A Journey of Black and Red - Chapter 209: The Queen's Hoard

March 1907, the night of the lich camp raid.

The thief was good at his job. He had retired once already, and would have stayed retired if he had not been found. Few managed such a feat in his line of work. Fewer managed it without visiting prison, yet he had succeeded. The thief knew the keys to success. Dedication, preparation, cold rationality. He had canceled jobs before because he smelled a fish. He had refused others because they were too ambitious, going after targets whose insurance policy included dismemberment. This was a dark world. His quirk was not enough to fend off the worst nightmares the night had to offer.

If he had a choice, he would have refused that job too. He would have slammed the door in the client’s face and left for Timbuktu. But he didn’t, and so he had waited, and prepared, and now was the time to strike.

The previous thieves who had attempted the heist had all disappeared without a trace. From their failures, he had learned a few vital details. First, no entrance could be done from the front as that was instant death. Second, no entrance could be done while she was around. Third, no local could be trusted. The thief had hidden nearby and then he had waited. His contact told him when she would leave on a special operation that would carry her far away. How far? Far enough, he’d said. A world away. The thief prayed that it would be enough.

The thief breathed in the evening air, then clutched the medallion on his chest. He checked his gear and the dark cloth he wore one last time before rushing forward, out of the bushes and towards the high fence surrounding his target. Had to hurry. Sometimes, werewolves patrolled the region.

The man held his pole in the proper position. He sprinted faster, then lodged it in a small pit he’d prepared just for this occasion. The pole bent and he vaulted. His breath caught when he took off, sending him far over the fence and the spearheads that decorated its top. The proximity enchantment extended far over their boundary, eager to catch those who thought themselves safe having scaled the metal barrier. At the apex of his course, he jumped and pushed. The pole swung back towards the ground outside while he grabbed for the branch of a nearby oak, and missed.

The thief did not swear. However, he did gasp when the next branch caught him in the ribs. He still grabbed it like a buoy and hung on like his life depended on it.

“Not twenty anymore,” he growled to himself in the safety of his head. Could not make a sound here.

The collection waited ahead, garbed in magical protections like a beacon of colors shining in the night, a kaleidoscope of defensive arrays. There would be no piercing it safely because, as the thief had noticed, the one who had designed them worked from an unfair advantage: she was simply better than him. Therefore, he wouldn’t try.

The thief raced across the lawn, avoiding a few well-placed mines, then scaled the wall to the second floor with claws affixed to his forearm. What mattered was the mundane security outside. So long as he didn’t alert them, he would have some time.

Deftly avoiding a few outside triggers, the man soon found the only open shutter on this floor. The light of the moon gave a perfect view of the inside, which seemed to be a botanical garden of sorts. The thief could spot lianas and leaves. Interestingly, more light cast the tiles in silver radiance than should be possible.

He used a diamond blade to cut through the enchanted glass. It took him a few minutes to finally manage an opening, but then he was in. A simple thread manipulation changed the window’s alarm sensitivity so it could stretch without breaking. Nevertheless, the thief knew he was leaving tracks. Something was clinging to him, a pervading feeling of cold like sticky, half-melted ice. Ghostly thorns raked against his skin, not yet finding blood. He was intruding. The house knew he was intruding. It was slowly waking up, looking for him. He was living on borrowed time.

The thief carefully placed his arm through the hole to reach for the window latch and found a lock instead, fully closed. He did not panic. Instead, he removed a small mirror at the end of a retractable metal stalk from a side pocket and inspected this new obstacle. A normal lock, with a key. He recovered the mirror then used another tool. This one looked like a key with no indentations. He placed it inside the lock then focused on its magic.

The metal bubbled as if alive, pushing against every pin until they were stuck in place. He was about to turn it when he hesitated. Time was of the essence, but the mistress of the house was devious. Better be extra careful. He tried to feel up instead of down and, sure enough, there were pins on top too. Probably an alarm as well, though he could not be sure from this side.

