A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

I wake up expecting the worst only to be pleasantly surprised. I lie in a comfortable bed, head resting on a plump pillow and one hand placed on my belly. I feel the caress of a silk slip on my skin. Nothing restrains me, chains or otherwise.

Somewhere to my front and left, the susurrus of paper being turned breaks the silence. Without moving, I slightly open my eyes to take in my surroundings.

Somebody brought me to an extravagant bedroom of good size. The light of candelabras gives it a cozy feeling, and shows an interesting choice of decorations. All the paintings reveal a virginal woman in a white dress resting near a lake. Melancholy seeps into every rendition, even though each work was made by a different artist. Whoever decorated this room placed an emphasis on interpretation rather than on the subject itself.

I notice this in an instant, then turn to the person currently sitting at the edge of my bed. He places a page marker in a small leather-covered book before hiding it in an inner pocket of his dark coat. His gloved hand retrieves a golden pocket watch, which he checks, before turning to me.

I take a moment to taste his aura. I have no doubt that he is powerful, yet his presence eludes me. The essence is extremely diffuse, with a vaporous quality that teases and disappears just as I grasp it. He wears an impeccable black suit under a dark coat with a brown vest and red tie. With his black hair and beard, he might have been threatening, and yet his smile as he talks to me would disarm even the most skittish of maidens. He is more like a handsome, sharp doctor than a dangerous predator. Even the amused glint in his dark brown eyes lacks bite.

The oath settles without issue.

I frown. Of course, there always is.

Seeing my incomprehension, the man elaborates.

I wait until the door closes before jumping to my feet.

I am fine, completely healed, in fact. And clean. Someone even took the time to brush and dry my hair before delicately positioning me in bed, in a very artistic posture. I confirm what my instincts told me. Nothing binds me. Unfortunately, I cannot refuse the hospitality of my host for two reasons.

First, the only free exit is protected by thick shutters, on the other side of which is the sun.

Second, I know of Jean-Baptiste. He is a renowned warlord of Mask, not just the Roland, but the actual alliance. His Magna Arqa fills his foes with abject terror. He is also the only known scythe-wielder among our kind. Naminata informed me that he was nicknamed The Reaper, though never to his face, and that he was entirely monogamous.

If The Reaper wants me to attend a party, I will attend the party. I do not stand a chance against one such as he. He stands at the apex of power and martial prowess in the world. Amusingly, he does not feel that way. I would call him debonair and suave despite the underlying threat, as if we were both merely victims of unfortunate circumstances and he had decided to make the best of it.

With a sigh, I move around and find an open chest at the base of the bed, which contains a white dress that I put on. The dress itself is rather complicated, and it takes me ten minutes to finish setting up everything by myself. Several layers of fabric contribute to a typically Victorian ensemble with a modest cleavage being the only concession to modernity. Every layer is made of different cloth, all of them bone-white, in a curious monochromatic harmony that relies on relief to create contrast. I like it. It is also almost my size.

At the bottom of the chest, I find two masks and a note.

The first accessory would not look out of place on a cheap stall for Mardis-gras celebrations. The second is my war mask. Chipped. Damaged. Heavily enchanted. An instrument of combat whose owner survived many battles.

I will not attend a masquerade wearing a debutante ball prop, thank you very much.

Now set, I exit into a gaudy corridor. Jean-Baptiste waits on a nearby seat with his book.

Corentin turns out to be a young man with angelic features, complete with golden curls, and a terrible case of the nerves. I soothe his mind and feed lightly, as it appears that he is rather inexperienced. I leave the satisfied youth asleep in his bed.

The corridor leads to a massive entrance, also shuttered, as well as a most peculiar candelabra. Someone is affixed to it in a very uncomfortable position, though probably not as uncomfortable as having his body skewered by multiple barbed steel spikes. Black blood seeps from his many wounds and, as I pass, I hear a weak moan.

We climb down marble stairs in the dim glow of gas lights to a locked entrance. My host leads me down a hidden path through a wine cellar, then through a secret passage hidden behind a fake wine barrel of monumental proportions.

I frown at the non sequitur but remember that he cannot see my expression behind the mask.

Jean-Baptiste turns to me then, his eyes searching my own.

I know what he means. We usually save the incomprehensible situations and theatrics for the mortals. And speaking of theatrics, the passage we follow descends into the darkness through stairs cut into the very rock. We soon approach a dead-end, the end wall emitting a powerful aura. Another secret passage.

Jean-Baptiste bows with a flourish, then, without breaking eye contact, presses a secret panel that depresses to show the symbol of Mask.

