A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

Marquette, April 1927

Melusine has free access to me as one of my oldest and most annoying allies. My door is always open to her, though our rivalry precludes long and friendly visits, thus she has never felt the need to make appointments as she has done now. It must be serious. Especially since she usually enjoys catching me at the most inopportune moment.

I lean back in my seat. Hmm. Lady Moor. It certainly brings back memories and not of the tender kind. Curiously, I held more animosity towards Melusine than I did towards Moor because Moor was an abject fallen politician whose cruelty felt distant and, shall I say, utilitarian. I was merely a tool in her arsenal and since she cared not for her tools at all, she did not care for me either. Even her ‘lesson’ when she asked me to lop off my arm stopped the moment I asked her to do so. I did not pursue the family of Mrs Boucher who was my governess when I was five and she was a rotten bitch.

Meanwhile Melusine was a moving stain. And I have not killed her yet. I can tell I have left Moor behind in the list of people who do not matter enough for me to expand any efforts on. Obviously, Melusine will think differently.

Her fury dies out.

I consider her request. One cannot rush research and so I am left waiting and strengthening my position as I prepare for the next great offensive. I could use a holiday, and I could stand to visit more of the planet I am meant to defend. I would also love to see Moor suffer while making sure Melusine survives this ordeal. She has proven a great if insufferable ally over the decades.

That is great news as I always need more silver for the enchantments. The precious metal is no longer used for legal tender here, yet the demand remains too high.

Melusine gasps and glares like a very offended, freshly caught fish.

***

I watch the waters of the Pacific far, far below us. I must admit that after so many trips, the sea of clouds over a sea of water has lost some of its exotic charm, but when the light of the moon hits the cottony layer just so, I still enjoy drawing it. Tonight would have been such a night were it not for my official rival leaning against the railing by my side. Is she still a rival? Or should I consider her a friend?

No, absolutely not.

She rolls her eyes.

She sighs, a very human gesture that betrays her agitation.

I take out a new page of my notebook and hastily throw lines to show the glimpse I had of the Last City, back when I left them with a nice bomb. The result is a chthonic landscape of towering buildings as high as mountains, their many windows like hive openings or the sores on some giant, decaying organ.

I glare a little.

***

Our arrival at the port of Shanghai might have been a sensation. In fact, I am absolutely certain that Moor will be aware of the presence of foreign agents no matter what, so I make no attempt at secrecy. Perhaps she does not know that the Fury belongs to me. After all, there are no Rosenthal branches here. At least, not the information gathering kind. Nevertheless, we are welcomed by a committee of heavily armed local soldiers in khaki uniforms, bearing an insignia like a white sunburst on a blue background. They are accompanied by a pair of American soldiers and a couple of men in uniform. The mood is tense. The presence of three women and the subdued, cold aura of Andrew, Melusine’s vassal, certainly does little to calm them down. Those in power dislike engaging with those who threaten the status quo. Well, nothing to it.

“Hello,” I greet. “Are you the welcoming party?”

The one who answers is a bespectacled old man with impressive jowls and large round glasses. He wears a full suit complete with a top hat, a curious choice in the warm and wet weather. His voice carries a thick English accent.

“I am certainly not that, madam. My name is Henry Douglas. I represent the Shanghai Municipal Council and I would like to inquire as to what you are doing here, at this time?”

Ah yes, the municipal council. The British control most of the industry of Shanghai, and the foreigners have enclaves here. Shanghai is Asia’s largest port and so the foreign population is quite significant, though I did not expect such a cold reception.

“We are here,” I reply, “to see relatives.”

A Chinese man in a well-tailored suit leans close to a Chinese officer with the countenance and warmth of a bulldog. He glares mightily under bushy brows. The insignias on his shoulders fit the German style, interestingly, and they mark him as a colonel. There are quite a few soldiers waiting by the pier. Two hundred or so, I would say.

Both Mr Douglas and the colonel inspect my obvious warship filled with obvious marines obviously armed to the teeth with obviously top-of-the-line gear obviously enchanted to the gills. They assess the likelihood that I have come for tourism. I can see the cogs grind in their heads for a quarter of a second. They come to the conclusion that the likelihood is low. Then, their eyes come to rest on my entourage. Melusine wears a gown, a conservative one that would become stifling in the day and clearly marks her as an outsider. Constance is the only sensibly dressed person in a sleeveless dress with a nice hat sporting a fluffy feather (a fad, I am sure). The problem is the obvious holster around her narrow waist. As for me, I am regretting the choice to wear pants. No, I am not, but I am regretting the choice to do it now instead of later. I have a long vest that splits in the middle to form a sort of skirt so technically, technically, I could be wearing a skirt and leggings. A scandalously short skirt. That exposes the crotch area. AUGH.

I even placed a nice sunflower in my hair for the irony.

“My partner Colonel Zheng and myself question your choice to come here, now, at such an uncertain time. We are concerned that your presence would destroy the proper conduct of large-scale police operations.”

