound too bad…”

“And before you ask, no, your soul is still your own and quite intact.”

“…I wasn’t 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 soon 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 the ones I saw 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 leave without me. I know it is a silly fear, and yet I cannot shake it. It 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 into the most prestigious scholarly circles!

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. 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 for the opening 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 plaited my hair into a conservative braid to keep my cheeks free. A golden pendant of abstract design attracts the eye towards 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 in 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. The sight of me appears to shock him, although he recovers almost immediately.

The second person to cross my threshold wears a sensible dark brown dress. 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 down 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 expect 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 out from under the rug.

“My pleasure. May I offer you something to drink? Tea, perhaps? A good friend of mine gifted 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 beans 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 into her elbow.

“Yes. You have 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 suspected 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 providing 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 artifacts 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 any purpose we see fit and according to guidelines you already agreed upon. 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 what an invaluable contribution to mankind those discoveries would be.”

“Oh, believe me, I have.”

I use the pause provoked by the slight rebuke to sip from my cup of delicious coffee. 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 friction. He bears the frustration admirably.

I hope the other members of the expedition will comport themselves as commendably.

“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 challenging 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 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 wait 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 through 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 Rosenthals. 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 at the discretion 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 curses 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 filling my head with wild exaggerations.” Then, at 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 ruin the dramatic effect of what she will undoubtedly uncover.

“Why would you, someone who’s obviously been well-educated, 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 and asking her to scientifically analyze it. I am a merciful vampire. Sometimes. With a reasonable number of select people.

“Do you rely on occultism in your investment strategy? Surely not? Unless…you think the artifacts 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 justification. If you want to finish this conversation, I propose that we do so on our return trip.”

“Very well…I…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 recent 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 regarding 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 deduce from this and her fine gowns that she is a woman of refined taste, and picky with either her food or her entertainment.

I have so many questions.

Why pick someone so young when she clearly has no background in archeology or science? Her expertise is in the realm 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 that I had not previously appreciated. He teaches me psychology, statistics, and bluff. Finally, he teaches me how to cheat.

Between this, my usual activities, and mingling with the crew, my days are finally filled enough that I have stopped recharging the hidden glyphs that open doors at spontaneous intervals.

I acquaint myself with the team as well. We will have around twenty handymen used for various tasks, cooking, and suffering ignominious deaths at the hands of ancient traps as Miranda looks on in horror. We have a dour man of Germanic origin with a blond beard and 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, then 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 concentration, 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 methodical focus, I shape 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 man who led the doomed attack on Ramses the Third’s host of charioteers. His remains are 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 shines from the paint, growing stronger as the spell builds. 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 is 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 whirling 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 bright enough for even mortal eyes, yet the ocean before us blurs and melds with the sky in curious hues of cobalt. I’m studying the phenomenon 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 says. 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 my own.

Ozenne blinks owlishly.

“What?”

“Maintain course, captain.”

“Oh, right.”

The protests of the sailors intensify, so I turn to them and grab one of them like I’m snatching up the scruff of a rowdy dog.

“Shut up and keep working,” I bellow.

The mutiny dies before it starts.

Good.

The next fifteen minutes are a pain. I am forced to assist the captain between bouts of terrorizing the mortals so that they stop protesting. At some point, Professor Ferguson inexplicably joins us to complain that the island’s 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’m about to start slapping people, the indigo of the night fades like fog under the wind and our destination appears.

A towering island springs into the air like a raised fist, sheer cliffs surrounding it on all sides with one exception. 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 gouges 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 mist.

“The Fist of the Drowned God.”

Chapter 113: Fist of the Drowned God

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 through the wilderness, to which we agreed, and we were soon on our way.

The palm trees and bleached trunks of the shore soon faded into dense forest boasting botanical specimens from across the Mediterranean! I saw olive trees, Lebanese cedars, Moroccan argan, and other flora 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 slogged our way through, and I could not help but feel a bit surreal. Many of the species I spotted are normally the size of 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 sleazy little merchant Stefano. I made sure to follow at a small distance while Mr. Sheridan followed behind, sometimes helping the staff cross the more arduous obstacles. The high cliffs surrounding us must have trapped the humidity, turning the basin into a greenhouse. The cloying smells of life soon replaced the salty sea air, and it was not long before I huffed and puffed under the weight of my backpack. Even my thin cotton dress did not save me from the smothering wet heat. My only reprieve came when the Texan bodyguard casually removed the burden from my back with a gravelly ‘allow me, miss’. Even though he was already carrying his own, and enough weapons to overthrow a government to boot! I wonder if all Texans like firearms that much.

I believe that he was taking our security too seriously. What threat could 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 by 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!” came an excited shout 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 uneven face 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 via 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 traversing the wilds. 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 walked beneath 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 aperture. 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 artifact ever found! And it had been discovered 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. 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 rescue the poor soul and powerless to stop the heavy blanket of vegetation from collapsing. 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 negatively about his morality, manners, fashion choices, and personal hygiene, and now he had departed this world.

It took me some time, but eventually I noticed something amiss. 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 learned that what remained of Mr. Stefano had been recovered by Mr. Sheridan, who had been lowered into the gorge with ropes. The body had been placed 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 wooden ladder and taken 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 marveled 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 drew 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 these heavy things here. Where, then, were the inhabitants? And where were the rest of the ships?