Corny does not do the mechanism justice. I struggle to find an appropriate euphemism.

The lord graces me with a smile, and it feels strangely genuine.

We walk through the revealed passage into a new area, this one significantly older. The air here smells damp and slightly rotten, the cause immediately apparent. We stand in a corridor harboring a multitude of alcoves, into which skeletons lie in neat, ordered rows. Stacks of skulls, bundles of tibia, mountains of ribs, and plains of knuckles alternate with each other to form a grim landscape of ancient, yellowed remains. I stop to inspect the show with curiosity. The remains are so ancient, and so anonymous, that they become a morbid background rather than dead people. I had no idea that such a place existed.

“We are in the catacombs, below the Rive Gauche, the southern part of the city. We did not create it, mind you. It was used to store the mountain of old human remains buried across the city around sixty years ago. Dominique found the setting simply too tempting. We have co-opted it as a result.”

Jean-Baptiste leads me deeper into the warren of stone and bones. The passages quickly expand until every room becomes cavernous. The air gains an unnaturally cold quality as we move on, and I find myself enjoying it tremendously. Such an original setting! I wish I could take the time to make a few drawings. Perhaps later.

Our journey continues through winding tunnels until my guide stops before an innocuous pile of grinning skulls that nothing differentiates from the others.

He retrieves from behind it the head of a wolf, as dark as the night. I only realize its nature when he puts it on. The threatening maw is particularly convincing, and his eyes gain a wolfish quality.

I roll my eyes at the antics, and am graced with a rumbling laugh.

I finally notice how he orients himself when I realize that unknown symbols have been engraved on every arc. I would be lost without hope of rescue, were it not for my nature. The honeycomb of chambers and passages hides many secret entrances, easily discernible for those who can perceive magic. As we go on, I find the first irregularity since we started our little trek: a large arrow painted on the packed earth of the ground in luminescent paint.

Our feet have finally led us to a monumental entrance. Wrought iron twisted in intricate patterns contrasts with the crimson rosewood essence to create a red and black scenery. A doomed man beseeches a beautiful and terrible goddess, who ignores his advances as her gaze travels up. A pair of perfect sapphires were inserted where her eyes would. They shine, azure, under the glow of nearby torches.

I am not familiar with metalworking for the sake of art. I can even spot a few places where flaws have escaped the artists’ attention, and yet, the sheer emotion captured by this work grabs at my mind with the frantic grasp of the desperate. It embodies everything we have lost and still admire in mankind, the drive, the originality, the unfettered genius. Emotions, raw and pure, radiate from it in waves that force my attention to dart from one detail to another, from one loving twist to another obsessed hammering. I stand in the presence of greatness.

Jean-Baptiste tugs on my sleeve, and I blink.

We approach and I notice a single wardrobe sat on the side against the wall. It is partially open and contains a single male white suit.

I let him open the gate and walk in.

If I still had a breath, it would have caught on my chest now. To call the place I find myself in grandiose would be a massive understatement. It is… incredible.

Under a ceiling that could fit a cathedral, a chamber of pharaonic proportion stretches far into the distance, leading to an elevated platform of white marble. The ground expands in a myriad of tiles of various sizes that still manage to fit perfectly. Columns as large as redwoods expand up, while stalactites climb down like so many swords of Damocles. Every inch of walls is engraved with chthonian scenes and alien landscapes, all unpainted grey, all bearing the touch of madness. At regular intervals, wood panels lit by candles show intriguing and unique portraits or sculptures in a succession of masterpieces that no mortal museum could match. A set of stairs lead to a balcony on the left side that allows its occupants to dominate the crowd.

And what a crowd it is.

In pairs or groups, vampires in white uniforms mingle with silent grace. Masks as varied as can be, hide their features in a clash of styles and tastes. Comedy masks, tragedy masks, veils and visors. Beasts and kings and gods and monsters. Assyria meets Rome while Guinea courts Russia in a dizzy dance of colors. It is, also, perfectly silent. All the guests sign with their hands at blinding speeds that only we can follow. Spread fans hide meaning from questing eyes, and the drone of moving fabric is the only noise, for no one here is a mortal.

Jean-Baptiste breaks my line of sight just as I am about to lose myself in a deliciously insane interpretation of the Last Supper. He extends a hand which I automatically take, and we move onward.

To the right and on the opposite side of the balcony, someone created an otherworldly pond filled with transparent water. Luminescent mushrooms and algae dance a chimeric rondo in step with the beat of a fountain, pulsing like a giant heart as it bleeds water. Vampires move and part before us in an organic fashion, and I realize why. My guide still wears black, save for the single scarlet dash of his tie. It gives the wolf mask an edge.

