A Journey of Black and Red

Chapter 142: Kept in check.

“This is bad news,” Vonany whispers.

“No, this is good news,” I retort.

The return trip to the downed locomotive has been long and tedious. I even used Rose to cut branches for improvised stretchers like some sort of armored woodswoman. Disgrace. Crispin insisted on helping the marxists and prisoners for political reasons and I agreed with him, though I had to escort the slow-moving wounded as a result.

Now, we have returned to find the locomotive sealed and a group of Gabrielites laying siege, lit lanterns creating a perimeter around the fallen behemoth. An enterprising pair busies themselves trying to pry a door with a crowbar. I wish them all the luck, because I am not sure I could do it myself. The crowbar would bend.

Vampire trains are designed to resist the heaviest of punishments. It is just a shame that the same cannot be said about the rails they travel on.

“How is this good news?” Vonany spits, but Jimena simply taps him on the shoulder as I finally, finally take my custom rifle from my shoulder and check the sights.

“Delayed gratification,” she explains.

“Uh?”

I finish making sure that the beast is ready and line the first shot. The barrel is so heavy that it would take two strong men to keep it steady. I take a deep breath out of habit and let it out slowly, letting the sight fall on the would-be burglars.

The detonation is so loud that yelps of alarm spread across the column behind us. My targets fall, skewered like roast pigs. I calmly pull a pin and the cylinder rotates, chambering a new cartridge.

The next man falls in a deafening crack, then the next. The rest are running. I pick them off as they find cover. I shoot one as he enters the forest, then another as he hides behind a pine trunk. The trunk dies too.

One pull and the cylinder pops out, quickly replaced by another. A Gabrielite jumps behind a metal barrel left there by the train crew. I do not know what it contained but it was apparently not solid enough.

I finally stop aiming and stand up, letting the smoking, glowing barrel rest on my shoulder once more.

“So. Yes. You do know how to use that,” the revolutionary allows with wide eyes.

“I considered ending those pests myself,” Crispin says, “but I do love the irony of killing mortals with firearms. We will just say that their use of gunpowder… backfired.”

Ugh.

“There is one still alive if you have any regrets. He is hiding behind the train,” I tell him.

“Oh?”

“I wanted to test the frame’s resistance against my enchanted silver bullets, but I thought that you might object.”

“I would be grateful if you did not add to my workload, yes. I suppose that I shall have to weigh in on the situation,” he says, then grabs his black iron mace and walks forward.

“Is it something about train managers that attracts a certain type of personality?” I ask Jimena in a low voice.

“Yes. Forgive the puns, he simply decided to take the situation with humor. He has been working with some of the fallen for decades.”

“I understand.”

If it had been me, none of the soldiers would have gone home. Jimena goes to join him and I step aside for a while, letting the column of refugees spill out on the small clearing in crying clumps. Those of the train crew who were not too hurt get out to share supplies. Despite the general anguish, I cannot help but smirk at the sight of marxist revolutionaries eating caviar on blinis, passing along bottles of expensive champagne.

And I did all the work.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually the witch gathers enough courage to walk up to my retreat. This time, she shows more wisdom and brings a small lantern. She falters as soon as our eyes meet.

I wait patiently as she searches for words, until eventually she blurts out what was on her mind all along.

“Are you really a human?”

Hah.

“No, our kind are called vampires. You can consider us as… previously human. Cursed.”

“I am not so sure that I want lessons from you any longer.”

“Suit yourself.”

“But are you really on our side?” she asks.

I give her my kindest smile. The one without teeth.

“We are on no one’s side but our own. With that said, we make reliable allies and truly unfortunate enemies.”

“Unfortunate?”

“For you.”

“Ah, uh, but what about class struggle? Can vampires not see that the wealth of nations is currently in the hands of the few? Do you see our fight as worthy?”

An amusing question. I believe that the others are like me. We understand group dynamics and power on a fundamental level, one that goes beyond the system in which they exist. As long as mankind is mankind, there will be power structures and hierarchies. They can be flatter or narrower, but there will always be a top and a bottom. I could explain that, and the importance of understanding one’s own nature, but I have a better idea.