All in all, it took him over five minutes to get it, but it was done in silence. Guards walked the perimeter outside. They remained unaware that he was attempting the unthinkable. His black leather suit stuck to skin now, soaked with sweat despite the cold evening air. Nevertheless, the alarm string did not break. Slowly, the man eased himself into the house.

A ghostly thorn pricked his cheek and he winced. He lifted a finger to the painful spot and realized it had drawn blood.

She knew now. Hopefully, he would be gone by the time she returned.

He shut the window behind himself slowly and took in his new surroundings.

This was, indeed, an inner garden of sorts. The light came not just from the window but from the ceiling’s skylight, a skylight that had not existed on the outside. Or it was so well-camouflaged that he could not have told. Water gurgled from copper pipes on a terrarium that surrounded the entire center of the room where a couple of storage shelves waited, loaded with fertilizers and tools. Vines and strange glowing flowers grew in the soil around a crystal bulb the size of a ball. In its midst floated a seed, frozen in time.

The thief knew instantly and without a doubt that this single seed was more valuable than anything he’d ever stolen, more valuable than what he had been sent to retrieve. He also knew without a doubt that to touch it was death. It was not just the enchantments protecting the crystal. He realized, looking more closely, that the garden was, in fact, a single entity linked by branches and lianas, bloated with magic. Tendrils swirled delicately around the seed as if to provide a bed or to benefit from the potent aura seeping through the crystal container. There were also curious, fava-like growths that looked suspiciously like unripe fruits nestled across the vegetation. Some of them were as large as violins.

The thief took a step forward, and the plant shivered.

The thief froze and looked around. What he had taken as fruits were now rising from the bed of earth, splitting along their lengths to reveal purple gums and thorn-like, serrated teeth dripping with nectar. Some of the more vivacious lianas had slithered to the ground with disturbingly serpentine motions. The thief did not quite panic yet, but he did bar this room as an exit option.

Despite his lack of motion, the planet didn’t stop moving.

In an instant, he rushed to the door while using his signature spell. His quirk. His own, self-made luck.

“I am not here.”

The lianas and carnivorous growths stopped, confused for an instant. The door was mercilessly unlocked and he blasted through, slamming it behind him. A series of thuds informed him he had been a second away from disaster.

“Goddamn.”

Giant, man-eating plants? Not even really surprising. No matter. He had to hurry. Now, where was he?

A corridor extended towards the front and back of the manor. A dull light provided enough illumination for him to see that it was empty of anything save basic furniture to allow the exhibited works to take precedence.

Most of them are portraits. He knows he is meant to steal a painting, and that this painting is stored on the ground floor, but his eyes wander anyway. Some of them depict simple scenes like a slave family by a plantation. Others feel very basic, as if the painter had only begun to come into their own. A mature man, solid, with a large beard and muscles straining a shirt stood side by side with a man with sharp traits, a malicious smile, and a pair of pistols in side holsters. The thief quickly realized those were all made by the same painter across the ages. It was decidedly her, and he was watching her progress.

And he had been told vampires did not change. Horseshit. They changed at their own speed. They learned, too. Shaking his head, he walked towards the front of the house, opened the door, then stopped.

In front of him lay a large entrance with the gate beneath and in front of him. Candelabras loaded with witch lights provided enough radiance to see the tastefully decorated interior. Mostly neoclassical with a touch of color. Not gaudy as he expected. More paintings and other precious items waited in corners or on pedestals for a visitor that would never come. The thief expected this to be the fastest way to the first floor and his target, but he also knew that none who had tried that way had survived.

There was something peculiar going on here. To his back, the manor was whispering with magic but it was still a building. In front of him, though, the place felt different. A light air flow pushed heat and a strange, animalistic smell towards him that he didn’t like one bit. Some of the walls felt strange as well, not quite straight one moment, rigorously so the next. The light felt off. He was not quite sure why but there was something going on. Maybe a chained beast in a camouflaged partition waited for intruders to step in before jumping on them?

