A Journey of Black and Red - Chapter 167: Maturity

September 1869, near the vampire fortress in Boston.

A blur. I use a thorn root to try and hamper him but the man reacts immediately.

“Magna Arqa.”

His soul weapon splits into two identical axes. Their edges glow an ominous crimson. A wolf-like cloak covers his head, only leaving a braided blond beard visible. He bellows. The axes bite and shred through the roots I send after him. It hurts. I lunge and push him back with a carefully aimed, miraged attack. We exchange a series of strikes, him, the furious whirlwind of destruction and I, the elusive flayer. I manage to land a few hits, but the wolf skin inflates and covers the wound. I am running out of time. He is pushing me towards the other.

The lithe woman jumps on a root before I can move it and dives. I dodge left of her rapier’s blade and under a swirling axe. She is not as fast as us but her positioning is so intelligent that it does not matter. Even without striking, she remains dangerous. I have to fight to keep her at bay, anticipate the openings she provides. The roots are too slow to really hamper the two. They get cut down. It hurts me more. I hiss and increase my pace, sometimes throwing spells and wide attacks at the woman, but her armor and reflexes block all of them until the fateful moment happens, the one that I anticipated. I am backed into a corner.

“Magna Arqa!”

Sephare extends her arms and pushes reality away until only she remains, bathed in a purple corona. I am sent flying directly at Wilhelm, the fortress’ stewart and first line of vampiric defense. His blade descends on me. This is how they got me last time.

No.

I REFUSE.

“Darkness.”

I disappear from his perception and in that single instant of hesitation, manage to block the first axe and grab the second’s haft. I throw myself over him and strike downward.

Our eyes meet, his widening in disbelief.

Then Sephare’s blade goes clean through my torso.

“Hah…”

I gasp and collapse, lung pierced by the merciless soul blade. Chest wounds always have a way to spread through everything including my mind. This would have been a killing blow if Sephare had hit a little higher, and thus the spar is over. She could easily have struck a second time. I still make the effort of landing on my feet, ready to go on despite the pain. Complacency leads to death.

I stand up to salute. The thorns disappear, giving way to the wild forest around the fortress. The distant sounds of the river return while the light pales, losing its purple sheen. Nature breathes again.

“Thank you for this spar, Lady Sephare, Steward.”

“An impressive display Lady Ariane. Your control over the tendrils has improved dramatically. I am certain that with a little more practice, they will be redoutable even against Jarek,” Sephare politely states.

“Yes,” Wilhelm adds, “I am uniquely suited to disabling them. The old monster will find it more difficult to take them apart, especially with those blunt mountain boulders he calls his fists.”

I would thank them effusively if my pride did not sting me so much. Objectively, I am aware that they are two experienced lords and I am new at this. Subjectively, I want to wipe the floor with them. I believe that Malakim and my sire changed my perspective. Anything else but complete domination will be unequal to the task of taking them down. I must be patient, but time marches on and I have yet to find a real way to defeat them in combat. The weapon we have found in the Mediterranean is just a blade, it will not guarantee victory. With the amount of magical tools at the disposal of both Nirari and Semiramis, I doubt that we will be able to outsmart them and catch them off guard. A fight will be involved. I hope I will have the time to catch up.

“I must thank you for the opportunity to practice. I believed that centuries of training made work sessions redundant, yet it appears that we can still learn and have a pleasant time together,” Sephare says.

“Old ones tend to avoid practicing together back in Europe. Competition can be fierce and few would wish to display the exact extent of their abilities,” Wilhelm explains.

“I always assumed that lords and ladies knew their techniques intimately after all those years fighting each other,” I reply with a frown.

“We can improve too, dear one,” Sephare replies with a twinkle of amusement in her sky blue eyes. “Facing a faction in pitched battle every fifty years is a suboptimal way to assess the talent of individual fighters. Spars are without doubt more interesting. It also helps that some of the action can be seen from the western garden of the manor, so that Courtiers and Masters remind themselves of the path yet to walk, and the power we wield. I have heard talk, my dear. You leave quite an impression on the newcomers. Now, Wilhelm, I know of a cabin by the river. Would you like to spend some time?”

“I would love to.”