My many inquiries 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, 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, even though Mr. Stefano was Catholic and quite a bit unpleasant.

I promptly retired to my tent afterward, but for the longest 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 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 explain irritably.

“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,” I tell him.

“This history hasn’t been written yet!”

“It’s already halfway 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.”

My voice must betray me, because Sheridan’s expression is one of deep sympathy.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I want you to be safe.”

“Then, forgive me for asking, but why did you allow me to join the expedition?”

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 instincts 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 have 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 an intelligence 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 their notes. I clearly said so to Isaac.”

“Errrr…”

“There is no story when there is no one left to tell it.”

“I’m 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 on 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’ve 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.

Chapter 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 of 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 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 unsettled me, with the expedition meeting hurdle after hurdle.

Mr. Sheridan inspected the vicinity of the camp with the single-mindedness of a bloodhound. He found no footprints outside of the clearing, which left us 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 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 decorum and grace expected of a well-bred Englishwoman. I would not allow a complaint to cross my lips. I carried within myself the hopes and dreams of all the proper ladies whose ambitions were thwarted by ridiculous notions of the fairer sex. Every step forward (and upward) was a clear victory and 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 gray, 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 discovery brought. 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 risk 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.

All around us the cliffs reached out towards the azure sky and its distant clouds. There were gaps between the colossal slabs that split them into five separate mounts grasping the heavens, and below erupted a rich and fertile plain bursting with verdure. It was like being in the palm of god as he bestowed life upon the world. And past the island, the sea stretched all the way 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 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 proved that it belonged more in an anatomy classroom than at a funeral. The morbid spectacle still cast yet another damper on our mood.

We had found yet 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 the bowels of the earth after seeing such an ominous warning.

Both Mr. Ferguson and Mr. 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 cautioned us about the dangers of blind explorations. 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 when he might still be saved.

Fergusson half-heartedly sided with the Frenchman. He, too, would not leave one of our companions to face unknown horrors. I believed that the Texan had grown so jaded to the loss of life that he had no qualms sacrificing 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 minds!

“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 have ever witnessed such condescension without a word being uttered.

With Mr. Champignac in front and the helpers book-ending 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 scents of sap and soil were replaced by the must of damp rock. I felt that the walls were growing narrower, 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 stopped, rendered mute by the curious sight of bioluminescent mushrooms spiraling across the ceiling. Professor Fergusson remarked that this was a natural treasure, however, Mr. Sheridan showed the keen insight of his peasant roots by pointing out the terraced earth from which the growth emerged.  It could only have been placed there on purpose. We had found evidence of artistic creation by the local people, and through the 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’d had the courage.

Mr. Fergusson 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 around 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 time, 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 forged by the skilled hands of a legendary smith. Its blade was not made from metal, but from a chitinous black material polished to a sheen. The guard was gold, and the pommel was a gem. No king could lay eyes on that blade and deem it unworthy.

The other occupants of the cavern were Herr Otto Mueller and the long-divined natives of this island.

How I wish they had been noble savages awaiting only enlightenment and Protestant faith, which we would generously provide. Alas, these appeared to be of a less friendly sort. They were masked with strange clay disks shaped into monstrous visages, while their bodies were pallid and naked apart from their loincloths. 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 mummy’s desiccated hands.

We cried out in 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 had intoned 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 poured 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 pain.

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 than 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 a frog’s belly. Sharp fangs glinted ominously in the flickering torchlight. 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 ensuing 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 appeared that Mr. Champignac and three of the helpers had managed to follow us as well. The darkness and the wall conspired to assail my mind with glimpses of shining 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 into 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 a priceless artifact, but a part of me wondered at the cold-blooded mind that allowed one to covet a prize while the blood of friends was shed so freely.

Mr. Sheridan made a curt comment, and Mr. Fergusson agreed that our pursuers might take the loss of their artifact 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 did we realize how heavily this place had been mined and modified. 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 the hopes of finding an exit.

I almost yelped in joy when light spilled through 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 crept closer and peered in, and the sight awaiting us shook us to our very souls.

The mountain was hollow, and in it stood an unholy city, sprawling like an infestation. Unnatural light blazed from the cavern’s ceiling, illuming 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 of it, however. Where the sea met the land, pens and cages contained those 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 on 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 altar. 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 eyes and ran 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 Prussian researcher in a vile mockery of a dirge. The body of the researcher was carted 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 to 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 fit in my hand as if it had been designed for them. When prompted, Mr. Sheridan informed me that I should keep it just in case, and he even showed me its basic operation. It could have been summarized as pointing it at the ‘bad guys’ and keeping my eyes open when I pulled the trigger.

For some reason, after discovering all those horrors and witnessing the cruel ends 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 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.

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 the revolver 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 ungracious 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. Embarrassed, I did not admit that I had aimed for the heart.

The exit 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, and 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 artifact such as this one, and I cannot allow witnesses to report my lucky find,” he said with a smirk.

To my shame, I could only watch, hypnotized and horrified, as the Frenchman removed a concealed pistol from his coat pocket, aimed it at Mr. Sheridan, and shot him in the back.

The poor Texan, the man who had saved us all, 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 at 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 past 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.

Cliff camp, the night before.

After leaving Sheridan, I search 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 eye the tall shaman. She bends slightly.

“Nirari. Follow. Please. Syrrin begs.”

I feel a tug, the barest hint of fate urging me on—a call that has yet to fail me.

