A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

Boston, December 2nd, 1861

She smiles, like the cat who caught the bird that had been flitting around him. She makes no secret of her satisfaction.

I did not think that immobile people could grow even more immobile. The absence of motion in this room now defies the very laws of physics.

Sephare goes on to explain her ploy, how she sent different cache locations to different lords to see which ones would be breached. A few of the lords tilt their head, and I know that those are more curious than worried now.

I have come to bear witness to Sephare’s moment of triumph. For three weeks now, the tall, hawkish man and the petite blonde have engaged in a complex diplomatic dance with the prize being the conduct of the war. Yann leads the minority group preventing the majority of vampires from supporting the Union. Some of the recalcitrants have firm ideas about racial hierarchy. Others see no way for their holdings to survive the end of slavery in decent shapes. The last few, however, are mercenaries who consider the crisis as an opportunity to sell their votes. If the deadlock continues, our faction will be forced to pay them an astronomical prize for their allegiance. If it breaks, they will have gained nothing but our resentment. Theirs is a dangerous gamble. They do not seem to care.

Yann leads them.

As Sephare expected, the man believes himself as too smart for his own good, typical of those whose intellect only shines in the company of their lessers. He has looked down upon our community, and now the community has come to give back, in the person of a miffed Progenitor.

Constantine’s voice barely rises, and yet every other sound is silenced.

Constantine’s fist smacks against the liquid stone table. Its surface turns into a forest of glistening spikes, though none come to pierce his skin. Yann stops talking.

The Speaker’s unyielding manners remove the bluster from Yann, but not the pride.

I know of this facility very well. One my my fingers twitches. Behind me, Melusine’s hand presses against my back, out of sight of the others.

I almost want Yann to keep denying. The little prick deserves it.

Eventually, he realizes that his bluff is called.

Ten, twenty, thirty bloody chains of cruel magic erupt from Constantine and the walls. They cover the rebellious lord with blinding speed and through overwhelming numbers. To me, they feel… alive. They move organically like so many snakes. If Medusa was real, her hair would be like that. And Yann is caught in it.

The numerous slithering restraints tighten around the man as he mutters something. In a way, Constantine showed generosity. If he were innocent or misled, he could have used the opportunity to defend himself efficiently. Yann was neither innocent, nor misled. He was greedy.

The chains contract, then dismember him.

A purple light. Ash. The death of a lord.

Just like that.

Silence rules while we all feign indifference with varying degrees of success.

Eventually, all eyes now fall on the most awkward member of our congregation: Yann’s second. He is the only younger Master among us. His voice breaks the silence.

The nest of angry chains rattles in the air, their heavy links ignoring gravity altogether. I realize that more chains stand from the Speaker’s back, those black and void. I see a blade and a weight on either end.

Chains? What a curious soul weapon.

With Yann’s second reversing his position, we go one more round, and I almost expect his block to remain entrenched. It appears, however, that the opportunists in the Secession camp have felt the winds of change, and they vote with us.

It could have been the remains of their leader still staining the table.

In any case, the majority of two thirds has been reached. Constantine allows the Warden of Carolina to make a small declaration, and he announces that, in short, he will be heading out to new lands where proper racial order is still the norm. Constantine allows him to leave while his second immediately becomes the de facto leader. The deadlock has been resolved.

As before, we trickle out of the council chamber and retreat to our individual wings to discuss and scheme. To my surprise, Melusine requests that we speak together first, and we walk to my private chambers for a little discussion.

I frown.

I fail to see how that matters.

This… makes a surprising amount of sense. The main argument I was offered against repeater rifles was that soldiers would waste bullets. I found that stupid, but if someone is poorly trained and they fire their daily reserves of bullets in the first fifteen minutes of a day-long battle, I can see how this could lead to disaster. Especially if they tend to miss a lot.

Melusine has a keen sense of opportunities. I will trust her on that.

I nod, and she stands up to leave while I am left thinking. In our society, appearance is everything. I must strike a delicate balance between contributing to the war efforts, and being perceived as more than Sephare’s stooge. Ah well.

A knock on the door, and I am once more summoned to meet with our leaders.

