A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

I let the wafts of freshly brewed coffee caress my nostrils with its deep, bitter aroma. The ritual usually settles and distracts me, but not tonight. There is a knock on my door.

Jimena steps into my temporary quarters in one of our secure New York’s compound. With the White Cabal so close, this one has been designed for discretion more than for safety. It still has all the comforts one might expect in a modern city. My bedroom is vast enough to host a small tea party.

She then takes in my frown and shows some distress, bless her.

I roll my eyes as far as they can go to illustrate my points. Jimena, that heartless traitor, takes it in stride with a light smile of her own.

I… had forgotten it.

“Oi!”

An unusual worry seizes my heart.

It is not every night that I am caught off-guard. The setting Sheridan chose is a nice cafe in the better part of the city. We are alone in the room he picked, and the sound of late diners provides a surprisingly mundane background to our conversation. One that I was not prepared for. In that defining moment, all the small details I had relegated to the back of my mind come in sharp contrast. The crows’ feet around his keen eyes. The grey in his proud moustache. Even the first wrinkles in his always tanned skin. He is still a dominating presence, but it is the presence of the experienced mentor, the battle-hardened veteran who compensates his failing body with wisdom and experience.

“I am not coming with you.”

I can see the pain in his eye, the guilt. The distress. His decision is already made and I feel a knot untying in my essence. I suffered terribly when Dalton died, but now Sheridan leaves me and his departure is soft and consensual. The cold in my mind spreads slowly like winter air from an open window. I do not resent him. I physically cannot resent him, and yet I am angry.

“It’s not that you have done something wrong. On the contrary, you have proven that your word was true. We have done good together for the past two decades, but that’s the thing. It has been two decades. I am… tired.”

It seems to be an important moment for him, and so I let him speak. My anger dissipated as quickly as it came. Even a Nirari’s natural grudge cannot stand before a vulnerable Vassal. My nature will not allow it.

“I am not as young as I used to be. The nights we spend awake take me longer and longer to recover from, despite your efforts. Spending an hour in a cold ditch to line up the perfect shot used to mean nothing. Now, my back hurts and my knees creak like a rusty carriage. I must stop now. And there is something else.”

I wave a hand to indicate that he should continue.

“Melitone is pregnant.”

I almost spit my coffee.

“You knocked up the Speaker’s twin?!”

“Hold your horses, she’s not ‘the Speaker’s twin’, she’s Melitone. A fully fledged agent of the Accords. We have been together for over a decade now. In any case, we… have been… together for a while. We were careless. I asked her to marry me. She said yes.”

“Wow. Congratulations!”

“I asked her two days ago. You are the first person to know. She thought it wiser to inform her brother after you had departed.”

I imagine the face of Constantine as he learns of everything and immediately feel better.

“Yes. I understand,” I finally admit. And I do. The truth is that Sheridan was never going to become my Servant. We make a good team, but we do not have the dynamic and mindset I would expect from someone I would keep by my side until the end. He is a conscience and a right hand, one who bridges the gap between mortals and us. I need someone different, more an accomplice than a lawman.

“You understand? I expected you to be mad,” Sheridan admits, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“I would lie if I said that your decision does not affect me, but I do understand where it comes from. My perspective of time made me forget that things remain different for mortals who are always on a limited time frame. Ah, look at me babble. We had a good run, you and me.”

“That we did.”

“So, what now? Will you stay in Boston?”

“Yes. Mel says that Constantine will be insufferable unless she is well-protected, and the fortress is almost impregnable. I’ll say, it sets my mind at ease knowing that there are walls and horrors between the world and her when she will be at her most vulnerable. Do you know that a pregnant woman was lynched in the streets in Georgia? Because the mob thought she had turned a child into a goat? The world is mad, I tell you. Mad!” He exclaims, aghast.

I smile and let him rant. A Vassal is lost to me, but he remains a person I hold in my esteem and I should keep ties alive with mortals.

I ordered two paintings I had shipped to me at great cost, even though the artists themselves are relatively unknown. The purpose was to study their style and brush stroke with a real work, not some rendition. Manet and Cezanne. I do not recognize those names, but I will hold onto the paintings just in case.

Slowly, I experiment with new techniques over a few sketches and finally decide on my first renegade painting: the view of the distant north as I emerged from Semiramis’ labyrinth all those years ago. In a few days, the painting takes shape.