Well, there was that time where it set 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 and 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 them 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 had she been when she found me? How desperate! I can tell now from the frantic determination of her movement that this is what she has 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 with 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 innately.

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 gaping hole from a gunshot. It must hurt like hell. That is where his fears come from.

“It is not broken,” I tell him, 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 backstabbing 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 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 regular 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 core, and with it, the strange dwellers of the island have built their den. The strange beings have cobbled together anything they could find to assemble a phantasmagoric 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. These 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 an aperture in the cavern’s ceiling. 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! They do enjoy dragging me into their games. She is correct, of course. My sire would not let time-consuming requests distract him from his goal.

We settle down for a few hours. Sheridan tells me of the day’s events in a low voice as the afternoon goes on.

“Miranda ran into the woods. Do you think they’ll manage to catch her?”

“Perhaps. I am not entirely sure how godlings work with death, only that it is possible. I will look for her when we are done with our current task.”

“I hope she makes it. She’s 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 experienced 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 must be this place’s sewers. I am thankful for the thickness of my boots. 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 fishwomen 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 cowed. 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 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 have 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 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 affected. He stares at the shaman’s back with worried curiosity, one hand on his revolver.

Our ailing companion guides us through the worst part of the shantytown and everywhere we see more of the same. The fishfolk 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 had limbs 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 has decided the best course of action is to continue for now. I wonder why the fishfolk 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 is the state of the fishwomen. So humiliating. I have seen atrocities before, of course. What really affects me is the casual cruelty of the treatment of the prisoners, the systematic destruction of everything that qualifies them as people. I push away the sight and the small voice at the back of my head telling me that such things exist everywhere, and that I have merely closed my eyes to them. Sheridan is to blame. He is turning me more…human.

Syrrin slithers between two sentries and goes deeper into the shantytown. 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. I am lucky, then, that it has been made so poorly.

My hands contract into claws as we move on, and Sheridan’s heartbeat quickens in answer. We fan the flames of each other’s anger the deeper our exploration continues. The betrayal. The abuse we see. The extent of the primal humans’ disdain for their prey. These feelings 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 an out-of-the-way cavern. The three of us kneel behind a stone overlooking an opening in the sheer wall in front of which wait two primals in wooden armor, their faces hidden behind elaborate clay masks. Apathetic fishmen and women lie 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 with a death 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.

“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 and 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 pendant 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, a 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. 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 foreheads 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 tremors and grabs the pendant. She puts 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 fishfolk, 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 along with 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 shape. 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 delicate attention! Nobody has ever done that for me!

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? Aaaaaaah! If she were a man and had a ring now, I would be doomed, flat face or not.

I examine the conch as the fishmen gather around me. There is a red radiance in the air where the backlash from the shattered orb suffuses their bodies. They are hounds waiting to be unleashed, though they do not know it yet.

The conch is no artifact, merely an ancient work of exquisite craftsmanship. Nothing says that I cannot use it for my own designs, 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 constellations against 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 returned.”

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, fishfolk 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 horde swells at our back in an unstoppable wave. We encounter our first pocket of resistance just as we approach the cages,  a line of primals with spears raised.

We crash into them and do not slow down. The violence of the slaughter is stupefying. Fishfolk 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 chaotic hand-to-hand battle.

“Go open the cages, I’ll take care of the reinforcements,” 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 fishfolk add 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. Fishfolk 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 works.

The mass of fishmen rushes forward and I cast a spell I have never used in a combat situation before.

“Shield.”

Obsidian-tipped arrows slam harmlessly into my erected defenses. They would never pierce Loth’s armor, but Syrrin is just behind me and I do not want her to die.

The fishfolk 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, primals and fishfolk slam into one another. Smaller, more agile fishwomen climb the buildings to dislodge the archers, throwing their screaming forms into the stampede below. Every two seconds, a thunderous bang erupts and an officer or an archer falls with their chests skewered or their heads blown off. Our onslaught is unstoppable. I barely have to intervene.

To their credit, the primals 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 steps 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 and land feet-first on a nearby ship deck. The planks crunch and groan under the impact, but they do not break, and I’m able to witness the unbelievable spectacle before me.

The statue moves.

The statue moves? No, impossible. It must be a golem then. I cannot feel its aura.

The imposing black armor walks forth ponderously and the fishfolk 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 her ground, 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 sluggish foe. I have fought large enemies before. I close in on it instead of trying to create 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 fishfolk 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 curve in a fanged smile.

“A little Devourer.”

The man extends his right hand, materializing a soul weapon that looks 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 whirl and kick the Lord in the face before he can use the strike to his advantage and get 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 fishfolk 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 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 places 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 multiply, and his mobility falters. 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 face twists 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 corner, the light flashes purple. His aura spreads out and…solidifies. I do not have a better term for it. The closer I get to him, the more different the world tastes.

I jump out of the area of effect as soon as I can and watch, mesmerized, as the bodies by his feet wither.

Inside of the circle, both fishfolk and primals 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. Nature explodes around my foe, life and death in a ceaseless dance fueled by the blood of the fallen.

The wounds on 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 shift 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 drag him close. He is lost. He sees me. He knows.

Around us, the primals fall to their knees and the fishfolk lay into them with wild abandon. The air is rich with the smell of blood and death against 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 crew. 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 arrived here. The local simpletons built me a shrine, from which I oversee their pitiful civilization. Every day 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 learned.

