A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

The veil of thorns parts. I move past the fog with all the speed I can muster, not believing my own instincts. For a moment, I see nothing, hear nothing, yet I do not slow. Eventually, the mist fades and I find myself in a clearing. Wheat and wildflowers cover it in a vivid cushion upon which a gigantic tortoise is resting. She is taller than I am, even with her legs splayed on the side. A figure leans against the marked shell with a relaxed posture and an easy smile. He is young again, with lean muscles and the eternally mismatched clothes.

I stop in the middle, even more surprised. There is sun on my skin. Sun. Not the unforgiving fire that keeps me hidden and afraid, real, honest, July sun. I raise my head to see an endless sky of azure and lift a hand to cover the glare of the golden orb.

I am crying. Thirty years. Thirty long years and now this memory that I will keep and cherish, untainted by the transformation.

Immediately, guilt makes me bend my head.

I chuckle merrily. I was right not to attack Anatole and now I no longer have cause for regrets.

I will still kill him though.

The tortoise snorts and Nashoba’s smile fades, his expression turning serious.

Nashoba smiles sadly.

Nashoba grows taller and his eyes shine like stars. His voice sounds like a choir of singers speaking in unison.

As quickly as it came, the moment is gone.

I step back and pick a tulip. Its petals are red and silky.

He winces.

Nashoba places his hand on my shoulder. The touch is soft and intimate, it conveys more emotions than a book could.

The tortoise puffs again. The world fades around me.

The mist returns. I am once more in my garden. I decide to stroll along the garden, between hidden paths and statues. I try to forget what I know for sure happened. I refuse to consider it.

He lied when he said perhaps.

No, he was probably wrong.

Probably.

I wake up to a ceiling of lacquered wood. Jimena’s cabin.

I expected spartan furniture aboard. Instead, each vampire-occupied room is lined with chocolate-coloured planks varnished and polished to a lustre, with assorted chairs, table, and cabinet. There are no windows and we are at the bottom, behind several layers of reinforced doors. Between those precautions and the guards, it would take an immense effort to eliminate the squad.

To kill us, one would need to catch up to us, board us, and fight through well-trained and well-armed guards. Then, they would need to escape as the men have instructions to scuttle us if it looks like the battle is lost. The intruders would have to dive and recover the sunk sarcophagus through the wreck and then blow them up before night comes. A daunting prospect.

Despite those many measures, the most secure defence of the ship is still its anonymity. The steamboat carries carefully vetted goods and people aboard. It appears, for all intents and purposes, like any other ship sailing this great river. Truly, we are in good hands. The luxury is just an added bonus.

I sit up and look around. Jimena’s fortified coffin is at the side of the bed, and the woman herself is reading, already fully dressed. I am only wearing a modest shift to sleep.

The poor woman frowns and her hands flex on her book, the claws scratching the cover. Her lips draw into a line.

I stand up and shake my head, giving up on the argument.

I stop in my tracks.

I make full use of this opportunity to learn more about my world, or what will be my world if I can finally stop being delayed.

The man himself is an intriguing character. Jimena describes him as a talented mage versed in several schools, a rarity among our kind. As a Progenitor of his own bloodline, he was a master upon first waking up and had immediate access to singular amounts of essence.

As for his bloodline powers, no one knows for sure what they are, and he has yet to sire a spawn. All she knows is that he dislikes bureaucracy and politics, preferring research which might explain how Anatole managed to get the kill order out of him. For all his apparent leadership flaws, the Accords are still an exemplary framework. Under their light rules, clans have a margin of liberty for expansion and covert actions while large scale conflict is heavily restricted.

I am surprised that such an ass.. such a person could create good laws and fail to implement them until I remember that the gap between being good at theory and simply being good is an abyss.

On top of that, Lords usually have access to soul weapons, which I learn are the vampire’s crystallized essence, given form by a crafter. There are only a dozen such crafters in the world and they are untouchable. No vampire will raise a hand against them, and they can travel everywhere even in time of war without fear. I inform Jimena that I saw Suarez use his power.

I learn more about Masters next. Now that I can manipulate my essence, there is something I can do that I never considered.

I shiver. Agony, cold, thirst. I push the memories away.

We link arms like the best of friends and enjoy the summer evening. I used to do that with Constanza when I was still human. She is a grandmother now. I could even take a look at her, if we pass by… No. I will not. Not while Anatole is around.

We have a pleasant time, standing at the fore and looking out to the shore, its sleepy villages and budding farms, whispering in low voices about newly created spawns and the few newcomers who landed recently, until a distraction offers itself. Two gentlemen walk up behind us, confer in low voice about who should court whom before politely accosting us. Jimena and I exchange knowing smiles.

“Good evening, ladies. It is such a pleasure to meet good company. Are you enjoying the view?” asks the first, a suave man with an auburn mustache and a top hat, of all things.

“We needed fresh air; my friend was a bit out of sorts,” I answer with mischievousness.

“Yes, I felt light-headed and I would not want to go down on my friend.”

I cough into my elbow to mask my surprise. I have spent enough time in a brothel to get acquainted with that specific expression. Note to self, never try to tease Jimena. She plays dirty.

“If I may, perhaps you should sit down as well,” adds the second, broad-chested and sporting impressive sideburns in an old-fashioned suit.