I do not show the entrance of the cavern, which was at my back. Instead, I draw the polished glass of the permafrost and the fresh snow swept by endless winds. I make the mountains impossibly remote, and larger than they truly were. Above, I draw auroras animating the heavens with curtains of shimmering emerald. They provide the only light color in a landscape of dreary darkness. Even then, they are ephemeral and trickery, robbing the attention without pointing a way.

Jimena had tried to distract me from my works by presenting the captain and mates, but they do not interest me and her efforts grow more subdued when she sees the fruit of my labor. The first result pleases me intensely, and I soon find another composition.

When we visited the Fist of the Drowned God with the latest Bingle iteration, I spent a few hours crawling my way through deep passages. Once, we came across a single ray of early afternoon light piercing by luck through the layers of the earth. They would be soon blocked but for a moment the deep caverns knew the touch of the sun. I try to evoke that feeling and make the sun searing and alien. I also conceal on one side the dark shape of the deep folk’s shaman who led me through it. The light reflects on the two nacreous dots of her eyes, when one looks carefully.

I shrug and let the days pass by. We feed only a few times, and spread them between willing crew who know what to expect and will be compensated for their sacrifice. Their essence is pleasant enough, though I admit that without our regular spars, I would have been restless.

As expected, her style is still direct and to the point. While Nami is graceful and unpredictable, Jimena shows her drive and directness by employing very few feints, instead overwhelming her foe through chains of precise strikes. I delight in ruining her rhythm through aggressive and sometimes illogical movements, and she is quick to show me that she can adapt. What shocks me the most, perhaps, is how evenly matched we are. In fact, I believe that I could overtake her if I relied more on my raw speed and intuition. I refrain from doing so since it would simply defeat the purpose of the exercise, but it shows how much I progressed over the past few decades. I remember a time when she could effortlessly stab me in the heart. Now, I could beat her four times out of five if I used everything including magic.

Between painting, gossiping, and practice, Jimena also finds the time to tell me what to expect from the training to come.

My surprise must be obvious, because Jimena reacts immediately.

Jimena’s gaze burns with the fire of the true believer.

The trip passes quickly between all those distractions. The Cormoran is faster than the previous ship I traveled on, and I cannot help but wonder if, one day, we will be able to cross the Atlantic in mere days! That would be incredible. It would also make visiting my dear Torran so much easier…

Ah well, one may dream.

By the end of August, we moor in the port of Brest where a night train will take us to Paris and more private travelling arrangements.

“Vous voyagez seules?” a man with spectacles asks us as we sit down. I was taking out my notebook to review a few variations on my pain spell and his interruption is not welcome.

“We do not travel alone,” I reply curtly, “since we have each other.”

Jimena and I wear travel garbs, unique creations from our favorite Boston modist that follow the ‘Artistic dress’ trend. While many women here favor Victorian style, I simply would not be caught dead in all those hoops, petticoats and bustles. I have only so many hours in a single night. I will not sacrifice two of them to be swaddled in so many strings like a freshly caught boar. Artistic dresses are easy to move in, with a medieval influence that remains proper without doubling as a tablecloth. My recent obscene wealth still permits me to get the very best fabric, the most vibrant dyes and the hands of a master. Jimena’s dress is light brown with a light forrester effect given by the discreet use of leather, while mine is dark blue and flowing.

“And your husbands or fathers approve of this?” the man asks with a mighty frown of disapproval.

Ah, yes, I forgot about that. I spent the last few months exclusively interacting with people who knew who, or what I was. In the rare other occurrences when I had to leave a good first impression, I had either Sheridan or John act as an intermediary. Now, however, I am merely a lone woman traveling alone. Most mortals will take exception to that. I have little care for social censure when it comes to random strangers, like this irritating gentleman, but I must remember that I will be dismissed most of the time.

In a way, I am pleased. This little escapade will ground me after all that alliance business went to my head. I shall enjoy it as a refreshing entertainment. Now, to ruin this idiot’s night.

“I suppose that you will have to ask them.”

“I am not sure that I like your tone, miss.”

“How dreadful,” I reply in my most bored voice, “your disapproval is duly noted.”

And ignored. The interloper has been castigated. Justice has been rendered, and I return to my art as he grumbles.

“Drawing is such a frivolous activity!” he finally exclaims.

“Jimena dear, this man is talking to himself. We share our carriage with a lunatic,” I remark, still in French.