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 this way? He 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 Otto 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 what 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 ye 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 climb 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 claw 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 this 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, at 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 across 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 over its cold, smooth surface.

“Keep it, my dear. I have a feeling that you will have need of it in the future.”

Deck of the Corbeau, past midnight

I lean against the railing 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’ judgmental expressions.

He stops in his tracks when he spots us.

Miranda crosses her arms in what must be a terrible display of raging emotions for her. Sheridan whistles as he checks the noose he tied to the mast. He then steps down from the barrel and lowers his glare to 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 him like a bear bringing an elk back to its cave. 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 in 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-pound 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.

Chapter 115: The Tourist

Kingdom of Hungary, a week later

The Corbeau moors in the port of Fiume long enough for Sheridan and me to disembark. 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 the Eneru and the Masks are currently undergoing a detente as they 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 waits 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 sliver 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 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 insulting, as stating the basic rules of politeness sometimes is. I want to know where he stands.

“It is invitation-only as well, 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 trust that he is honest, and I 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. Except soul weapons, if applicable, of course. Rest assured that this rule extends to every guest and is in place for your own safety. Your protection is guaranteed by cCan Dvor while you travel with us. I apologize for the disruption.”

I take a good look at our host, and he does something rare: he opens his aura by releasing his control over it. I feel embarrassed. If he is faking, his control matches Sinead’s, and I somehow doubt that’s the case.

“Fair enough,” I reply and turn to Sheridan. The tall Texan is clearly uncomfortable, but he eventually shrugs when he realizes that I remain unconcerned.

“When in Rome…” he comments stoically.

We climb on the first carriage with the pieces 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 heavily than the rest. 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 intones.

“... 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 wars 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.

Thus restored, I decide to visit the salon. Time to greet the locals.

I flash my aura to announce my presence and enter a long but narrow 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 never tire 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 that, 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 through 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 claim 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 Spawn, 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 sometime.”

“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’ve heard that his prowess in bed is legendary.”

Dammit. I would have blushed if it were possible.

“Hah! I knew it! That codger finally found a sheath to his blade, eh? 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 the range of my aura detection, 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 eyes. 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 to 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 the Ottoman Empire. He is a fine storyteller who wields light sarcasm as well as descriptive prose. Even though I do not trust him, I 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, Viktoriya 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 will 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 though 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 may 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 this 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 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 fledgling 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. Viktoriya 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 were still finding random feathers for 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 can’t help but smile at those tales of shame and depravity.

We retire shortly before dawn. I realize that I’ve enjoyed myself and offer both Lazlo and Viktoriya an invitation 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 meet 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 during 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 this 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 are 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 leaves most of the space free for a large table at 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-shaped face is full, and her lips pink and plump. She has this unmistakable charm of the femme fatale, the consummate demoiselle of the court whose velvety eyes hide a thousand secrets. Her aura tastes of schemes 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 has been set 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 my tea with an eyebrow raised.

“You must understand the reason for this meeting. Decency, respect, nay, common sense, must tell you why I’ve called you here.”

“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 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 exposes a reckless nature that can only lead to disaster and premature doom in any civilized country. For the sake of Lord Torran and our clan’s honor, 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 this harlot like the sound of her own voice.

“What would that be?” I asked in a bored voice.

“A scandalous rumor that our most esteemed Lord Torran, member of the council and one of the few Soul Smiths in existence, would invite a foreign woman to his land—one from the Frontier and without standing here no less—to engage in an amorous relationship! It must be a terrible invention rife with falsehoods, for no gentleman of his stature would stoop so low as to engage in such careless behavior.”

Silence and pointed looks. I wait. I sip more tea. Our auras are calm so far, a tribute to our collective control.

“This 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 host.”

“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 standa 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 it yet. Lord Torran deserves only the best for himself, for 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 station 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 has 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 earns 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’ve killed,” 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, or my 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 speak to me properly, but you naturally assumed I am as ambitious and devious as you are. 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 remembers that she can set the date of the duel.

I’ve barely made it downstairs when something happens that makes me smile. The ground rumbles. I move out into the street and stare.

Torran gallops into the city atop his massive Nightmare, Krowar, with his aura deployed and thunder on his brow. He looks regal in a tailored rider’s outfit of dark leather and a strange high hat. His long gray hair is tied 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 gray eyes gain a hawk’s intensity, 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 surroundings 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 with 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 fall 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 all 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.”

Aaaarrrrgggh, 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 once 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, and I laugh.

“Yes, Metis, I am so happy to see you too!”

“Come on, my star, let us ride!”

And we do. Krowar, Torran’s Nightmare, moves with absolute surety. His 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 about you, Ariane?”

I cross my arms, quite proud of myself. “Would you like the list ordered thematically or alphabetically?”

“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.”

Chapter 116: 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 edifice with high towers and vertiginous spires covered in slate 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 this. 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’s 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 limited, 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. The doors on each side are now closed, except for one, which we take. It leads down to a spiral staircase.

We follow it. At first the walls and steps are made of brick, but then they morph into footholds dug into the very stone as we climb down. We pass a few doors without stopping. The air grows wet and cool the deeper we go.

Eventually, we reach a landing and a vast natural cavern.