To my surprise, I am not invited to Sephare’s personal quarters like last time, but to a floor deep within the fortress where I was quite sure there used to be a training room. It was converted into a strategic headquarter some time while I was gone. I enter through a secured door to find the heart of the war effort.

Constantine stands in front of a board with a complex assortment of documents linked together by strings, and complex runes in some alien construct that only he could interpret. Sephare and two of the Cadiz lords, Ceron and Suarez, inspect the massive map set on a central table. The walls of naked stone and blue magical lights lend the room a strange air, as on the map, the mundane and the secret mix. Two conflicts, four sides, and extremely high stakes.

For the first time in forever, my intuition activates outside of combat. I see the tiny dots showing troop concentrations superimposed with stylized chess pieces representing major vampire squads. They mix and merge in a strange dance, parallel yet separate at first, then things change. Then blue dots merge around the black ones, and some of the grey come as well. White, red, and black dots join the insane dance to form a defensive vortex, for something has come upon the map.

A grey mass of viscous fluid spreads across the land like a vile mold. It starts in villages, in faraway places and on forgotten battlefields, of which there will be many. It feeds upon the dead and dying. It harvests the forgotten, those who have been cut off. It spreads silently through remote valleys until all elements gather into an unstoppable tide, one of teeth and gnawing bones. It is too late then, too late.

Yes. This is right.

I blink. Everyone is staring at me.

I just outed myself.

Ceron and Suarez nod thoughtfully.

I am a bit at a loss. Between this and the thorn roots issue, there is much I need to explore, but there is no time now. Before I can further react, Sephare finishes what she was doing and drags me next to the table. She points at the center of the East Coast.

Melusine did warn me.

Her vehemence comes, once again, as a surprise.

She nods and returns her attention to her notes. I have been dismissed. Constantine accompanies me back to the entrance, robes swishing as he walks. He closes the door behind us.

One last nod, and he returns to the secured room.

***

We travel by carriage.

Gregory was neither surprised nor pleased by my imposed presence. He took my excuse of ‘safety’ as what it was: a thinly veiled insult against his loyalty. He knows that he deserves nothing more, and so we remain courteous as we move quickly south in the bitter cold of November. Even now, the influence of war is plain to see in the troops we come across, and the checkpoints we pass. The blue uniforms of Union soldiers abound. We even have to bypass Washington and its imposing fortifications. From then on, only our precious traveling documents guarantee that we can go on unimpeded. Sephare facilitated our trip by providing us with diplomatic documents, so that both sides believe us to be part of negotiation efforts.

Gregory proves himself to be an effective, if unimaginative organizer. His short brown hair and intelligent grey eyes give him the appearance of a junior negotiator, the kind that can be sent on a dangerous journey with little hope of success.

As the days go by and I grow increasingly impatient, we are finally stopped for a longer time near the border, in the southern part of Maryland.

I can hear arguments through the armored doors, though their thickness muffles even my senses. Eventually, there is a knock on the door from the driver’s side, one that signifies that the papers have been refused and that we are encountering difficulties.

Our carriage has an escort kindly provided by my host. For a moment, I had considered calling for a red cabal group and some of my own security, then decided against it. If we run into a trap, I fear that I might not see my own men as expendable. If I am to run, I need to leave no one behind or I might hesitate. As for my safety during the day, I have prepared precautions, one of which being my old sarcophagus made by Loth and further reinforced by Constantine himself, at my request.

The man at the head of our escort now fulfills his role of delaying the carriage inspection. He has several tools at his disposal, such as asking to telegraph Washington to confirm our identity. Most people would consider this proof enough, yet twilight comes and we are still stopped.

As the sun sets below the horizon, Gregory walks to unlock the secure compartment we are in. It would take a lot to destroy it, but we are still relatively vulnerable during transport. No sooner is the door unlocked that a clamor sounds from outside, and a man is allowed to clamber in.

I take in a youthful appearance, a moustache, stubble, and the typical uniform of the Union cavalry corps. Our little intruder has two crossed swords on his kepi as well as the emblematic saber of mounted troops, complete with a heavy cloak to protect him from the frigid temperatures. He keeps his blade sheathed, for now.

Gregory and I sit at a table, looking on as the little mortal struts in.

“Some diplomatic mission this is, they have a pretty lady in here!”