“Here, let me demonstrate our world view with the help of a simple illustration.”

I grab a pen and a paper from one of my armor pouches. A cut stump ends up as an improvised desk. To start with, I draw a triangle and write ‘vampires’ inside.

“This is us.”

“I see?”

I draw a small circle to the side, this one named ‘our humans’. The two figures are separate and do not intersect.

“This is the collection of humans we currently have an interest in.”

To finish, I draw a large pyramid under the vampire triangle, so that the triangle ends as the figure’s tip. In it, I write ‘food’.

“And this is the rest of creation.”

No reaction.

“Any questions?”

“No…”

“If it is any comfort, we do not appreciate the misery that the fires of industry have brought upon many people. Indeed, trapped in it, people no longer live. They survive. Back-breaking labor smothers their passion, creativity, and deep thought. It takes away their humanity by preventing its expression. Entire generations are sacrificed in the name of immediate profit.”

“Yes! Yes!”

I stop myself before telling her that it ruins the taste. Ah, mortals, so easy to appease. It would not do to scare her too much, or she might learn of our weakness to the sun and try something during the day. Then I would have to kill her. Fortunately, it seems to be enough to placate her enough that she can breathe, but not enough that she pesters me about teaching her anymore. The result is that she heads back to her ‘comrades’ to help the wounded.

I return to my isolation until another train arrives from the opposite direction. We leave the wreck behind us and transfer to the new one while a crew moves out to start the repairs. The sun emerges as we cross the border to Hannover. By that time Jimena and I have retired to our quarters.

Prague, two nights later.

History in every stone. In the space of a minute, I have come across fine examples of Roman, renaissance, and Baroque architecture. Every tower, every house proudly bears its heritage under colorful tiles in red or blue, with rectangular windows dotting their facades by the dozens. Contrary to the cities back home where wood is used as a cheap and convenient material, rock is king here. The pavements and walls are made of it, and the older ones already bear the wrinkles of age with dignity.

And so I take my time enjoying the experience, walking across busy streets and rowdy crowds. My steps lead me to the town square and its gothic church illuminated by gas lights. Tall spires pierce the skies while long glass windows will, tomorrow, let in the sunlight to bask the worshippers. Tonight, it merely keeps me at bay.

As I stop moving, roving bands of men in felt hats or berets give me a wide berth. I have grown too used to the cosmopolitan nature of our cities. Here, my traits and garments clearly mark me as a foreigner. A passing gentleman still deigns to inform me, in German, that the object of my interest is called the Church of Our Lady before Týn, and that it has been standing for over four hundred years. So old!

Europeans sure love to put things into perspective, though they rarely mean to.

Except for the Master of Prague of course, who is a pretentious twit I wish to strangle and the reason why I have been so eager to take a stroll.

Jimena led me here so that we may change trains, but we are stuck in transit for a few nights after missing our correspondence and it was our duty to meet the Master of the place. Said Master happens to be a Dvor lord who thoroughly backs Nina of the Dvor, the very same who objected to my relationship with Torran.

I sincerely did not expect this to come back and bite me in the rear. The situation grew tense fast after our introduction.

“I know of many noble traditions that we should reintroduce,” he had informed me with a pointed look, shortly after a discussion on impalements.

“Yes, like gaining a city through feats of power and leadership,” I reminded the man who had won his seat by submitting a poem.

Things went downhill after that.

I continue to move around, not in any hurry and not too worried about my safety. In fact, I am even surprised to have been let out without supervision. Midnight approaches and the pedestrians grow more rare, their footsteps echoing across the streets. The temperature dips a bit. Soon, I am alone and free to move a bit faster, a bit more silently than a mortal could. My steps lead me to a massive bridge over the Moldau and I spot a few towers peering from above a long white wall. I consider resorting to shenanigans before going back, but then I am caught off-guard by something I had not expected here.

The tug of fate.

I am… needed. Somewhere behind me.

Giving up all pretense, I find a dark corner and climb up to the roofs, clinging to their sharp slopes. I run and jump, the artistic dress I wear allowing some freedom of movement. One day, I will give up the habit of keeping the skirt down when I jump so as not to reveal too much ankle, but it is not today.