I am, once again, shocked by its beauty. The cavern’s ceiling is covered in stalactites of various sizes, many of them dripping crystalline droplets into the abyssal lake that covers half of the cavern. 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 something that appears to be a cross between a torture chair and a comfortable divan. I recognize the heavy enchanted manacles from personal experience.

“Errr...” I say, with some worry.

Torran stops then. His manic grin falls away, 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’ve had to drag in here. Stop, and come here.”

He draws 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 fledgling. 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 pull it on 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 finger 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 to 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 lie on the divan. Torran chuckles warmly.

“No time for pillow talk. I shall start before you realize what’s happening.”

“Fine, fine,” I tell him, not caring. Our lovemaking has left me in a state of contented restfulness. I do not react as he fastens the restraints over my ankles, wrists, and 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 only 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 malleable 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, but in the way that a tornado can be called an air current. Deeply unsettling. What I am at my 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 have never fully been aware of is being stretched. A new sense awakes, if briefly, only to torment me. I lose my focus.

TRAPPED.

TRAPPED.

TRAPPED.

CONFUSION.

“Ariane.”

CONFUSION.

“Ariane.”

Two gray 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 between 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 I cannot make out the details of the weapon. I just see a blade-like form, and Torran’s focused gray eyes.

Until it stops, and something of me is held in his hands. I can feel it like an extension of my own soul. It pulses in time 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.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

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 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. The part that kills, given form.

I must lose consciousness then. I do not know how long I stay like this. I only come to 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. 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 am discovering my limits. Torran has 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 the 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 segment.

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. 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 learned 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 a blade like this, 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, there is 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’ve called 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 covered in 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 some smallclothes. 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  worn something like this.

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 cluttered with tall shelves.

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 fit 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 this 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 tour 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 stores 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, there 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 demand a music demonstration that he promises he will properly demonstrate later. We go down through a stairwell 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 into 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 to the side, looking amused. Torran greets him warmly in German while I inspect my surroundings.

Worry had prevented me from appreciating them yesterday. The ground is cobbled, and the walls are polished white and strangely clean, like something from a fairy tale. But in this one, Prince Charming is the monster and the unicorns have been 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 outside, 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 a 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.”

I slice with what would be the back of the sword, the serrated side, the movement a bit unnatural. Unlike the smoother side, this one shreds through the wood like a savage animal.

“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 styles.

I pull the blade back. On a hunch, I twist my wrist. The blade snakes 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 upon.”

“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 you for the next few weeks while you recover from your ordeal. We will have plenty of opportunities 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 aesthetically 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 foes than I, 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 holiday. The Eye knows you need one.”

Chapter 117: 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 carries the same spark that animates me when I draw, the small core of emotion that we have lost in 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 humor 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, gray 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 of seeing him smile, it seems. It pleases me.

I reserve my questions for after, when 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, and 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 underclothes and Loth’s armor in its shiny dark perfection. The holes Otto made have repaired themselves, but there are still spots where the scales shine a darker hue. My war mask is also dented. Their imperfections only make 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 black plate armor with a Watcher-damn dragon on it, as well as a heavy cape. A polished sword hangs by 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 that weigh?” 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 Sarrehin!”

The magic likes that. A lot. The dancing lights of lies and trickery turn his gray orbs grayer 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 connections 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 skip 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 over 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 ruckus 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 which leaks strains of 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 dog,

Seeking tendrils of the fog

Hide our cruel deeds.”

Smoke-like plumes expand forward, casting 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 creeps 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 upon the fabric of the world. The two guards huddle close to each other.

“Wer—Wer kommt da? 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 frowns 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 necks and pulls him up as if he weighs 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 now all signs of merriment have disappeared from the nearby building. I hear a voice whisper:

“Was passiert hier?”

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 inside, 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 hab ihn gefunden, Mephistopheles,” 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.

“Du kommst mit, 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 away, I thank Torran for the meal, and we drain the prey. We head back in comfortable silence until I remember something.

“Why did you hesitate 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.

“When did you learn German? I never asked,” 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 stock-still, trying to perform fanciful moves, when my style is meant to be 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 an 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 gray 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 impede me 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.

Well. Time to run.

Torran ended up squashing me like a bug against the side of a cliff, following which I sulked for two days. Our next spars are more intense as a result. I progressively include new ranges of motion in my style and, I must admit, Rose’s unexpected moves make for some amusing and devastating maneuvers. I have only had her for a few weeks, and I do not think that I can go back to sparring with only a spear or a sword. Obviously I could, but it would not be the same. A soul weapon really makes a world of difference.

Altogether, I manage almost three weeks of uninterrupted holiday. 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 aria 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’re returning 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 penmanship well.

“Ariane dear,

I learned that you were in Europe, and that must be a 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 earliest 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 for which discretion is paramount.

I hope to see you soon.

Your friend, Loth.”

It appears that I am going to Sweden.

End of Book 6

The Calamitous Bob

Want another series by Alex Gilbert?

The adventures and misadventures of Viviane, a French army medic transported into Nyil, a world of magic. With the help of her adopted baby dragon and a homicidal war golem, Viv must face many trials if she hopes to survive. Thankfully, the displaced socialite has many tools at her disposal from magic to friendship. Also, war crimes.

Perhaps Nyil was not ready for her after all.

Read it now!

Afterword

Thanks for reading! As I mentioned, this story is a web serial and the conclusions might be less cut and dry than other, more traditional stories. If you want to read more, Royal Road hosts this story and many others. I also have a Patreon where the most recent chapters are published.