The young one smells of anger and pride. Gregory tsks, the intrusion on his territory made more frustrating by our guest’s poor manners. He has to react.

“My men must have produced the proper documentation. Do you have cause to delay us?”

“A group of negotiators between the rebels and us? At this time of the year? I don’t think so!”

“And that is why,” Gregory deadpans, “you are a cavalryman, and not a diplomat.”

The brash young one takes a step forward as Gregory rises to meet him. The Roland Master’s graceful movement takes some wind off the young one’s sails, and his arrogance further deflates when he notices the knife, currently in its holster. Gregory’s sheer confidence and a hint of Charm are enough to force a step back.

“You should know when you are in over your head, boy.”

The point is hammered home.

“Enough of this, get out of there Peter” another voice says from outside. Now, someone else climbs to join us as the soldier steps down. I notice the broad-brim hat of a cavalry officer. His countenance is calmer, and colder, than that of his subordinate. A pair of blue eyes settle on both of us in turn. Frost clings to his sideburns. I find myself curious as to why he would make trouble for himself.

A moment later and I know why. He wears a crucifix which even now emits a powerful deterrent. He does not approach us.

Interesting.

Gabrielites have withdrawn from the public after several years of intensive hunts on our parts. Churches in Europe are united and mighty. There are entire compounds and monasteries dedicated to fighting the likes of us for centuries, and they offer the kind of safe haven that we could not take without a full-blown war, one we do not wish to start lest it brings embarrassing questions. In America, the land has not belonged to christianity for very long. There are still old magics to fight off, and the only refuges the Gabrielites can find are small and reclusive. We are winning. We have been winning for quite some time, and I had a part to play in it.

Instead, our foes have gone to ground and they still recruit in secret, but their ability to conduct large-scale operations like the ones that almost killed me as a fledgeling has faded over the years. We are still, apparently, not entirely free of them. I can see it in the man’s eyes. He knows of what we are. He must have been partially trained.

I interrupt Gregory with a hand on his shoulder as he starts to speak. He has not realized yet what we face, and I am in no mood to explain.

I taste fear in the air, as well as its counterpart: courage. The officer blocks the entrance like David facing Goliath below the walls of Jericho. I doubt that the outcome will favor him this time.

I take one moment to make sure that the outside is silent, and that no one is attaching explosives under our wheels. That would be mildly unpleasant.

“I have found you,” the officer declares with an unwavering voice. He takes a step forward and hesitates.

I bet he never expected to come this far.

We vampires remain few and far between. There are less than four hundred of us on the new continent, spread out between its many regions. This Gabrielite was more likely to catch an accidental bullet than one of us.

So I smile as I discreetly fasten my gauntlet, and use it to slam the door closed behind him.

The carriage is plunged in darkness. Our guest’s back crashes against the side of the carriage in a defensive retreat as he scrambles to grab his revolver and take out his crucifix.

Instead of fighting, I use a match to light a lantern. The yellow light spreads throughout the interior, highlighting the two of us, still sitting.

“Nervous?” I ask. The man does not reply. He has no need to. His heartbeat speaks for itself.

“You know, I consider us to be… long-term planners, a necessity if you intend to live forever. Longevity tends to change our outlook on things. You know what I am referring to, do you not?” I continue.

“You are devil spawns. Leeches. Deceitful creatures, but I can see through your lies. You will not carry out your dark plans tonight.”

“And you could tell what we were from our carriage, yes? You know how we travel.”

I like how my behavior goes against his expectations.

“The light of the sun purifies you. You hide like cockroaches before the might of the lord.”

“And so you decided to use your mortal authority to stop us. And you have. Here we are, stopped,” I continue, my chin resting on a hand. “Now, the good question is, what was your plan from here on? How did you intend to apprehend us? Slay us?”

The man freezes. Perhaps he was waiting for reinforcements, perhaps he merely wanted to confront us. It matters not. Night has fallen, and this world is ours.

I stand up and walk to the back of the carriages where my gear is held. I take Sivaya’s spear and deploy it on one sharp gesture. The straight weapon extends far and I slowly place the tip of the blade on the officer’s chest, far enough that even a powerful halo could not stop it.