I follow the tug through dark rows and forgotten corners, skirting the more proper part of the city without ever falling into slums. Indeed, the streets grow more crooked and ancient until, finally, I end up in a one-way alley barely large enough to deserve the name, and I wait, but not for long.

A man bursts out from behind a pair of barrels and I jump, barely managing to control a yelp. I had not seen him. In fact, I had not perceived him at all.

“No time, no time, you are late! Did you bring your tools? Of course not, you silly little thing. Bah, no matter.”

The man himself is an absolute anomaly. He wears tweed in a perfectly cut suit that shows the body of a strong man gone to fat, still powerful behind a bit of belly. He is a bit taller than me with a long white beard that covers his torso in a wide spread, and two manic eyes of different colors, one brown and one blue, now shifty and unfocused. He speaks English with an accent I cannot place but sounds exotic.

Before I can react to his scathing comment, he turns around and rushes to a side door cleverly hidden behind a climbing vine. The slab of wood looks strong and unyielding.

“Quick, lend me a hand!”

I approach, only for him to shove a leather pouch into my hand. I feel straight twigs of metal between my fingers.

“You can have mine, I was never good at that sort of thing.”

I open the container to find picks.

“Hold on, how did you even…”

“Supplicant. I am your supplicant, if you will allow. This is how it works with the first, yes?”

I freeze and relax immediately after, allowing the mismatched eyes to bore into me.

“If you know this…”

“I will offer you a tribute of blood if you complete your tasks. One night of service, well, what’s left of it you tardy bumblebee. Nothing to break your oaths yadda yadda.”

I frown. The man takes a deep breath and exhales quite loudly. And rudely.

“Listen, you were led here, no? You know that you will not regret it. If you do a good job.”

All my instincts tell me that I should accept the strange offer, despite how risky this all seems. It is my turn now to take a deep breath.

“Well, this is rather cavalier.”

“Yes, the terminally myopic woman stumbled upon a railing. ‘Tis the railing’s fault.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Enough dallying. Open it, quick. Busy busy!”

I grab two picks and lean forward, casting one last glare at the man who peers excitedly through a barred window. The night is mostly silent at this stage. I hear nothing from the inside.

The lock yields under my patient efforts, and I am surprised by its relative complexity. I am about to open it when something stops me. There, under my finger, the lightest touch of magic.

I grumble and prick my finger.

“This would not happen if you carried a focus around,” my annoying companion whispers.

“I was not expecting to go out at all?” I hiss back, causing yet another eyeroll.

“Some seer you are.”

“I was never good at it alright? Now let me work!”

A simple rune and I blow on the door, revealing a spider web of silvery script.

“Alarm?” the man asks.

“Some burglar you are,” I retort, “yes, alarm and fire. Let me disarm it.”

“Oh no, no fire! It would not do at all!”

“Shhh!”

I carefully engrave a circle with a nail and link it with the alarm’s trigger rune, then deactivate the rest of the construct on the other side of the door. Whoever designed this system was thorough but terribly unimaginative. They never expected more than a direct approach.

A click, and the door rotates on oiled hinges with satisfactory silence. No alarm, no fire.

It smells of dog and old books.

The old man brushes past me in a rush to cross the antechamber we find ourselves in. A lifted curtain, and I enter a packed library.

Rows upon rows of dense shelves filled to the brim cover every wall in perfect darkness. They reach the very ceiling to form a labyrinth of overloaded containers, each crammed with crumbling tomes and leather-bound books, loose sheets escaping left and right. The unknown man dives straight in between a collection of treaties on Themistocles and early renditions of Don Giovanni, waving a small lantern he borrowed from the entrance. He is light enough on his steps that he does not trigger an avalanche of the Descartes mountain, which had started to sag. Eventually, he reaches a tiny desk tucked on the side and barely visible under all that fire hazard. I see his back bend as he leans forward, and he turns to me, waving a small, wrinkled pamphlet.

“Here it is. I knew it. I just knew it! Those ignoramuses. And they dare call themselves bibliophiles. Hah!”