A movement caught his attention. On a Dorian pillar to his left, an eye opened. It blearily looked around and found him before closing again.

The thief gulped.

The thief looked up to an array of knife-sized teeth growing in an interstice above the gate.

The thief realized that the chained beast was the entirety of the manor’s front.

He closed the door, but not too hard, just in case.

The thief took a few steps back.

“Jesus. Okay, okay. New plan.”

The thief walked back through the corridor, passing the indoor garden on the way. There were more portraits here. Some of them showed humans smiling gently. There was an older maid with Scandinavian traits, an adventurer with a winning smile, and an outlaw chief with a crow on his shoulder. A native man smirked, sitting atop the back of a giant tortoise. Others were here too, and he knew without a doubt that they were vampires. There was something off, an atemporal impression about the way they looked, something predatory about the way they posed. No fangs were shown, though they did have claws if one looked closely. He spotted a man in an impeccable suit standing confidently near a desk, black hair slicked back with pomade. A black woman reclined sensually on a couch, honing a spear head with a glowing whetstone. The most impressive one was a tall man with gray hair and a steely gaze standing proudly on a ship, the bay of some city in the background. There was something else standing at attention and the thief averted his gaze, impressed despite himself.

He didn’t expect erotic paintings from the old monster.

The most surprising paintings waited at the end and they distracted him from the earlier spectacle. There were two of them.

One showed an old man with a short beard and golden hair standing in a sugar cane plantation with his shirt open, a careless smile on his lips. There was so much love here that it hurt him, reminded him of his daughter waiting outside. He wished he could express himself like that. He wished he could show her he loved her with such naked abandon, as if the world would not crush them for this audacity. The man in the painting looked so confident it made the thief jealous.

The second picture showed the vampire as a girl.

It was her, there was no denying it. He had been shown a rather poor rendition of her made by a mortal artist, and the traits were the same, but the girl in the painting felt fresh, hopeful, and innocent to a degree that scared him. She felt so happy and certain. No doubt the world had seen it fit to take her down. He wondered if it had worked. Looking at the art collection, he was not sure.

None of those paintings were the one he was tasked with recovering.

The thief walked left at the end of the corridor. There were windows, shuttered, of course. What worried him slightly was the length of the corridor.

He was rather sure the building was slightly larger on the inside.

He could not wait to be out. Turning left, he walked past landscapes then came across another door, this one unlocked as well. Inside of the place was an armory.

Racks lined the walls while other weapons hung from plates hung at eye level. Quality had been prefered over quantity, but some of those were positively ancient.

Most of the weapons had seen little action and shone with the polish of newly minted pieces, but a few bore the wear and tear of extensive use with pride and the mark of loving attention. The thief watched an ancient musket of good quality, the muzzle forever blackened by countless shots. The word ‘Talleyrand’ was inscribed in the scuffed barrel and the trigger was polished to a shine. It was one of the least enchanted pieces of the lot. There were others like it: daggers, throwing knives, some broken, a shattered short sword with molten edges, even an old Prussian needle rifle. He also noticed more modern weapons, including an ungodly, portable Gatling gun that would take a team of humans to operate, much less carry. There were a couple of feminine pieces of armor as well. One of them was a perfect mirror polished to a glimmering perfection. Shaking his head, the thief found what he had been looking for: the stairs down.

Those were secondary ones, and the portraits in there all shared a certain familiarity with the vampire woman, all blood relatives it seemed. Living or dead, the thief didn’t know, but they came to life in those colors.

He ended up in a shrine.

There were no signs of a cross, as expected, or any altar he could see. There was still no mistaking the general air of sanctity that surrounded the pedestals lining the walls. Many of them stood empty, and there was something sad about the way she expected more losses.