I am led to the base of the stairs and let through by a pair of powerful lords wearing identical masks in the likeness of sphinxes. We climb up, and the hum of conversation pops out of nowhere as soon as we are on the steps. It appears that the privileged section of the assembly prefers speech, though they do not share it. Lady Dominique is throwing me a bone by inviting me among the hallowed ranks of vampire nobility, if only for a night.

We top the landing, and I finally lay my eyes on the cream of the crop. Contrary to the uniform white below, the assembly here shows more color, though they maintain the monochromatic spirit of the evening. A burly man in red turns to look at me with a scowl barely disguised behind a kingly mask, also red except for stylized black curls in the hair and beard. A lithe lady in a blue gown and a very thin mask of a siren gives me an imperceptible nod before the pair returns to their previous conversation. As I pass, I feel the echo of Lancaster essence coming from her. A few other guests in white mingle around them, as well as another trio of dignitaries that we quickly join.

I see a tall, muscular man in green with a mask seemingly grown from roots to give him a monstrous appearance complete with a haunting smile. I taste a hint of Erenwald forest on him. His deep blue eyes glance over me without reaction. Next is a curious man with the thin build of a fencer and the tiniest hint of a potbelly. His costume is purple and atrociously extravagant, a mix between gaudy prince and jester, with a grinning full mask and a clown hat with two jutting, pointy black ends. He is jumping excitedly from foot to foot in a decidedly unvampiric way.

The center of the group, unmoving and aloof, is a vampire that can only be Lord Dominique.

And I finally understand why I was told multiple times that deciding on her? His? Their sex, was up for discussion. Dominique wears yellow and gold, with a top hat and the most androgynous face I have ever seen ‘hidden’ behind a thin domino mask.

I believe I will go with ‘he’.

He has a delicate face with a slightly squarish chin and prominent cheekbones, as well as hooded brown eyes. He twirls in his hand a silver and ebony cane showing a tiny spider. Blond hair falls to his shoulders in a delicate mess, slightly wavy, and looking deliciously soft. A loose jacket hides what could be small breasts or undeveloped ones. It tapers to a thin waist and dancers’ legs. Dominique is by far the most androgynous being I have ever seen. He smiles as he sees us.

Dominique’s voice is a husky alto as smooth as syrup, a voice to fall asleep to, or to sin with.

I stop at a few feet and curtsy in the court-approved way. Thankfully, we have adopted the standard customs of our European cousins, and protocol comes to me naturally.

I bow to the master of ceremony, who returns the greeting with ostentation.

I expect the Erenwald to lash out, yet he simply nods in understanding, his goal achieved. I do not know the first thing about him, while he knows the name of my Nightmare, which I do not share overmuch. The imbalance of information caught me off guard and set the pecking order. He managed it in one sentence.

This is common knowledge. I am not revealing anything that would endanger him.

I do not react at the cheap jab.

The peculiar man takes a step back and lightly jumps on the bannister — without looking — and levitates to the stage. I have no idea what kind of magic does that, but I admit to being impressed. And slightly put off by such a blatant violation of the laws of nature.

Maximilien bows to the assembled vampires and saunters away. Dominique steps to the edge of the balcony and settles to wait. I join his right side while Luther takes the left. The edge of a powerful aura brushes my back and I do my best not to react to the feeling of imminent danger I feel from the light contact. The man in red silently steps to my own right, regal mask aimed frontwards. He tastes of Roland, and so old that his polar aura seeps through the skin to my very bones. If I were mortal, I would be shivering.

The door opens to reveal a surprise.

A human walks in.

I observe the curious scene with interest as it unfolds before my eyes.

The mortal wears the disguise that was left by the entrance as he hesitantly makes his way through the silent crowd. His brown eyes dart nervously from one guest to another as they sign and snap their fans close. Nobody shows any clue that they noticed what he is, and he moves on, oblivious to the fact that his thundering heartbeat resonates in the ears and minds of hundreds of apex predators. A chick in a wolf den.

As he moves on, some of the vampires in his trail pause, their finger dances faltering. Soon, I realize why as his unique scent makes its way to me.

I have never tasted such despair before. The raw, intense anguish he suffers from would have sent a lesser man screaming. The thrum of the blood pumping under his skin beats a staccato that forces me to clench my jaw shut, for his essence would be a prize like no other. He is probably living the single most intense moment of his life. I fear that he may die from the nerves before the next five minutes have passed. A small wave spreads through the crowd, imperceptible from the mass, yet obvious from my vantage point. They know. They wait for the climax.

And it comes.