I read the document after it is shoved under my nose by frantic hands. It is, of course, in Czech.

Ah nevermind, I turn it and see the same in German.

“Herr Matthias Bilek, pious man of the true faith. Disperses curses, banishes demons. Satisfaction and discretion guaranteed.”

Below, an address was written though I would be hard-pressed to find it without some local help.

“What is this all about anyway?” I ask.

“The book! The star book of twisted things. They want to destroy it, the horrid lot. Too many weak psyches lost to its hallowed pages. But I digress. We must away at once. I only hope that we are not too late. Tardy one!”

“Alright alright, lead the way!”

We rush out into the streets of the deserted city with alacrity and I start to suspect that the man may be one of us. I still fail to perceive him with anything but ear and sight, but there is a litheness behind his step that a man of his age and physique should not have, even if they have a past career in ballet. Besides, he cannot have a past career in ballet. His leg muscles are wrong.

The man ignores my inspection as we trot across the cobbled streets like ghosts. At this late hour, the ancient walls loom and alcoves help reinforce the impression of progressing through a maze. It must be such a pleasant hunting ground that I cannot help but sniff the air in the search for some lost mortal to snack on. There are none to be found, however, and we soon end up in a small plazza around a tiny well, its rim chipped by centuries of human hands. There is a gas lamp now extinguished. The only source of illumination is a single candle shimmering behind a window like a trembling beacon, barely strong enough to survive the encroaching darkness.

“There it is. Can you work your magic again? Quickly, or they will finish what they started.”

I first check for alarms and find a pitiful one, barely deserving of the name. My work with lockpicks is similarly short. Only when I grab the handle do I stop in my tracks.

“What?” the man asks.

“This place is a home. I cannot get in.”

“Curses! I cannot progress without you. Oh no, we cannot delay. They could be trying as we speak!”

I let the grown man grumble. There is still one recourse, a tool that I am usually loath to use.

I need to be invited in.

While some other bloodlines thrive on ambiguity, breaking the spirit of the laws of hospitality upsets me on a fundamental level. Alas. Fate, this cruel mistress, is still needling me forward and I am willing to take the risk, and so I mess up my dress a bit and call upon the Hastings essence.

Most of the time, the essence allows me to flush my face and imitate the many innocuous gestures of those whose blood runs warm. This time, I manipulate the essence for another purpose. Instead of the hale flush of the living, I turn my own pallor sickly and worrisome. My lips are blue from some unknown affliction, and dark circles appear around my eyes. I can feel the change and the borrowed essence guides me further. I stoop and roll my shoulders, gripping my own elbow protectively. To complete the image, my instinct guides my eyes to the sides, looking for a danger I know is not there. The old man smiles lightly and steps back in the shadows in order to let me work.

I bang on the door, again and again. Somewhere to the left, a man swears through his shuttered windows. There is always a risk operating in a densely populated city. This time, the attention of the neighbour is a good thing.

An older gentleman in a dusty robe and with a long, thin beard barges out from the home in a hurry, clearly dismayed. His gaze lands on me and he immediately shows deep consternation. He speaks a few hurried words in Czech, but I quickly interrupt him.

"Können Sie denn wirklich etwas tun... gegen einen Fluch?" I ask in my best German. Can you really do something about a curse? He blinks, slowly, once then twice. The upstairs neighbor pops out from his window and starts hurling insults.

“Ja, ja, schnell!” my target exclaims, leading me in.

Success.

I wipe the predatory smirk off my mouth. A piteous performance, Sinead would say, and yet it served its purpose. Sometimes the setting matters more than the depth of the deception.

“Sind Sie Matthias Bilek?” I ask as we go in.

"Natürlich."

My host’s tone is curt and brooks no interruption. We pass through a dark reception room lit only by the candle I saw earlier, with cards and vials and other mystical implements strewn about with some attempt at order. For all the mess, the place is clean and smells faintly of soap. I also notice quite a few crosses and other indications of syncretism between faith and magic. We unsurprisingly head to a set of stairs going down. Herr Bilek mumbles in Czech once again. When it becomes obvious that I have no mastery of the language, his instructions grow shorter.