“I would invite you as well, Ariane, if I did not know that you are not yet comfortable with this sort of arrangement.”

And I probably never will be. I bid them goodbye and return to the fortress with Sephare’s remark heavy in my mind. We can still change. In fact, we have no choice.

I have changed.

Ladyship brings a challenge I had never anticipated. The lack of challengers. Yes, I can play games where I give the mortals a chance and yes, I can still find worthy blood, but the strength of their essence is a droplet in a lake when my sire is a sea. I face the greed and corruption I have faced before. Anger is an old, familiar song. They taste like different takes on a classic recipe, good but not daring, not unique. I am well fed but starved for novelty with little prospects.

The immense power I drew from Ako allowed me to expand my Magna Arqa to over eighty yards, almost twice what I could do when I ascended, while practice has refined the control over it and the tendrils. It will not matter. My sire killed a lord by shoving his hand into the man’s ribcage, without giving him a chance. I am still infinitely far from his level. Sometimes, it feels like running a race my opponent finished before I could cross the starting line.

I have changed.

My place in the world has changed. More importantly, the world itself has moved on at breakneck speed, not waiting for anyone or anything. I tried to head back to my family home back in Louisiana.

I lost my way.

Where once was only soaked wilderness, now slums and even nicer houses sprawled in a tentacular, decades-long explosion to mold the land to the will of civilization. Creole, French, and Spanish influences endured and married in a subtle, spicy mix. The Choctaw ‘bayuk’ turned into a bayou which turned into a grave for my memories and for my friends.

Constanza just died. She was my last friend alive. She perished in her sleep, and will be mourned by the extended family she created with her doctor husband. Lucien had died during the war fending off a group of looters I mercilessly identified and executed. With her death, the last string linking me to my human life has been cut. None of those who knew me as a mortal still draw breath. It is finished. Human Ariane is dead. Only I remain. The last one standing.

I am eighty-two years old.

There are rare older humans. Many archmages have lived much longer. I am aware of that, yet seeing all those new inventions, and the quickly expanding cities, it can feel like I have lived for centuries. Even ideas progress at such a fast rate. Music, art, philosophy. Politics. Old ideas resurface from the abyss of history with new cloaks and new success. Socialism. Nationalism. Concepts unite people who have never met in hatred of others they’ve never seen. I can only ride the wave of progress and hope to step onto the next before it collapses, taking me under with it. So do the other vampires in power.

Once, I considered leading a coup against Constantine, but the canny bastard pulled out the most perfect defense: he distributed his power to those willing and able to take it. Sephare handles spying, propaganda, and counter-intelligence.

Frankly, I do not envy her.

I handle diplomacy and economic cooperation while Jarek develops our security forces and private armies. Constantine remains in charge of law and internal affairs if only because he cannot trust anyone for it. As such, we have a reached a balance and I find myself losing the urge to take revenge for the torture. It does not help that his door is always open to discuss his war golems and how we could put repeater guns on them. Curses. In any case, the Accords’ tendrils have wrapped me in their comfortable embrace and I find little reason to upset the status quo right now.

This new and rigid status brings with it a realization that only my true end goal should be a concern right now, the death of my sire. My only hope, currently, is to help the Likaeans. There will be another war with Mask before the end of the century, and plenty of opportunities to make some progress, but in the meanwhile the escape attempt is my only path to potent essence. I will not say that I miss the time when survival forced me to gain power quickly. I still wish I did not have to plan for years for another great gain. And time is not on my side. I have much catching up to do, and I have also realized that I do not gain power as I age, contrary to, for example, Melusine. If I want to grow, I must fight for it. Of course, none can match a Devourer’s progress, but few realize that we must strive for it.

***

“Of course, we will help you,” Sinead says pleasantly, “although you should have asked for it during our negotiations instead of agreeing so readily.”

His eyes flash in the darkness while a wind ruffles his golden hair, coming from the ocean.

“Yes my good heart and generosity will be the loss of me,” I grumble.

“You harbor feelings towards me, which I understand perfectly. I am, after all, quite the catch, poppet. It would be hypocritical of me to criticize you for falling for my roguish charm.”

“Be careful or I shall make something else fall indeed.”