One of the pedestals showed the portrait of her father he had seen upstairs, and it bore a pendant and a few faded letters. Another bore a tricorn and a pair of old pistols which he, again, recognized from their portrait. Another painting showed a bald vampire in lamellar armor standing proudly, holding an old-fashioned shield and a pistol. Said shield rested against the pedestal next to a black axe made of steel, this one mundane. Possibly a reproduction.

There were other memorials around, holding personal belongings of the deceased. The thief felt a pang of envy for he would not be remembered, and a pang of guilt at his own transgression. That was why he avoided houses when he could. It felt too personal.

Without so much as a whisper, the thief moved on. Another corridor, shorter, led to the main exposition hall, its door hidden behind a drawn curtain.

That room was large and well-lit with a polished parquet floor that reflected the sculpted ceiling. He remembered his strict instructions.

Under no circumstances should he look up. To do so would make him lose focus until the vampire came to pick him up. He had a capsule of cyanide ready for that eventuality but little hope to use it on time. He would not look up. The safety of his daughter depended on it.

He walked past a massive canvas with his head resolutely down, and still, despite knowing of the dangers, despite his own self-control, it called to him. Whispered of sights the likes of which he’d never seen. This one spoke of a tide of wolves descending upon their captors. It spoke of snow, blood, and a hunt like no other. The moon. The moon was calling him, she who had witnessed so many of his misdeeds. Drool pooled on his tongue. No more hiding. No more shackles. Tear it all and KILL—

“No,” the thief whispered in the silence.

No, that wasn’t him. He was the hand in the dark but he didn’t draw blood. He just wanted peace for himself and his daughter. No knives in the night. Step by step, just like that. The next painting involved three armies fighting by the sea, moved by hidden hands. Its draw was less because the thief had never been a military man, nor a man prone to groups. He was a loner through and through.

Deeper, he walked.

The sky opened and witnessed a charge the likes of which the world had never seen. The seas rose to devour the intruder. Wolves hunted to take down rivals. Humans, always the rock, resisted the intruders from a fortress built by their own hands. The apex predators of the world faced a beast the size of a hill and a tide without number but there was no fear in their hearts, because they were WITHOUT MATCH.

He had nothing to fear, because he was at the top of the food chain and the NIGHT WAS —

The thief bit his tongue, not too hard. The pain was enough to center him once more. The paintings’ effects felt so strong. Escaping one just meant entering another one’s orbit. A painting spoke of wings, the void, and a dance so alien it barely nudged his spirit. It felt like walking on a bridge of a glass over an endless abyss, knowing a heavier person would break it and fall. It was his own insignificance that saved him.

The last one was the one he was looking for. He didn’t have to look. It could not be any other. The night sky called to him, and the alien object here was the reason his client had wanted the painting to begin with. It was also much smaller than the others.

The man looked up, barely stopping his eyes at a gorgeous night sky and the signature ‘Ariane’ discreetly tucked in a corner. That had to be it. He picked that one and placed it on the ground, cutting the canvas away from the frame with dexterity before rolling it. It had lasted less than three seconds and he was placing the tube on his back when a heavy clanking sound came from the predatory house.

The thief didn’t think. He sprinted. The main door to the exposition hall opened behind him just as he left from a side door.

“Lock.”

The door wasn’t spelled, thank god. It closed shut and not a moment too soon.

Thud. Thud. Thud. THUD. THUD.

No sooner had he turned to race again that a mechanical limb holding a scythe smashed through it, sending wooden shrapnel against his back.

It was a golem, a freaking female-looking golem with a smile showing a vicious, overly large smile and lithe limbs of silvery metal. It was lightweight for a golem and quite fast.

“Fuck.”

The thief sprinted with all he had while his pursuer methodically thrashed the obstacle. He took the corner at full speed, almost crashing against a strange banner made of skin. Had to get to the back door. Only way. He hoped it could be unlocked from the inside. It was just there. There was a key on the side. He grabbed it. At the same time, the golem reached the corridor with a loud thud.