“Ruhe.”

Be silent. Well, I did bother him in the middle of the night.

Our steps are quiet on the ancient stones. The scent of cleanliness soon gives way to an interesting mix of wax, chemicals, and humidity. Herr Bilek has a cave, and a good-sized one it is. It reveals itself to me on the lower landing.

Diagrams and models cover the far wall on one side, crates and curious contraptions line another, while to my left, a circle has been drawn patiently on a smooth expanse of basalt. Candelabras burn here and there to provide light for mortal eyes. Bilek points to a lone chair, asking me to sit there in a rather cavalier fashion. He did not even offer me tea.

With that said, I understand his brisk manner as the other visible occupant of the room jumps to his feet. He is a mousy man in expensive but dirty clothes and bloodshot blue eyes, cradling an ancient leather-bound book as if it were a treasure. He immediately starts a tirade, ripping into my graceful host. I cannot follow the conversation as I do not understand the language, but I can easily surmise its content.

“Look what you done did, Billy, you brought a person of the female persuasion here! We were in the middle of something of a private nature!”

“So help me god Cooter you dumbass, I couldn’t just up and leave her screaming outside what with all the nosy neighbors. I swear to the lord you’re such a pisser.”

Or something of the sort.

I wait politely for them to finish, wondering if the distraction I am expecting will make itself known. The book is the one I am to save anyway. So long as it remains intact, I can take my time to guess what this whole situation is about.

However, the distraction occurs sooner than I expected.

From a crate sat against the wall next to the drawn circle, someone sneezes. A boy, if the breath and heartbeat are any indication, anywhere from three to four years old depending on how malnourished he is.

I react as a mortal would, showing surprise, then horror, then returning my terrified gaze to the other guest just as he grabs in his jacket for a gun.

His next words are ominous.

Probably. They are still in Czech.

At least, Herr Bilek shakes and protests the treatment, but the other remains intractable as he waves an antiquated pistol around. The guest walks to the center of the circle where a small altar has been placed, and lays the book in a prepared hollow. Herr Bilek is clearly not very athletic and he did not make use of the opportunity. He only yelps in shock when the guest walks to the crate and opens it with a metal bar, revealing its content: a filthy street orphan lying on a pail of straw. The poor youngling shares the bleary expression of one who has been submitted to narcotics.

An immediate and heated discussion ensues, and once more I can only extrapolate its content.

“Oh woe, woe is me, for what nefarious end hast thou brought a bairn in my abode? Forsooth, how I regret welcoming you here, thy gormless snake!”

“Curse be with thine hopeless naivete! The cost of success had always been high, nay, exorbitant. Thou were only too candid to admit it! See as I activate this pathetic, inefficient magical circle and sacrifice someone else’s life to erase a book from existence!”

Or something of the sort. To be fair, I can think of five books from the top of my head that I would not mind killing someone to unmake. Like Wuthering Heights. Ugh.

The guest now drags the groggy kid to the altar under heavy protest, but he will not be deterred and his hand is steady. I see a manic glint in his bloodshot eyes and recognize his drive. It is the passion of a man who has tasted madness and must first embrace it or he will be devoured by it.

Well, time to do something. I have been threatened, and though I would be well within my right to kill the guest where he stands, I cannot do it.

It would be abominably boring.

Instead, I stand from my chair and smile at the pistol-holder whose expression turns to confusion. At the same time, I fan the flames of outrage in Mr. Bilek’s heart.

And then I smile with all my teeth out.

Bilek has his back to me and he does not notice anything. The guest, however, is suitably impressed. He screams and aims his gun, but my needled host has already launched his ponderous frame at his ex-ally, and the latter one is too late to react.

The guest brings the barrel back, only for it to be blocked with a firm grip. He makes the mistake of holding the child as if scared to lose him and Bilek capitalizes on it by delivering a passable hook.

The smaller guest is propelled backward while his pistol clatters upon the rock, quickly picked up by the host’s trembling hand. The child falls where he is. The guest recovers and finds, in his jacket, a nasty blade of sharp obsidian. He speaks, begs. My host's voice shakes yet his mind is made. I see pure, delicious desperation in the smaller man as he licks his spittle-covered lips, searching for an opening that his body cannot exploit.