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I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. See you next time, if it pleases you.

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Other Books by the Author

A Journey of Black and Red

A Journey of Black and Red

The Eternal Game

The Shadows over Marquette

The Midnight Accords

Going up in the Underworld

<<<>>>

The Calamitous Bob

The Calamitous Bob

In Kazar

The Death Path

Glossary

LIST OF BLOODLINES:

Amaretta: A bloodline focused on prophecy and vision. Their Progenitor is active but only meditates. Most Amaretta members are female, and they are concentrated around the western Mediterranean.

Known members:

- Aisha: Member of the North American knight squad

- Amaretta: The Progenitor

Cadiz:A clan based in Spain whose members are known to achieve supernatural focus. They boast many of the world’s greatest duelists, though they sometimes suffer from tunnel vision. Their Progenitor has gone through a portal in search of a challenge. Many of their members support the Eneru faction.

Known members:

- Ceron: Lord. First met by Ariane in the fortress, contributed to her escape in exchange for confidential Lancaster information.

- Jimena: Ariane’s friend and blood sister, knight, owner of a soul sword called Justice.

- Suarez: Lord. First encountered during the Charleston heist. Ariane had previously rescued his Vassal and he repaid his debt by helping her escape the knight squad when they came to slay her.

Constantine: Constantine himself has not yet sired a Spawn. His powers are unknown.

Known members:

- Constantine: The man who established the political order for all vampires in North America under a unified system of laws called the Accords. He is the Speaker. He has some limited military power and is also one of the world’s greatest living blood mages, making him a powerhouse.

Dvor: Dvor vampires bond with a territory and mostly remain there. They are significantly stronger when defending it against intruders and weakened while away. All of them support Eneru and make up most of the alliance’s upper ranks. Their Progenitor is asleep in his city somewhere in North Africa, while his descendants are concentrated in the Middle East and Eastern Europe.

Known members:

- Torran: Lord. Ariane’s paramour and a Soul Smith responsible for forging vampires’ soul weapons.

Erenwald: Based in Germany and central Europe, Erenwald vampires favor nature and the wilderness. They are the only bloodline animals do not shun, and they rear most Nightmares. Some of them can perform druidic magic, and their Progenitor turned himself into a tree. They contribute heavily to the Followers of the Path, the third vampire faction.

Known members:

- Ogotai: Ariane’s jailor back at the fortress where she first woke up. He turned against his superior Lady Moor out of hatred and opened the fortress to the Order of Gabriel. He was killed years later.

- Wilhelm: Not much is known about this Lord, only that he is Constantine’s steward.

Hastings: Hastings can walk in indirect sunlight, though they consider it unpleasant. They also naturally wake up early and can consume food and drink. In exchange, they are physically weaker than the other bloodlines, though they should never be underestimated. Their Progenitor recently eloped with a mortal, and they hide somewhere in the English countryside. The clan is a major contributor to the Mask alliance. They are concentrated in the United Kingdom and France.

Known members:

- Hastings: The Progenitor. She is on holiday.

- Sephare: Not much is known about her yet.

Ekon: Ekon vampires are obsessed with new experiences, gathering their impressions in a magical repository known as the Great Book of the Ekon. Their Progenitor died to experience the sun and share his wisdom. Several copies of the Book exist across the land, updating themselves as soon as a new entry is made.

Ekon vampires possess increased Thirst and pain resistance to assist them in their endeavor. They are mostly neutral and seldom gather, preferring to travel the land in their never-ending quest for the new and the exciting. As a result, they do not have a main territory. They are also one of the few clans recruiting in central Africa and the Guinean Gulf.

Known members:

- Naminata: The Singing Spear, Master, Ariane’s friend. Known for her reckless nature and legendary sexual appetite.

- Kouakou: Lord. One of the few Ekon who does not travel much. He handles Ekon financial interests in Louisiana and is a major supporter of the clan as one of their few sedentary Lords.

Kalinin: Kalinin vampires can resist and even wield holy symbols so long as they believe their cause is just. Their Progenitor was killed in combat and devoured by Nirari. They make their home in Western Russia, particularly around Moscow and Saint Petersburg. They are neutral.

Known members:

- Sergei: Current leader of the Knight detachment in North America. He seems to be ignoring Ariane for now.

Lancaster: Lancaster vampires are exceptional at Charm. They are the other clan operating in the United Kingdom and also support Mask. Their Progenitor was killed by an unprecedented alliance of mages, Gabrielites, and even some vampires.

Known significant members:

- Moor: Lady, (previous) head of the Louisiana House.

- Melusine: Recent Master. Made a nuisance of herself for Ariane. Capable mage. She recently entered a truce with Ariane.

- Lambert: Master, enforcer, mage, had his heart on the other side of his chest. Slain by Ariane in single combat in Marquette.

Natalis: Natalis vampires boast incredible physical strength. It comes at a cost to their intellectual abilities, though most of them are not completely stupid. Their Progenitor has disappeared and some suspect that he has died. Natalis are mercenaries and bodyguards, having very few holds of their own. Most Natalis Lords support the Eneru faction.

Known members:

- Jarek: Lord. Establishing an enclave for his kind around Texas so that they may have a haven where they are more than simple mercenaries.

- John Doe: After his change, he has been serving Ariane as faithfully as before.