That sculpted smile froze the blood in his veins.

In a moment of desperate inspiration, the man grabbed a shawl from a nearby pedestal and tossed it, expecting the golem to prioritize the asset. It did. It took a dive and grabbed the rolled shawl before it could fall, unaware that the shawl itself was not at risk. The thief rushed through the open door, slamming it behind him. He raced to the fence and the golem did not pursue. An alarm blared in the distance. He was really on borrowed time now. With one last effort, he scaled the fence and dropped on the other side, using a bit of peppermint oil to mask his smell tracks. He was gone before the few guards discovered the intrusion.

As the thief moved away, he summarized the plan in his head. A successful heist was not enough. One had to avoid pursuit as well, and who knew what a cold-blooded, patient predator could achieve?

***

SOMEONE STOLE MY STUFF.

AAAAAAAAAAARRRG.

When I find them, I will peel their skin off to use as lampshade. I will roast them on a large grill and baste them in their own grease. How dare they dare they dare they dare they INTRUDE ON MY LAIR. THIEVES. RASCALS.

“Are you alright, Ariane?”

“No.”

“Look, I can bend metal!”

I look at Constance who still marvels about the incredible abilities my stolen Constantine bloodline and the power I grant her let her achieve. Yes, yes, you are very strong. Heh. It is true that we select Servants to help us maintain our humanity. She is just too precious. Like an immortal toddler.

It is almost enough to make me forget I will find every last one of those cockroaches and make them pay. How dare they? HOW DARE THEY? And at a time I was out to defend our planet from depredation. They have no shame, no shame at all. Scandalous. The entire country is going to the dogs.

“Why are you grumbling?”

“I am not! And someone stole my stuff.”

“Oh. Don’t worry, I will help you.”

I feel better already.

I wait for my ship to return to earth, then order it on a direct course for Marquette. This injustice shall not stand.

It is still night when I arrive a few hours later. I jump down to see the pale face of my current head of guards, a mortal man who shivers in his boots.

“I already know someone broke in. Was it a burglary?” I ask, precluding any apologies.

“We don’t know because we didn’t get in… as per your orders,” he replies, terrified.

“What can you tell me about the intruders and what about pursuits?”

“One intruder. We can tell he entered from the north-west side by pole vaulting over the perimeter fence. He left in a sprint after triggering the alarms, but it took time to find his tracks in the dark and by that time he was gone. He used some sort of scent bomb to disorient dogs and werewolves, perhaps. One of Jeffrey’s patrols picked up that scent at the edge of town heading east towards Fairfield. They’re in pursuit.”

“Hmm.”

Fortunately, the culprit did not head north or south, preferring to stick to small roads. It would be impossible to find him in Chicago, not with so many smells and so many train lines. Perhaps he does not know the limits of our capabilities?

“I’ll check the house. In the meanwhile, find me the latest about their location. And have a mage charge those anti gravitic crystals!”

“What about me?” Constance asks.

“What about you? Go to sleep.”

“Like hell I will.”

Pah, I have no time for unruly mortals. As expected, the thief entered through the window to the world seed garden. At least they didn’t damage it. Hmm, perhaps I should enchant the inner doors to be locked when the main entrance is to avoid the entire collection being compromised.

I follow the tracks of foreign magic to the main hall where Pookie greets me with hungry guilt.

“OoooOOoooOOOoooOOOoo.”

“Not to worry,” I tell her in Likaean, “I will get you something soon. It was not your fault.”

“Oh.”

The intruder mage is male, a mage, mature and cautious. His lingering essence tastes of control and precision in a way that reminds me of Hopkins, the previous White Cabal Black Dog and the only mortal who almost blew me up. I retrace his steps with boiling rage to the armory which he left intact, then downstairs to the graves which he also left untouched, and then to the main hall.

He stole a painting of the Watcher. Not my best one either.

Hmmm.