“But never my interest in you, that is why I shall find a way to help you with your maniacal egotistic ascendent madman problem as soon as I am back in the spheres, I promise. You help me, I help you, poppet. We are past deals. And speaking of deals, this will be our final battlefield. I can feel it.”

I look around us. Sinead dragged me all the way south from Boston, specifically at Black Harbor where we killed the Scourge Hive. I have many memories here, not all of them good.

“Are you quite sure?”

I take in the surroundings. We stand at the top of the ruined fort looking north, past the ruins of the village below us and at the promontory that hides the caves where we took refuge before the fateful charge. The wind grows and whips blonde strands past my nose. It carries the heavy scent of the ocean with it. The latest iteration of the Dalton’s Spirit bobs down below. More importantly, there is something left of all this bloodshed, a presence. A sort of weight that hangs over me and blocks sensation in a way that leaves me feeling naked.

“Your future sight is gone. That is why you feel vulnerable,” Sinead explains.

“How do you know that?”

“You frown and check your corners when you feel threatened.”

“Not that! The future sight!”

“I can taste it as well as you do, poppet. I might be shackled but I am not blind, yes? I am certain that you will develop your senses more when you grow up a bit. You just have to… relax.”

“How can I relax here when I am cut off from one of my most useful resources?”

“It blocks scrying as well. We will obtain a masking item, of course, but this will help protect us from inquiries.”

“It will not. We are in Roland territory. We will never be allowed to operate here, or build a base.”

“Oh, we will. Remember what you mentioned? The southern faction is focusing on acquiring land and developing a network of safe houses.”

“You… want me to fund that one?”

“Precisely!”

“Ugh, do you have any idea how much this will cost me? Just building the thing will cost upwards to ten thousand dollars. I have already spent that much on the stone! This is easily four months of profit for me. Do you have any idea how much I could achieve with four months of this kind of cash flow?”

“If you are in trouble, you could stop paying for the creation of the Chicago Grand Opera House you pushed for, you know? I bet it cost just as much.”

“No.”

“Did you not invite musicians from Vienna and architects from Florence? I bet it cost you a pretty penny.”

“Leave the Opera House out of this.”

“It surprises me that you would splurge like that. Sometimes, you are such a miser that I swear you would take the morning’s coffee grounds for an evening brew, stretch it a bit.”

I gasp in absolute outrage.

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK MISTER OR SO HELP ME…”

“Hahaha, I so enjoy it when you let your emotions surface, poppet. One more benefit of my company, yes? Your alien essence sometimes makes you morose.”

“You are very lucky, Sinead, that I find you endearing.”

“Of course I am lucky, I was born Prince of Summer. Where were we? Oh, yes. The plan. We have a spot, we have a time, we have three out of four secondary power supplies. We still need the main gem, an anti-scrying device that I have identified, and a containment field. You worry about building us that fortress and I shall identify who we should borrow from. Do you happen to know someone belonging to the Rosenthal consortium?”

“Yes,” I tell him, glad to return the favor, “their leader on the continent and I sometimes share a night.”

Will this hurt him?

“Well. Now I am having second thoughts.”

Haha!

***

The most unfortunate realization that comes with maturity is, tragically, that not everything can be solved with murders.

Or rather, I have to handle situations where murder would only create more problems. Fortunately, we have many other tools, some of them only symbolically violent. It certainly helps that the mortals do most of our work for us. If tonight I was transported to a world of isolated, religious parishes where no one goes out after dark, I give it three days before a mayor invites me in to take out the town priest. We could not exist in a world without sin, but neither would the humans. The temptation is everywhere, in everyone. Even the meekest man hides in his bosom the flames of desire. We do not even need to fan it.

“You will not find it here…”

“Shit!”

“… Mr. Norman,” I finish.

The man jumps, terror gripping his chest. I hear the thundering beat of his heart pumping desperately, as it has been for some time. The dark office offers many nooks and crannies between towering file cabinets and monumental desks. It is no wonder that the cornered accountant would miss my presence in the middle of his frantic searches. Now, his growing panic has reached the end of a minute-long crescendo, and the nervous sweat in the air smells of fear, of delicious guilt.