Bilek readjusts his grip.

The guest charges with a frightful cry. He is shot. He falls, gurgles and spits his life blood.

Bilek, too, collapses. His knees smack into the rock with a bony finality and the spent pistol is abandoned where it falls. I gave it a one in three chance of exploding, taking the shooter’s hand with it. I guess luck is on his side, for now.

“What have I done?” he probably says. That or “I cannot hear at all” since this is the usual result of unloading a firearm in a confined space.

With a trembling hand, Bilek reaches for the book, then he sees the dagger in the dead man’s grip a few feet away and steels his expression. I can practically see the cogs turning in his overtaxed brain, despair pushing him on the path to sacrifice. One step, two steps, my presence is forgotten.

“Not so fast,” I whisper in his ear.

And now comes the subtle part. As a guest, I am beholden to certain laws, but I can also show a measure of initiative without resorting to violence. Some doors are best left closed for the mortal mind is not equipped to bear them, but is the wisdom they impart not worth a little bit of insanity?

I shall let him decide.

“You are a man of knowledge,” I purr, forcing his gaze away from the knife and towards the diagrams and books filling his workplace. They form a tapestry of letters over a background of naked stones. Old words, old scripts, an old place.

“And the most precious of all, the most unique, is here.”

“But… the man… his mind gone.”

“He was weak and feeble, a foolish collector of works he never understood, and never tried to. You, however, you are a man of talent, a light in the darkness. Is it not so?”

“Ja… Genau…”

“If you destroy this treasure without even tasting it, doubt and regret will dog you until the day you die. What thought-provoking ideas might be lost because of fear and obscurantism? Just a peek… If the contents proves to be too much, can you not burn it later?”

“Just a peek. Just a tiny one.”

Shaky fingers on dry leather and the contents are revealed. Just as I expected, the book is potent. Pages flip like butterfly wings in a chromatic dance with no respect for propriety or, indeed, physics. They land on a poem and my host recites in a suddenly smooth baritone.

“Beneath the waves, deep, where the lost ones birth the tides

Through towers of coral and black shrines tall and cold

Altars of whale bones; pillars of black and gold

Asheras hides

The unholy parades that amble its turbid traits

Have not known sun nor stars nor the ice bite of the gale

No hale skin to be found; but pale eye, teeth, and scale

Asheras waits

Beards of drowned sailors, tibias on man-skin drums

Hungrily they grasp, their fingers like kelp and worms

In an endless tide that through shore and marsh yet squirms

Asheras comes

Oh mighty city, stay thy hand for one night more

That I may drown your memory in much opium and liquor

Like poison, your sight in my veins will always burn

And one day to Asheras return”

Oh, most peculiar. The runes and text is in Akkad and they carry the meaning directly to the reader’s spirit, transcending language. I can taste the auras of fish folks in their terrible multitudes as they crowd the living streets of their sanctum, its sprawl reaching to a dark horizon. I believe that my sire must have visited the place before he emerged from the ocean after his nap. How quaint!

I savor the piece of trivia, but the same cannot be said for my host. His eyes turn red and tears of blood trail down his pale cheeks. He mumbles a few words, lifts a page and, once more, the book shifts to another fragment. The hand-written letters belong to someone else now, someone with a wild and enthusiastic calligraphy. It is still in Akkad.

“Lo, I climbed the slope of grandfather Kilimanjaro as the Gazanias spread their golden petals. I sat upon the ashes in the shadows of Mawenzi, that great teat of the earth, and imbibed the sorcerous elixir. Dawn came and it was glorious, and as its rays torched my flesh, I felt the true… Aaaah AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH”

I shiver at the recollection. Ouch. Even second-hand, having one’s essence annihilated will never be pleasant. It has gone worse for my poor host who even now runs to the prone form of his victim, clawing his face as he goes. He grabs the discarded knife and plants it firmly in his jugular. Arterial blood falls in a cascade.

Ah well.

I step forth and latch on the wound, taking great care not to sully my dress.

Hmm.