From behind the elevated pedestal to my left, a curtain lifts and Maximilien struts in with two guards in sphinx masks. They pull a young woman between them. She is dressed in a beautiful rose gown, and her curly brown hair is raised in a chignon that reveals her tender neck. She is pretty, but quite lost as she gazes left and right with widened eyes.

The man gasps as she is brought forward. Emotional distress like no other saturates the air.

“Mesdemoiselles et messieurs,” Maximilien says in French, “I have the pleasure of introducing the first attraction of the night! A game of skill for the most precious of prizes: Mireille Desmoulins, the beloved daughter!”

His use of the local vernacular can only be for the benefit of our breathing little intruder. Indeed, the reveal soon follows.

“And for our participant, I give you the retired soldier, the washed-out sharpshooter, the bereaved father, Alexandre Desmoulins!”

As one man, the assembled vampires stomp their right feet on the ground, and turn towards the man with absolute uniformity. Those who are the closest also adjust their distance, so that the crying man falls in a geometrically exact circle of doom six feet across.

“Nom de dieu!”

The imprecation reverberates through the unmoving crowd, a veritable garden of white statues as pitiless and remorseless as winter itself. Not even a strand of hair flutters to betray that the spectacle before him is not an impossibly realistic image. My hands grip the stone beneath, for the terrible sense of doom the man emits has now reached an intoxicating intensity. Fear and love battle in his harried mind. The wafts of terror tug at my instincts, and I thank Jean-Baptiste in my mind for allowing me to feed before coming.

“Alexandre mon coeur, it was perhaps unwise of you to default on your debts, yes? But since we are a generous sort, and so much enjoy a good story, you will be granted an opportunity to redeem yourself. Why, we do not ask for much, only that you participate in a little… contest.”

The two guards drag Mireille to the side. One of them lifts a finger and a stone column emerges from the very ground of the platform rising up until it tops the tallest of men. They attach the addled woman to it, including the neck to keep her head stable.

Meanwhile, Maximilien takes out a round, scarlet apple from the recess of his vest. Where he hid it, I have no idea. He tosses it in the air as he continues his speech.

“Tell me, you must be familiar with the story of Guillaume Tell, yes?”

Aha, I get it now.

“No, mercy…”

And so does Alexandre. I know Guillaume Tell, or rather William Tell’s story from an opera by Rossini. He was a Swiss folk hero who, forced by a cruel Austrian reeve, proved his incredible marksmanship… by shooting an apple off the head of his son.

“Tut tut tut tres cher. Surely a proof of skill would not be too much to ask of you, who claimed he had shot through every hole of a horseshoe at eight meters.”

Another guard brings an elaborate wooden box with silver engravings. Maximilien opens it, and picks up a master-crafted pistol, which he brandishes above his head.

“Come and accept my challenge, or refuse, and you both die.”

The momentum of the event relies on Alexandre being decisive, and he is. The retired soldier gulps noisily, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He drags his stress-wracked form across the room but collapses as soon as he steps on the pedestal. The focused gazes of so many lands on his back, to see if their prey will stand up and offer some fun, or if the hunt has drawn to a close.

And in a way, it is a proper hunt. Despite the artifices and cruelty, the prey stands a chance, technically, in a contest of wit and skill. He failed the contest of wit in a spectacular fashion, and the contest of skill is off to a very poor start. Nevertheless, I find no fault in Maximilien’s trap.

Alexandre picks a pistol and turns to his captive daughter, now sporting a new fruity hat. His arm waivers before he even aims.

A few heads tilt, but no one sees the need to gather undue attention.

I freeze. The spell that had withheld the sound of conversation from the balcony lifted as soon as he spoke. His smooth baritone rings clearly, and I find hundreds of masks now facing us.

A hundred gazes fall on Luther and glide away like water off oil. No one would dare play with an ambassador during a peace celebration, and so, they move left to the other stranger in their midst.

For one moment, I wonder how they know who I am behind the mask, but the mystery is soon resolved when I peek right and meet the implacable glare of the man in red.

Interesting. I have an inkling that I may have found my enemy among the Roland. As to why he antagonizes me, I have no idea. I seem to remember from one of Nami’s lessons that Bertrand is a faction leader among the ranks of Mask, but I fail to see how it relates to me.

As to the challenge itself, I fully intend to answer it. I already proved that I could fight. Let no man think that brawn is my only strength.

Not that I intend to lose.

I take a step back and move alongside the balcony to my left, then I use power to jump off the rails and directly on the platform, legs bent during the flight so as not to expose more than a stockings-covered ankle. I land in a crouch and turn it into a curtsey as I unfold. Applauses welcome my daring entrance, as well as the stupidity of calling the powerful man’s gamble, I suppose. They can be appreciative. It costs them nothing.