The anger I felt simmers down until I feel more impressed than really furious. I need to find him and send a message, of course, but to be honest, I am more amazed than furious now. What an amazing display of skill. And he clearly did not know about Pookie since he lingered on the threshold. My, what an asset. I simply must meet him.

I tsk when I realize my golem broke a door which I will have to replace. That is fine. I should probably replace them all anyway. Outside, Constance is waiting with a communication mage.

“He had a horse ready. The wolves lost his track when he crossed the border towards Indiana. We think he switched to a ship on the Wabash river.”

“Going north?”

“It seems likely. I asked Jeffrey if he could help. He said he’d go himself, check every ship for pungent peppermint if he had to.”

Using a scent bomb might be useful in the short run, and it is a tactics mages use on occasion. They often forget that unless they manage to hide in a large city, there is a critical period of time before the scent fades when they are vulnerable to tracking. It takes a single droplet.

In the meanwhile, I mobilize everything I have to find him. Urchin and John leave on their nightmares while teams of red cabal members scour the plains. I want this man found. We have a direction. Now, it is only a matter of matching my means with his.

My ship finds the river soon enough, and my communication mage directs me to a small pack under Jeffrey. Unfortunately, they found the thief’s discarded suit, most of it burnt to a crisp. The man got changed, which was smart of him. I try to detect traces of my painting but find none. I suspect he might be using a sealed container that blocks the essence.

It can be frustrating to deal with competent adversaries, but that is fine. I can be patient.

With dawn soon approaching, I order my men to find the boat that took him, assuming the person to be a local. There are not that many ships on this branch of the Wabash, and even less capable of mooring in such shallow waters. I suspect we are dealing with a local. Now, it is only a matter of asking the right questions. I decide to give a bounty of fifty dollars for anyone with useful tips, then go to slumber.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep looking while you get your beauty sleep. I won’t let that man rob us,” Constance assures me.

Her power grants her improved stamina, but I still ask her to rest whenever possible.

“Don’t worry, I’ll have breakfast before getting to work. I’ll sleep as soon as you can take over! You can count on me.”

I nod in appreciation, then retire for the day.

***

Constance enters my sealed compartment with a map and an attitude. She moves aside two sheets of paper and a fancy pen with grandiose ceremony before slamming down a map of Indiana like some adventurer in a bodice-ripper. She seems quite pleased with herself despite the deepening pockets under her eyes.

“I think we got him! So, we found an old gossip called Mrs. Williamson living with her husband on the shore and she noticed her neighbor’s boat ‘coming and going at unchristian hours’,” she says, mocking an old woman’s grumpy voice.

“And it was him. He was paid ten dollars to deliver our man upstream to Vincennes. Oh, we paid Mrs. Williamson for the information. She was pleased as a peach because her husband always told her keeping an eye on everyone was a waste of time. Thank god for busybodies!”

“And here I was hoping to solve this without committing atrocities…”

“Anyway, we tracked him to Vincennes. That’s a city north east of here.”

“I am familiar with the surrounding geography,” I tell her as I finish brewing my coffee. “What then?”

“He took a coach towards Indianapolis. We’re hanging over it.”

I almost slam the pot on the table.

“You found him?”

“Yep! It turns out that things are much easier with unlimited manpower, money, and a flying ship.”

“How very unexpected. Nevertheless, well done. I did not expect us to succeed so fast. In fact, I thought he might have escaped us.”

“But that’s the thing. Why not go north to Springfield or better, Chicago?”

“We can ask him when we interrogate him. Have you confirmed his presence aboard?”

“A man matching his description was spotted exiting the carriage during a break. He climbed back on immediately afterward. I directed a patrol there just in case. They found no tracks leading out, so he didn’t swap with someone else.”

“I see you have grown as paranoid as we are.”

“And I can assuage my concerns without stepping foot on the ground! Isn’t that grand?”

“It most certainly is. Now, to anticipate his next move. Hmm. Did he have a container with him?”