I shrug and the gesture marks me as the leader of this little expedition, to the men’s obvious displeasure. Those two do not feel like the progressive kind.

“As I said, we are here to see a relative. Your operations do not concern me.”

“They do! The city is plagued by communists. Those wretched curs provoke the masses. They have pushed our students into a frenzy! You would be wise to avoid the city for a while, miss, if you know what’s good for you.”

“As I said,” I patiently reply and this time I push the notion of threat through my aura, “We are here to see relatives. Your political purges are of no import to us.”

The air cools around us until the nearest sentry’s breath puffs in the deepening darkness of the night.

“You all seem to be quite busy, gentlemen. Surely you would not want to waste time and resources of poor little us while we search for our dear relative.”

The men stiffen because the supernatural is part of our world now, and I have firmly placed myself in that category. More precisely, at its top.

“It would be wise of you to let us proceed while you pursue your own agenda. Yes?”

On cue, the Fury deploys spell arrays which deactivate so the younger members of the crew can climb them for maintenance. Rays from the moon catch the blue engravings of the main gun just right. Soldiers here have rifles. Their ships have cannons. I have a ship killer.

It is, I believe the Poles who have the say: not my monkeys, not my circus. My hosts must easily realize that they have many monkeys to wrangle and that their circus looks eminently flammable. Brittle. Just like my patience.

Douglas turns to Colonel Zheng and they speak in a quiet voice that I can understand well enough. There are enough ‘it would be wiser’ and ‘time best used’ and ‘probably not linked with our foes’. It takes ten more minutes and a considerable amount of threats, but the pair leaves with their goons in tow.

Just as Douglas turns, I replace my pleasant face for one of rabid fanged fury, promising punishment for the audacity he has displayed. He stumbles and when he looks up, I am my usual pleasant self.

“Are you sure I cannot convince you to join the communist purge?” Melusine asks sullenly in English.

“For the last time, pay your employees a decent wage and the communists will have no hold on them.”

“You still see my business empire as some sort of self-contained little empire, huh? I do not have a monopoly on Dvergur tech like you do! There is such a thing as competition!”

“What is the break-even point of a can of ham, you harpy? Your profit margins— “

“Not that I have not heard this argument in one form or another a thousand times over the past five years, but could we please get on with tonight? Some of us will have to wake up at dawn to investigate matters, yes?” Andrew interrupts.

“You know old folks love their arguments,” Constance tells him.

Melusine and I hiss at her, then at each other.

“Don’t hiss at my Servant,” I warn.

“And you— “

“You mentioned a contact?” Constance says with a frozen smile.

Melusine frowns. She knows we are being distracted, though she relents.

“Yes. A local vampire, of which there are very, very few apparently. She was the first to inform one of my agents. We will meet her first to get the lay of the land, so to speak. I have a map here to a meeting point.”

Melusine removes a folded paper from her handbag. She unfolds it again and again under our collective glare until we are now seeing a massive, extremely detailed map of the city down to the last building drawn as tiny squares. A large red cross marks our rendezvous point. A suggested route starts from the pier, having anticipated our landing zone with concerning accuracy. I order my men to stay on alert as Shanghai appears to be on the verge of a major conflagration, then we are off.

***

We make our way through the chaotic streets through clouds of sweat, cigarette smoke, and a peppery scent mixed with frying oil. The architecture is quite unique here, and rather fascinating. Locals turn and gasp as we pass, which is not surprising considering our rather eclectic and exotic appearance. Men in thin sleeveless vests and without shirts watch us pass or work, carrying bags or dragging carts. Their thin bodies are taut with dry, long muscles and without a speck of fat. I take a note to draw them later, and they do the same with me, watching without shame. Others show the same curiosity though with more grace. Women in tight, colorful dresses smile with short black hair made wavy by a process that must be time-consuming, but it is the men who show the most variety in their clothes, and that is without foreigners who must be confined in their districts right now. On top of the poorest members of society, there are some who wear traditional robes the likes of which I had only seen in illustrations before. Others wear long, dark clothes under wide-brimmed hats. Finally, some have completely absorbed western culture and you could see their attire on every street of Paris or Chicago. Truly, this mix and match of eras and fashions speaks of a land between epochs where ideas clash, as they do tonight.

The deeper we go,the fancier the people become, although most of them seem to be in a hurry to be somewhere. Examples of foreign architecture creep in here and there until at some point we come across a checkpoint manned by nervous French policemen. On the other side I see a bistro, now closed, and a neat avenue bordered by ‘platane’ trees like a vision of Paris. It fades as quickly as it came. At some point though, the wealth disappears again. Screaming gang louts wearing green turbans replace the angry students. Soldiers of the white sunburst also become more frequent. There are corpses as well, heads smashed in. Here and there, I feel the aura of mages though they never show themselves and I taste something diffuse in their power. Interesting. I suppose I will find out soon enough.