Provoked insanity. The best kind. I relish the tortured essence for as long as I can, enjoying every drop of twisted psyche. When I step back from the body, the old man awaits. He holds the book and caresses its cover with great affection.

“Thank you. You did well,” he tells me with a smile.

“You are one of us. I knew it.”

“No,” he replies with a fanged smile, “you expected it.”

“What I did not expect was for you to have stolen one of the Great Books of the Ekon!”

“Stolen?” he scoffs, “I made the things! Every copy. They never objected to sharing their experience with me, and so this tome draws from theirs. And a few other select volumes.”

“Why?” I ask, enthralled.

“Why make the book? For the same hobby that you share with me, little Devourer. I knew we were of one mind the moment I smelled the young street urchin on you. We both enjoy making the world… stranger.”

The man’s face shifts. He is a young dandy, a grizzled soldier, a fat banker. Every face is a mask more convincing than any disguise I ever made. The only constant remains the mismatched pair of eyes, always manic. They draw me in like whirlpools.

“By the Watcher… you are Vanheim.”

“In the flesh, or is it fleshes?”

The voice is younger now and comes from a princely man with the demeanor of a spoiled noble. It lasts for only an instant before I see a fresh-faced plant worker in sooty coveralls.

“Now I am more than eager to taste that essence of yours,” I say.

“Ah, the impatience of youth,” a wizened rabbi reprimands, “your task is not yet done! You still have to leave your mark…”

I am handed colorful sticks by a young Parisian artist in a ratty suit.

Of course, I know what to do.

I find a seat and get to work, carefully selecting the right shades of black and grey for the suitable background. The Nightmares are as dark as I can make them, and their riders blur with speed and the thinning fabric of the world. The tide of flesh facing them writhes like so many maggots but their disgusting presence is smothered, eclipsed by the great entity behind us. The Scourge has covered the land, but The Watcher has come and its many heralds now unleash its gaze. Purple saturates the scene in its many hues. In a cave of Prague, on a piece of paper that only exists in this moment, I draw the vampire charge at Back Harbor and, in it, I pour the excitement, the rage, and the ecstasy of riding down a challenging PREY along the deadliest warriors of this world.

Yes.

This is… PERFECT.

It has taken me two hours, but I successfully imprinted my memory upon the ethereal paper. Now, whoever observes it will be nicely dragged into it and know what it feels to stand at the top. I wish them all the best!

“This will do nicely,” Vanheim declares, admiring the work, “Now, I suppose that it is time for your reward!”

He blurs and I taste a powerful essence on my tongue.

This time, I see no recollection, but a haze of sensations and competing thoughts that carry me like a tornado, sending my consciousness to crash through concepts like flimsy walls. As soon as a new provoking idea emerges, it fades like a dream to be replaced by another. I am left stunned by the cacophony of power and fall, dazed for the first time in decades.

“Wow.”

“Quite a ride, is it not? You are the first Devourer I grace with my mind. May you find a use for it as you were of use to me. After all...”

He leans and suddenly I am looking at a woman. She is exactly my size, wears my robe and…

Deep, slightly amused blue eyes. A pretty face with a sneer too jaded to belong to one so young. Her carmine lips part to reveal eight fangs.

“...Our interests align, do they not?”

My voice, my face. Before I can protest the robbery, my alter ego’s hair turns as dark as jay and I am looking at a slightly different person.

“And with this, I bid you adieu. I do not think we will meet again until the age of ash and thin air. Goodbye, darling. Do keep yourself alive.”

And he… she? Whatever. Vanheim is gone.

I find myself mostly alone in the darkening cave, in my damaged dress, holding a book. What an unexpected turn of event.

The drugged child tumbles towards me, lifts his glazed eyes to my face and asks.

“Co se d?je?”

I am going to assume that he is asking what just happened. Well, he is tiny. I can at least take him outside.

With his hand in mine, we climb the stairs and exit the building in silence. I find Jimena waiting for me in the small plaza. She is staring at me with her mouth wide open, a decidedly unvampiric expression.

“It was a long night,” I start, as way of explanation.

“Nevermind that. Why is your hair black?”

Oh.