“A sort of tube made of leather he kept over his shoulder.”

“So he has not dropped it off. Hmmm. I honestly do not know what he intends to do. I suppose we shall see when night falls.”

***

The thief kept to small roads to leave the immediate vicinity of Marquette, then to fast horses, one nearby, and another on the road near a small farm. He switched to a boat around midnight, praying that the old man he’d bribed would still be there. He had, baited by money no doubt. The thief burnt his clothes despite their price and tossed his tools in the river. If everything worked well, it would be his last stunt anyway.

The boat trudged along the river slowly, frustratingly slow. The thief inspected the shore for pursuers but found none. Nevertheless, his mind played tricks on him. The forest was dark and menacing from here, hostile. Strange and alien, and none of the arguments that it was just childish fear worked to keep the terror at bay, because there were monsters. The thief had seen them.

He left the ship at dawn. Daphne was waiting for him in the boarding house he’d left her in. She smacked against his chest in her eagerness to hug him. They stayed there for a moment, but not too long. The hostess already cast suspicious glances their way owing to their ‘complexion’, no doubt. He was already lucky they accepted him in the post to Indianapolis, though some passengers turned their noses up when he climbed in.

The trip was as stressful as it was uneventful. No pursuers could be seen, no howls shook the leaves after them and for the first time, the thief allowed himself to breathe. Perhaps he had done it, outrunning the net his target was no doubt dragging around her fief. Perhaps he could lose himself in the populous cities of the east coast before she could make him lose his life. Now he only had to worry about the client.

He passed a hand over the bag by his side. If that man tried to get back on his word… well, he would see if an old dog couldn’t learn new tricks. His agent had made it clear the thief had no choice, but he had also offered a substantial reward.

“We know how to reward… uniquely qualified individuals… Mr. Adams.”

The thief would see if that was true.

Eventually, the coach stopped for the evening at a small town where the thief knew of a hotel that wasn’t too stringent with its guests. He paid for a room in advance and climbed the stairs. Night had fallen by now and he’d gone without much rest for almost two stressful days. It was time to catch a breather.

***

I drop from low altitude rather than engaging in the time-consuming activity of landing. I do not accost the burglar in the streets, especially because he has a girl with him. Clearly a relative. Instead, I wait for them to make their way to a nearby hotel then wait on the roof while they pick a room. I read the room number through my Magna Arqa, then locate it and crawl through the window as they climbed the narrow stairs up to the second floor. Then, it is just a matter of casting a simple shadow spell to mask my presence. I pick a rickety chair, sit down, and fluff my nice, blue travel dress. Sometimes, less is more. And there are few pieces of furniture capable of holding any of my suits of armor anyway.

The mortals seldom realize how much we work to appear to act effortlessly.

The thief checks the room. He would have detected me if I did not use some form of camouflage, which I find admirable but that his daughter apparently finds annoying.

“Dad, come on, don’t make it weird!”

Despite her supplications, the thief takes his time to enter. He is a black man of muscular proportions with graying temples, sad eyes, and the slight hunch of a man on his guard. No crosses. This might still be difficult, so I place both my hands on my lap before dropping the darkness spell.

“Ahem,” I say.

“FUCK!” the girl swears.

The burglar’s reaction is more contained yet more terrified at the same time. I could swear his heart skipped a beat.

“Oh sorry,” she tells her father.

I love it when the young ones stick to a proper language.

“Dad, are you okay?”

Nevermind.

“Please, can she go?” the man whispers.

I think he is on the verge of collapse.

“That will not be necessary, especially since the following conversation will concern her as well. To begin with, you will tell me who ordered the hit and where you were meant to deliver it.”

“If I tell you everything, you let her go.”

“Dad? What’s happening?”

“You are in no position to make demands of me, THIEF.”

The Likaean term escapes me. Outside, the town grows silent. I contain myself and realize the daughter is watching in horror.