I light a match and briefly study the fleeting flame, alien and unwelcoming despite its short life. How Melusine can harness this power, I will never know. It can be pretty I suppose. My lantern soon shines on me and my prey tonight.

Mr Norman is portly and balding. A neat mustache and good tweed suit would have given him airs of stolen respectability, were it not for his current disheveled state. Although, I suppose that the bribery might have skewed my perception.

I watch Mr. Norman calculate his chances with some interest. His breath slows down, anxiety soon replaced by a colder despair. I have backed him into a corner and we both know it. Right now, I have borrowed the appearance of life from my Hasting essence. The yellow radiance of the lantern shows a pale woman, lithe and vulnerable. A man of his corpulence would have no trouble overpowering me. He only needs to wrap his fat fingers around my delicate neck and squeeze. Will he try?

He will not.

Norman sighs one last time. Some will resort to murder when faced with ruin and the accountant does apprently not count among their number. His exhalation expulses the last of his hope and I watch his posture collapse under the weight of the situation. He drags a chair, that of his colleague, and collapses into it. A sweep of his handkerchief wipes out perspiration.

“How did you find me?” he asks in a low, broken voice.

“That is not the right question. You may try again.”

“There is no need for games! I assume that you are one of those who left that… that horrendous letter at my place of residence. Threatening me! Making demands… What do you people want with me!”

“Now that is the correct question. We want Johan Kingsley.”

I watch the confusion bloom on his flushed face. He licks his parched lips while his eyes flutter, trying to place the name. He frowns when he does.

“John Kingsley? The senator hopeful? What do you mean? I just…”

“You protected his assets, which had been seized at the end of the war for his vocal support of the confederacy. You have provided this service to a few other people against compensation. As I mentioned in that document I sent, I have taken the liberty of seizing some incriminating documents which will find their way to the authorities if you do not comply with my demands. And I do not mean your superior, Mr Norman. I know that he is in on it.”

“Then you should make demands of him!”

“Oh I may, but you are much more interesting since you are genuinely competent at deception. I assume that the paperwork was your doing?”

“… yes.”

“Then you will have no difficulty giving me the proof I need to expose his regrettable attempt at bribery. You will also provide every valuable piece of information you have on this person.”

“We worked through an intermediary!”

“Then I want them as well. You will give me everything you have.”

I cannot kill all the Integrists. Well, I am more than willing to try but those old reasonable boring old allies of mine have objected. I can, however, tarnish their reputation in the eyes of the public, and I will. Such methods will never uproot them given how capable they are at blocking information within their area of influence, one press-burning mob at a time.

“I do this for you, and then we are done,” the accountant spits.

I cannot help myself and chuckle to his face. Done? Oh, he is quite precious.

“My dear sir, you wish to let bygones be bygone? How quaint. You do not purchase absolution with this action. You purchase a reprieve. If you wish to be done, as you say, feel free to denounce yourself to the Revenue Collector, or better yet throw the whole ring at the feet of the Secretary of the Treasury. Then you will be done. And so will your house, your reputation, and all the other little things like a private tutor for your two children that you sold your honor to purchase. Then, you will have washed away your sin. We will no longer have power over you. In the meanwhile, you are corrupt and stained Mr Norman. So long as you continue to enjoy your fortune, you will remain ours to use as we see fit, just like so many of your fellow tax officials. Bend or sacrifice, there is no half measure.

Curiously, a flash of realization crosses Mr. Norman’s feverish gaze.

“Wait… I heard rumors. About mysterious folks who look younger than they really are. That’s you isn’t it? Who are you people?”

“That is not the right question, Norman. The right question was… what are we?”

I jump on him and feed. Stupid theatrics always wake up the Thirst and now he just smells too tempting. I erase the last memory and leave, only to find an annoying person lounging languidly against my carriage.

“I thought you had much to plan?” I ask.

“I can plan and accompany you! A journey west, to the lawless wild lands of the frontier. Guns! Moonshine! A bloodbath! Would you make me a revolver?”

“Why would you ever put yourself in harm’s way?”

“I intend to put others in harm’s way.”

“Only if you can shoot to my satisfaction.”

His eyebrows wriggle.

“Oh, grow up.”