The place of our meeting is, quite frankly, terrible. Whoever owns that filthy dump has made some token effort to make it appear as a palace of sorts, the least of which being the location. Anything looks good compared to offal-smelling slums and yet a dump will always be a dump. The lantern’s paper is damp and discolored, the walls moldy, paper stained by constant smoke and the Watcher knows what else. Hostesses in scant clothes use the dim light to hide their sores and the cheap make of their garish clothes. The paint on their face clings to pimples. Their teeth are strangely black. We step up rickety stairs and make our way through a pungent cloud of burnt, floral scent. Opium. This is an opium den. A man tries to stop us while his bouncer looks on in sullen silence since I am, in fact, taller than him.

Our small banter makes our progress unopposed as everyone here is either at a loss on what to do or lacks the required brain matter to act. Those people lounging here have so little vitality, I could drain the lot and get less energy than in a single healthy adult. And they stink! A rancid, diseased stench that crawls under the flowery touch like a corpse hidden under a bouquet. Revolting. At last, we find the backrooms and a more comfortable, cleaner space. Lights shine on a richly dressed woman waiting in its midst. We have found our destination.

“Hello hello!”

The person who welcomes us, sitting with crossed legs on an elaborate silk pillow, is definitely a vampire. The use of English does not surprise me as her essence screams ‘Vanheim’ and the old monster has never seen it fit to make its descendants fluent and, for that matter, normal.

Then I turn to the woman. She is clearly of mixed descent as I have seen before, but this one shows clear signs of European and Asian ancestry in equal measure. Her eyes are dark, shaped like almonds yet less so than some of the other locals. Straight hair falls to her shoulder freely, black yet shiny even under the dim light. Her face is sharp and perhaps on the thin side, with skin a shade darker than my own. Her smile is wide over ruby lips and there is something in her iris, something ephemeral yet incredibly colorful.

I also notice she wears a qipao, a local, close-fitting dress. A pipe rests in her hand, though it lacks the small receptacle used for opium. It looks like a custom creation with a thin, graceful body like the neck of a swan. The design is quite unique and reminds me of… hmmm.

Just as I frown, she puffs and a delicate, otherworldly floral scent caresses my nostril, bringing back memories of lush carpets and walls of living wood. Vivid colors swirl in her iris. And I see a hint of denuded shoulder, of very long black hair. Shadows of a dangerous smile. Memories flood back from my short stay in the Court of Spring.

“You can call me Cassilda. Carnaciel said hello again, little one,” she tells me in perfect Likaean.

Melusine steps back, shocked. I am amazed that Vanheim would pick up someone with the gift of gab as a spawn and still manage not to transfer the mastery of Akkad, but my humor fades quickly. Cassilda is linked to someone even Sinead was terrified of. The Dreamer of Old Spring. The spheres’ first warlord, now retired and a heavy smoker.

Even the Old One acknowledged her.

“Please extend my greetings to Lady Carnaciel, and I long to dream with her again. Some day.”

Cassilda took a puff, her smile extending to show fangs in a malicious rather than intimidating way.

“She said you would be formal and to call her auntie. She also said she would like it if you married Sinsin, put some fervor in his head. He is too smarmy. Thinks about plots and politics too much. Remind Summer of the old days, back when Spring had… a lot of fun.”

“Auntie?”

“She is so old, you know? She said you will grow tired of conquest like she did if you play the game long enough, once your tree is big and sated. Maybe you will, maybe you will not. I am not so sure, but what do I know?”

“What you know is what we are here for.”

“Ah yes, business. A blood feud.”

Cassilda taps the pipe against an ash cup, sending embers to fall. The fire attracts my eyes because I fear it, and Cassilda’s smile widens. A glare sends her hands up in surrender though she never stops smiling.

“You,” she says in English, “are a tarantula. Powerful. Kills even birds. The fire one is like an orb weaver. She will wait at the center of her net. But the one who seeks, why, she is a huntsman. You will not see her until she has bitten.”

“We expected Moor to hide.”

“She is hidden, yes,” Cassilda admits. “And she will know you are here before you find her. Too many eyes, too many strands. Even your mere steps shake the weave.”

“Will she run?” Melusine hisses.

“She may. She may try to kill you first, red one. She may think you are too much of a bother while the tarantula prefers her birds. Too busy for revenge. She has slain Enrico, my lover. He was too involved. Too visible.”

“Is that why you told me she was here?” Melusine asks.

“Yes. If I am too weak, I can find someone strong, the enemy of my enemy. You are that, yes?”

“We are,” I confirm.

“Then we can look for her. But first, we must corner her a little. Search for her with strength and determination. Force her to move from her trunk. Rattle the cage a little.”

“Don’t worry,” Melusine says as she points at me. “Chaos is practically her middle name.”

“Oi!”

My middle name is Lucille.