Nirari: The Devourer bloodline, the first vampires. Nirari can absorb a fragment of the strength of their victims and keep it for themselves at the cost of particularly strong instincts. Because of the Progenitor’s use of his Spawn, only four Devourers are currently alive while some newer bloodlines boast numbers in the hundreds. Lord Nirari himself is locked in a secret war with his mother, a conflict that has spanned millennia. He is considered unstoppable by most organizations.

Known members:

- Nirari: Ariane’s sire. Ancient Prince of Babylon. The first one to receive the elixir of flawed eternal life. He is cruel and vindictive though he always respects his word.

- Ariane: You know.

- Svyatoslav: The first Spawn to gain his independence. Svyatoslav was a prince of Kievan Rus'. He is currently operating in Russia.

- Malakim: Nirari’s right hand. A tortured soul devoured by hatred.

Roland: Roland vampires boast an unbreakable will that lets them train harder, fight longer, and pursue passions with more determination than any other bloodline. They, unfortunately, tend to be stubborn as a result. They are based in France and make up the core of Mask’s military. They have a tradition of being patrons of the arts, even more so than the Rosenthal. Their Progenitor is currently slumbering in an unknown location.

Known members:

- Anatole: A Master. Previous head of the knight squad; he is an arrogant prick. He went after Ariane out of blind hatred and got exiled for it. Nashoba called him a pretender.

- Madrigal: The ambassador of Mask to the Accords. A smooth man.

Rosenthal: The Rosenthals boast an eidetic memory and synthetic mind. They are completely neutral and act as the lorekeepers, bankers and administrators of vampirekind. They benefit from a positive relationship with other factions of the supernatural world and boast a powerful mortal military made of well-trained and loyal mercenaries. Rosenthal vampires are mostly uninvolved and are forbidden from taking part in conflicts by their Progenitor herself. They operate out of Switzerland but recruit everywhere.

Known members:

- Isaac: Ariane’s banker and wealth manager. He became a Master following a Hunt they shared. He has a rebellious streak.

- Salim: Isaac’s replacement after he departed from America.

Vanheim: The wild cards of their kind. Their powers are unpredictable, and their Progenitor is unknown. Vanheim are rare, few, and often isolated, though they are not shunned outright. They have no known weakness beyond being a little weird and usually have trouble learning the vampire tongue.

Known members:

- Urchin: A somewhat rough street thug recruited and trained by Ariane. He is still struggling with his lack of polish, but Ariane’s unerring support has allowed him to let go of some of his bitterness.

THE THREE VAMPIRE ALLIANCES:

Mask

Masks dominate Western Europe. They favor infiltration and influencing the world from the shadows. They are known patrons of the arts, funding extravagant works and hosting grand balls. Their games and contests are often cruel. Masks dominate Western Europe except for Spain.

Eneru

Eneru members postulate that vampires, as long-lived and resilient individuals, have the potential to be superior rulers. That is not to say that every vampire has the necessary leadership skills, of course. Member of Eneru will semi-openly rule small domains over which they have near complete control, employing talented mortals as representatives and agents. They tend to be traditionalists, though many of them still understand the need for change. Eneru vampires control Spain, parts of North Africa, parts of the Middle East, and parts of the Balkans. They are more fragmented than Masks.

Followers of the Path or The Brotherhood

The Followers are isolationists and can be considered a faction only insofar as they oppose the two others. Followers control Central and Northern Europe as well as Western Russia.

The Accords

A good number of vampires have moved to North America, until a community formed under the patient rule of Constantine. The Accords heavily regulate conflict between the eclectic members of the group. Constantine, his personal guard, and a select group of knights ensure that discipline is enforced with deadly efficiency.

OTHER GROUPS:

The White Cabal

Based in the state of New York, the White Cabal is a group dedicated to the protection and development of mages in north America. They have recently started to gain a significant amount of power. Their budding army mixes mages and mundane soldiers and uses specialized tactics.

Known members:

- Jonathan Hopkins: Dark hair, dark eyes, a sober man with a mind like a bear trap. Jonathan first joined the Order before switching allegiance and turning the White Cabal’s military into a professional force.

- Frost: A powerful ice magic archmage. Extremely old for a human, and quite lethal.

- Mina Kincaid: A young and promising mage Ariane met during her final test. Specializes in rapid, clean casting of Firebolt.

- Reginald Lewis: Met in the same circumstances; charismatic and has a good heart despite a tendency for bravado.

- Cedric Birmingham: Met in the same circumstances; he is a good-natured barrier mage.

- Carmela von Leeb: Met in the same circumstances; an ice mage and fencer. Scared of werewolves.

- William Hope: Met in the same circumstances; a smart mage who prefers discretion and underhanded tactics. Firmly dedicated to his friends.

- Sola: A beautiful albino girl. A rare natural healer and purifier, capable of closing even grievous gut wounds. Hopkins’s wife.

The Fae

Caught in this rigid world where their magic is mostly powerless, the fae too often fall prey to vampires who find their blood incredibly potent. They have started to organize under the leadership of Sinead and Sivaya.

Known members:

- Sivaya: An ethereal beauty and princess of the Likaean Court of Blue, she is a magical genius. Politically, however, she is a disaster according to Likaean standards. She is currently working on a way for her people to go home.