“I knew it as soon as I laid my eyes on him, dear friend. What are we to do?” Jimena deadpans as she inspects a nail.

That is too much chastening for the nosy prick. He yelps in outrage and leaves the first class carriage, grumbling under his breath.

I wince at the memory of my previous stay, but I also realize that Jimena is trying to cheer me up and that I should indulge her. After we arrive at the Gare Du Nord, she drags me through the streets of Montmartre where we feed on a couple of drunk artists, leaving them even dizzier than before. We are quickly intercepted by a group of vampire fighters, and I recognize them as a squad I defeated before being captured. There is a thin mustachioed man with the air of Musketeer, and a plump lad with a frizzy dark beard and the demeanor of a bear. They all wear impeccable black suits.

“You are....”

Jimena slaps my shoulder.

The ensuing visit amuses me a lot. Unfortunately, the trio knows little about painting, preferring music themselves, so they are unable to answer my questions. I still enjoy the experience tremendously and when we are done, they politely escort us to the more exclusive train that will take us east.

We settle down for the day in the same bedroom, near the last carriage, and spend some time getting to know our train driver. He is the same dour Roland Master I met years ago, still carrying his duty with stoic countenance. My surprise is therefore great when the man thaws in the presence of Jimena.

The man winces.

We spend the remainder of the night gossiping with Crispin and catching up with the latest European news. I followed the situation from afar thanks to Rosenthal dispatches, but I was not so interested until now. Apparently, the nations are in turmoil with the rising urban workers opposing the more traditional, religious side of the population. Countries struggle to define an identity, some looking to the past and others to the future. We only retire with the coming of dawn in our plush quarters.

We wake up in the early afternoon and get dressed, making our way to the exclusive lounge where we find ourselves alone, no other vampire traveling at the moment. I have barely started to serve myself some tea when a massive explosion rocks the entire train.

By the Watcher.

Furniture crashes to the ground and the light flips as my sister and I cling to the floor with our claws. With an agonizing sound of twisted metal, the heavy car leans to the side and collapses. I hear a ghastly groan as we slowly slide to a stop. Only then do I remove my talons from the ravaged wood next to me.

The light would kill us in an instant.

With no alternative, we stay put and listen, with some surprise, to the sound of firearms outside. The protocol in case of attack is clear. Whoever survives the initial assault is to hide and hold, and wait for the night. There are people fighting outside and they are not ours.

The crack of gunpowder sounds for quite some time, and I even feel the aura of magic through our protective enchantments. The battle rages for a few minutes, then calms down.

Eventually, we hear movement inside of the train and someone knocks on the door. We recognize Crispin’s aura and let him in. I see the beginning of anger in his sad brown eyes. He has our gear with him.

Fury flares in our guest, and I see his fangs for the first time.

He stops for a while to readjust his crooked tie.

We take our armors and I watch, bemused, as the man removes an old chainmail and a dark iron spiked mace from a bag.

I had no idea. This is rather interesting. Without waiting, Jimena starts unbuttoning her dress, forcing Cripsin to gulp.

We get changed quickly and I check all my weapons, especially the Big Iron which saw little use against the Hive, but remains an effective weapon against mortals. We reconvene in our room and huddle until nightfall. As soon as the sun sets, we exit from a secret trapdoor under the wheels. I open it first and inspect my surroundings.

We are in a deep pine forest, and the smell of sap, blood, and gunpowder assail my senses. The train rests on its right side along a flat band of grass now little more than furrowed mud. A body in a familiar leather trench coat lies prostrate a few feet away from me. To the right, on top of a small mound, a barricade has been set, and I see the metal glints of bayonets.

The three of us exit with no specific efforts made to hide our presence. We are immediately hailed by the fortified folks. To my immense surprise, the voice is distinctly female.

“Hey, hey comrades! Over here!” she says in French.

I shrug and let Crispin decide what to do. He sighs heavily and walks up to the defenses, where we meet the most bizarre and heteroclyte assortment of fighters I have seen in a long while. There are men and a few women in factory worker garbs huddling around. They are led by a young couple who look like they are twenty if they are a day. A small red flag flaps in the light wind. The man squints but the woman’s eyes shimmer in the darkness, and I see a simple focus hanging from her rustic dress.

“Thankfully, you are alright. We came to save you just in time, comrades! Any enemy of the bourgeoisie is our ally in this glorious struggle! Together, we will defeat the capital and its odious servants, and return the means of production to the people!”

We what now?