Alexandre quivers at my inhuman display, but I soon approach him and address him in his own language. I take the time to articulate every word with care.

“Forgive my accent, for I come from far away. I will assist you in your task,” I calmly state. At the same time, I let my Charm radiate out and catch him slowly.

Revulsion wars with hope in the father’s cracking mind. Eventually, he realizes that any port is good in a storm. He accepts me, and in turn, my influence grows.

The Lancaster essence was the first one I collected, one that I have used with diligence over the past few decades. I have seldom resorted to the brute power it afforded me. Instead, I have built upon the patience and understanding I possessed even as a mortal.

I have never let myself grow complacent.

Under the inspired guidance of a true master, I have honed this skill to a deadly edge, never settling for mediocrity when style could be achieved. With my natural speed, Charm is, I believe, the ability that I had the most natural talent for. After all, power is a crutch.

I pull a handkerchief from the man’s breast pocket, conveniently added for the disguise. I grab one hand and clean it slowly. Alexandre takes a deep breath as I give each finger its attention, pulling on them lightly as I am done.

“Is it true? The horseshoe story?” I ask, as I carefully maneuver so that his back is to the silent assembly. From up close, the stench of nervous sweat almost overwhelms me. He truly was on the verge of a heart attack.

“Yes… Yes, though, it was an old one with only three holes. But yes, I did it. And at eight meters.”

“Is that so? Tell me about it.”

I let the man recollect the experience as I slowly, slowly seep deeper into his mind. The trick is to eat at the present while leaving the past alone. For that, I need him to focus on a specific memory that I know I must not touch.

“I was on my cousin’s farm near Aix-en-Provence. It was summer. The air smelled of lavender and dust. I had my old pistol that I won at the Saint-Germain fair.”

Deeper still. His breath slows down, his back straightens. The tremors in his limbs, which had previously wracked his body in their unyielding grasp, disappear progressively. I conjure in his mind the peculiar smell of the flower and he shivers. I pause then. If he relaxes too quickly, he may collapse.

“Were you trying for a record?”

“Yes, a bet with a local girl whom I had taken a fancy to. I failed the first time and she left when she saw that I would not stop, could not stop, until I had placed those three damn bullets in those three damn holes. I knew I could do it. I was so close. So I repeated it, again, and again. Load the gun. Shoot the gun. Clean the gun. I attained a sort of… spiritual state of perfection.”

“Describe it to me.”

“It was… everything felt more alive, but also more distant? I was not just my body, I was something else. My gestures became part of a ritual.”

I slowly place the gun in his hand, feeling the calloused skin as I do so. They are not as precise or stable as they used to be, but the skill and memories are still there, buried under the constraints of his imperfect flesh. We just need to call them to the surface. He will never return to that moment, yet the memory of it will carry us through this ordeal.

“I think I saw God that day.”

“Everything felt so smooth, yes? As if it had to happen. It was fate.”

“Yes. Fate.”

“And compared to that, shooting an apple would be so easy.”

“At the same distance? Hah! Child’s play.”

Time for power. He must not see his daughter for longer than an instant or his focus may waver. I place both hands on each side of his big, honest face, and turn him forward to the target. He can only see my mask.

“You remind me of Marthe. She was my wife.”

Ah, oops? A bit too deep. I withdraw from his psyche and focus on the memory of the gun. It is almost too late, but not quite. I will grant him a few moments of absolute focus.

“Show me perfection, Alexandre. The red apple.”

He nods and I step to the side.

From a broken, mature man, he turns into a lethal fighter in an instant. One step forward and his posture relaxes. The gun lowers in his extended arm. In half a second, the barrel has aligned with its target.

Alexandre pulls the trigger with casual ease and the fruit explodes into juicy fragments. Mireille yelps.

The spell breaks.

“Mireille, ma chérie!"

The expensive gun clatters on the ground as the mortal sprints forward, towards family.

As for me, I face the crowd and bow.

Mask welcomes my performance with thunderous applause. Not a word is spoken, and yet I can feel grudging respect sneak through the restrained auras and controlled posture.

Something pulls at me. I look left and into the incredulous gaze of Alexandre. His daughter is crying against his chest.

I nod, and read the answer on his lips.

“Thank you.”

You are welcome, my big, blundering oaf. You just earned me a ship!

I drop down from the pedestal and walk back to the stairs. Groups graciously meld and part before me, closing behind like glue in a practiced dance that only centuries of habit can create. It is as he said.

We are just getting started.