- Sinead: The most powerful Likaean on the planet, and a prince of the Court of Summer. He is at times a rogue and a dilettante, and at times a deadly schemer. No matter what, it always looks like he gets what he wants in the end. Both he and Ari have done things for each other that they did not have to do...

- Makyas: Belonging to the court of Wings and Keyholes, Makyas favors the appearance of a child though he is probably the most vicious of the band. Eyeballs enjoyer. Raw.

The Werewolf Packs

The werewolves multiplied quickly in the new world due to open spaces, common disappearances of settlers, and a lack of exterminators. They gathered in the far reaches of Canada to form packs, which stabilizes the curse to an extent. Leaders and followers harmonize their instincts to keep them under control, while outsiders are capable of self-control without a support structure.

Known members:

- Alistair: A doctor by trade and one of the werewolves capable of managing his curse alone. He is a sensitive soul.

- Jeffrey: Along his sidekick and follower June, Jeffrey has proven himself to be a capable leader who leads a large ‘pack’ on Viv’s territory with her blessing and support. The two groups are formally allied. He is quite a powerful, merciless fighter. He also never, ever shuts up.

The Order of Gabriel

A fanatical order devoted to the extermination of all things supernatural, they are well-trained and well-funded for the most part, and do not hesitate to sacrifice their lives in the hopes of killing one more monster. They go mostly after practitioners, rogue and otherwise, but will attack vampires if they think they have a shot at taking one down. The attrition rate of the order is extremely high but there is no shortage of volunteers to join their ranks as supernatural entities often leave many vengeful victims in their wake.

The Godlings

Not a true alliance so much as a family of adventurers capturing the zeitgeist of every era. They possess a strange fate magic that always hurls them into adventure along with whoever happens to be around. Ariane has a love and fear relationship with them but generally finds them kind-hearted and endearing.

Known members:

- Cecil Rutherford Bingle: An adventurer and a gentleman. He returned to England after sharing an adventure with Ariane and married the woman he had met there, Rose. He was the first Bingle Ariane met.

- Nathan Bingle: A smooth rogue in fancy hat embroiled in world-wide crimes and conspiracies, Nathan has traveled from India to the Americas to recover stolen jewels and ravish exotic princesses. Ari found him tolerable.

Ari’s Non-Vampiric Minions

- Dalton: Ariane’s first Vassal; he was killed by the Key of Beriah during the 1812 conflict. Ariane avenged his death after they were betrayed.

- David King: A rescued slave who joined the odd squad after Ariane bought and freed him. His father died fighting wendigos.

- Loth of Skorrag: A Dvergur (dwarf) from Scandinavia, Loth is a master artificer and a deadly fighter. He is also a scholar who will happily talk about his family’s long and tumultuous history. He recently returned to his home country. Loth is extremely tall, bulky, and the proud owner of a dark bushy beard. A few strands of silver have made their way into it, not that he much cares. Notably fond of mature beauties.

- Alexandria Merritt: Previously free mage who joined Ariane as her second in command. Merritt is loyal, though she is still fond of the occasional mischief. She has two children: Ollie and Lynn. All three are redheads.

- Papa: Technically named Hercule Reynaud but effectively Papa forever, Ariane's father was ever supportive of his child even when she lost her soul. He met her several times, and they kept a steady correspondence until his death in the early 30's. His wife Diane died very early in Ariane's life, making him her sole parent, a role which he dedicated himself to.

The Werewolves

See Jeffrey and June.

Other Characters:

- Achille: Ariane's late brother. He supported her late in his life.

- Aintza: Jimena’s Servant and long-term lover. She was instrumental in freeing Ariane from Lancaster servitude.

- Arthur: Melusine's Vassal. He died saving her from an Order ambush.

- Semiramis: Nirari's mother and the single greatest mage who ever lived, she was granted immortality by the entity known as the Eye or the Watcher, allowing its essence into the world. Semiramis is sometimes tasked by the Watcher with creating an elixir of flawed eternal life. Upon consumption, the chosen will become the Progenitor of a new bloodline. She is trying to become a goddess and is locked in eternal conflict with her son Nirari, the first vampire. Her den possesses strange dimensional properties.

- Nashoba: Shaman of the Choctaw nation. He made the earrings Ariane is still using to evade detection. He could see the future and called Ariane 'daughter of thorn and hunger'. He died by Ariane's hand as a way to escape the pain of his disease. Ariane liked him and carries his memory.

- The Watcher: The embryo of a creator god, the Watcher will one day 'die' to give birth to a new universe—or at least this is what Semiramis believes. Nobody is exactly sure what its agenda is, or indeed if it has one to begin with. All that is known is that the Watcher is sapient, can communicate, and is intimately tied to vampires and their existence.

Table of Contents

The Story So Far

Chapter 101: Tempus Fugit

Chapter 102: Home

Chapter 103: Down She Goes

Chapter 104: Warrens of the World

Chapter 105: Trapped

Chapter 106: End of the Line

Chapter 107: Choosing Sides

Chapter 108: The Other Sphere

Chapter 109: Hell’s Gates

Chapter 110: Heart of the Nile

Chapter 111: Blue

Chapter 112: Third of Her Line

Chapter 113: Fist of the Drowned God

Chapter 114: The Lost World

Chapter 115: The Tourist

Chapter 116: Weaponized

Chapter 117: Break

End of Book 6

Afterword

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Other Books by the Author

Glossary