“I apologize if I am stepping out of bounds,” he continues, “I am a medical practitioner. It comes with the job.”

“Oh, not to worry,” I add, “she’s healthy as can be.”

“My family doctor says I could live forever,” Jimena deadpans.

“You two seem very close. Oh, but where are my manners? I am Francis Levine and my doctor friend here is Frederick Schuyler. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is ours. I am Ariane, and my friend is Jimena.”

“No last name?” asks Francis with a smile that shows he does not feel rebuked.

“For now,” I answer.

“You two are quite close,” Frederick observes.

“We are…” I reply.

“Like sisters!” Jimena adds.

We spend a few minutes in banter, the two friends asking us questions and us dodging them with an air of mystery, until Francis exaggeratedly shivers.

“It’s a bit chilly, are you not cold?” Francis asks with a convincing expression of concern.

“Now that you mention it, the front of the boat is a tad windy. Come Ariane, we would not want to catch consumption.”

“My blood runs cold at the very thought.”

We have been competing with puns since the start of the conversation. I will admit that Jimena is winning. Quoth that witty Frenchman Victor Hugo, puns are farts of the mind, and shame wars with amusement within my heart.

“Say, how about we continue this conversation in our cabin? We have a bottle of…”

“Francis!” exclaims Frederick, shocked, “this is entirely inappropriate.”

“We do not mind, we are convinced that you will not do anything untoward,” answers Jimena. I nod in assent. Frederick looks a bit flustered and possibly a bit scandalized, though he is too polite to object. Together, we make our way down.

Half an hour and a pleasant meal later, we leave the two resting comfortably with an empty bottle on the table and extremely fuzzy memories. Aisha is waiting outside for us. In civilian clothes, she wears a surprisingly colourful dress with middle-eastern influence and a heavy shawl with which she masks her lower face. It sometimes shifts enough to show unmarred skin. Whatever causes her to hide herself, it is not disfigurement. She bows elegantly and addresses Jimena.

An elegant way to tell her to get moving and that she will be my watchdog. I appreciate the politeness, if nothing else. Jimena frowns but she cannot disobey a direct summons. At least, not without reasons.

I almost jump and claw off the petite woman’s face when she grabs my hand. Her eyes are wide and convey a sense of urgency.

And then she drags me through an alley and down a set of stairs below deck. We pass by a patrol of guards who ignore us after a quick glance and to a smoking room, mercifully empty at this late hour. She practically slams the door closed and locks it.

The stench of cold cigar is omnipresent, though the leather couches and warm tones are pleasant. She turns to me and bow deeply, to my surprise.

Her tone is clipped and her voice, lower than I remember and a bit coarse.

She takes out a sharp silver knife. AMBUSH. KILL. I hiss and step back, still uncertain. Aisha does not even spare me a glance. She digs the tip of her blade into her arm and slices along the artery. Before I can properly react, she bows low again and presents me with the bleeding wound.

What is she… SUPPLICANT. Can vampires even be… OF COURSE SHE IS A SUPPLICANT. BLOOD OFFERED FOR AN AUDIENCE. DRINK THE OFFERING. LET IT NOT BE SPOILED.

I bend forward and lick the wound, all caution thrown to the wind. Power overwhelms me and drags me under.

I pull back.

I have no better words for what I felt. The sense she used is not something I possess. The memory of using it as naturally as if I had been born with it is disconcerting. I do not have the time to consider it further. The small Knight collapses in my arms.

SUPPLICANT.

Aisha gasps through her shawl and grabs my shoulder with her hand. It takes her a few moments to recover. When she does, she stands back up at a respectful distance, as if nothing had happened.

Ah.

That is surprising.

I will not make false promises like I did to that redhead under the governor’s palace.

What?

It looks like she wants to argue then thinks better of it. I don’t care about the Lancaster being vampires. They could be talking unicorns from Atlantis that I would still dump the whole lot of them into the nearest volcano, given the chance. I would sell Melusine to the order of Gabriel for three pennies and a rusty fork, and I don’t even eat. Hell, if I were in a room with Moor, Nirari, Semiramis and two pistols, I would shoot Moor twice.

Aisha continues her briefing with a noticeably darker mood.

Ooooh, go dark! This is all so very mysterious and exciting, and the Lancasters could even be dead!

I frown.

Well, she’s not wrong. It just stings when someone else says it.

She glares coldly.

I stare at her offering.

Aisha tsks and lightly slaps my hand.

I pull back.

She sniffs disdainfully. I have not left the best of impressions. Neither did she.

Right. Nashoba said that distance, time and level of involvement all affect how easily I can see. The bloody thing is right in front of me, it’s the present and I can hardly be more involved. This will be child’s play.

Probably.

Card.

The card.

Card.

The world, in all its horizontal glory. The infinity of potential upward and beyond.

A crux. Two choices. One branches from immediate satisfaction, the other, from maturity. The second choice leads to a better path. I will need to act out of character. It will require-

I collapse forward. Aisha prevents me from hitting the floor by steadying me. I grab my head to ward off the beginning of a terrible migraine. Something sticky rolls to my lips.

I don’t know who I will have to forgive but if it’s Melusine, we’re all doomed.