“Your faith is a weapon, not a perfect shield. It does not give you victory. It gives you a fighting chance. And yet here you are, with no plan and no tool, hoping for a miracle?”

Before he can start babbling his religion again, I press the blade deep enough for blood to pearl at its tip. I can feel the mighty aura of the local deity pushing back. It whispers warnings of ash and a final end, but I do not listen. It has rules to follow, just like we do. This time, I win.

“You can get back out and fight the mortal war. Under your leadership, perhaps a few more men will survive the incoming onslaught. But if we fight now, there will be no heroic last stand for you. I will stab you from where I am and open this door, then I will kill every last one of your men, one by one. I have been playing the eternal game for far longer than you, human. Recognize when you are outclassed, or die. You have ten seconds.”

I settle to wait.

I am, of course, not bluffing. I do not need aura or Charm to conduct a proper negotiation.

“What tells me that you won’t kill us if we back down now?” the man asks before three seconds have passed.

“You are insignificant and I have no time for you,” I reply candidly.

The officer looks hesitantly at Gregory, who smiles and shrugs.

“Not to add insult to injury but… she is right. We are not in the habit of going around mindlessly killing people.”

The Gabrielite takes a step back.

“Fine. I’m leaving. But one day your time will come.”

“On this we agree,” Gregory replies, “but it will not tonight, and certainly not by you. Farewell.”

The door closes.

Two minutes later, the carriage leaves and the Roland vampire and I resume ignoring each other.

***

The trip through Confederate patrols goes without a hitch, and we arrive very soon at the departed Yann’s center of power. This late in the year, most of the roads are snow and mud, but even I can tell that the dead Roland Lord made a genuine effort to make his little corner of the world pleasant. We turn into an alley of poplar trees near dawn, with fields extending on each side to forest hills in the distance. Yann’s compound is a massive, three-stories house painted white and blue, which does not surprise me. What does, is that he made a village for his slaves. Rows of cookie-cutter houses in neat lines take a large space, with paths leading to warehouses and the fields. I can tell that slaves live here on account of the four guard towers surrounding it and the cloudy breaths of sentinels facing inward. A golden prison, as it were.

The news of Yann’s demise spreads fast among the few staff members still awake. From their reaction, I can tell that he was well-loved. Curious how a backstabbing schemer can be so cruel around the table and so generous with the help, at least compared to others of his kind. We share this dichotomy with the mortals. It would make it hard for me to dislike the departed if he had not planned to help a man who intends to have me made into an example.

My occupation of their previous master’s quarters generates a reaction so intense that I fear I may have to impose upon them that they have no choice on the matter. Eventually, Gregory manages to calm them enough that I am allowed to move in, but I refrain from ordering hot water, lest I find saliva in it and be forced to execute someone on the first night.

It takes me half an hour to identify all the defenses I can activate before falling into slumber. Yann kept an entire half of the first floor to himself, with powerful shutters designed to withstand an artillery shelling. I activate everything I can find, from alarms to traps, and finally lay the last surprise in his opulent, personal bedroom. I open the passage leading to his escape tunnel and place my sarcophagus by the side, closed. I will not be using it.

Early afternoon.

I expected it, and am still disappointed. A vampire bypassed all the defenses without triggering them. I can tell from his aura and the lack of noise even as I rest beneath the ground.

Yes, I will not sleep in a sarcophagus if I can hide myself in the earth’s embrace instead. I can tolerate mud stuck to my hair if it means a successful ambush.

I wait a little more and heavy footsteps sound throughout the bedroom. A man, I think. Heavy. Not Gregory. The little aura I perceive speaks of excellent control, and I do not want to risk probing it, or I will alert the intruder to my presence.

He is up early, almost as early as me. It means a Master. I doubt that a foreign lord would risk themselves.

A Master, alone.

I will apprehend them and interrogate them. At the very least, I want to know what they are doing here if it is merely a local fighter come to meet me.

A spell and I explode from below the floor, fully armored. I manage to materialize Rose and aim it at the trespasser’s back as I emerge.

A red armor. The side of a golden mask turning towards me. Contemptuous eyes.

A backhanded blow. I am sent flying through the nearest wall with only one question burning on my lips.

What, in the name of the Watcher, is Bertrand doing here?