“You… you stole from her? You told me you were doing a service to a friend! You said you’d stop stealing!”

“It’s complicated.”

“The hell it is!”

Oh, she is angry alright. I sit back and allow her to lay into her increasingly flabbergasted father, shrugging when he looks at me with confusion. I will not kill the pair. They are simply too precious. Why, I want to paint them, add them to my collection after a fashion. It is only fair.

After that, why, I want to know where my painting was meant to be exposed. I believe I might visit.

***

The old man stood with difficulty, a hand grasping his cane in a dead grip. Outwardly, he was a strong, venerable businessman whose acumen had not declined with time. Inside, every joint in his failing body tortured him, grinding against each other with every motion like so many gears grinding the cartilage to a pulp.

“Gentlemen, my dear friends. We all share various beliefs on the nature of art, is it not so?”

The dozen well-dressed men agreed in hushed tones. They held glasses they were more than eager to sample. The amber liquid had been poured from a cask of Macallan, aged eighteen years. The old man could barely taste it.

“Our more utilitarianist fellows would argue that art must serve the masses, or a cause, or some grand purposelike education or patriotism. Herr Konrad here mentioned that art should inspire the viewer to be a better man through the search for perfection. Proportions, forms, all must elevate the mind and call to the intellect. Our photographer friend Mr Hayes here would, I am sure, appreciate art as a form of chronicle. His silver captures the zeitgeist of an era for the edification of future generations. Indeed! I believe that what we can all agree on, is that we disagree on what art should be. And yet, we all agree that even the most scandalous painting is art. Bad art, to be sure. A waste of canvas, though rarely a waste of talent. It occurs to me that our difficulty comes from the transcendental nature of the artistic expression. You see, we do not appreciate art with our minds. We appreciate it with our souls.”

He could feel he was losing them. The old man held back a sigh. He did not have very long, and they didn’t see, couldn’t understand the implications of his words. Where he saw will triumphing over matter, they saw differently qualified workforce. Where he saw the possibilities of new worlds beyond the dead one, they saw untapped land ripe for mineral extraction — should the Merghol menace be contained.

He did not blame them, oh no. That very spirit had led them to success and wealth. In this society, he who grabbed fortune deserved receiving it, for God had meant it for them.

The old man wasn’t so sure. It didn’t matter. They would see soon enough.

“Gentlemen, minds like ours deserve more than words. They deserve proof. I present to you… the ineffable.”

The old man painfully pulled the rope, and the curtain was undone. It revealed a large painting that elicited a gasp in the assembly. The men were all shocked.

But not as shocked as the old man.

The eye was missing. The image depicted a strange apparatus on an altar, a horn of some sorts, its edges blurry, its lines melting into each other until he was sure they could not exist in an Euclidean environment. Glyphs went on and off along his edge, yet he could not land his eyes on one as they seemed to fade while he searched for them. A good quarter of the painting was gone. Or rather, it was painted a black so thick, so abysmal, that it felt like a hole in the world itself. There were whispers here, but none he could decipher.

The painting showed a key… but that key was beyond his grasp.

No, that was not quite correct. The painting was a lock.

He was confined outside.

Clearly, the cold ones had a sense of humor.

The old man chuckled though it was brief. A vague sense of dread filled his heart just as he turned his head to the assistant who had unwittingly betrayed him. The younger lad stood by the door with the expected vacant expression. By his side, a tall man with smooth features and carefully combed black hair lifted his top hat in greeting. Pale, aristocratic features were complimented by a suit where not a single button was out of place.

The old man walked to him, though every step was a torture. He would not allow himself to falter.

The cold one’s grasp was cold, firm, yet soft enough to spare his delicate knuckles.

“Good evening, Mr Marshall,” the cold one greeted. “My name is Isaac of the Rosenthal. If you would grant me a moment of your time, I have a proposal that might be of interest to you.”

“What sort of proposal?”

The cold one smiled.

“Ingress.”