A Journey of Black and Red

Chapter 193: A Night in the Life of a Devourer

June 1872

Of all the major industries that graced the humble city of Marquette, none were more emblematic than the designing and making of weapons of war. IGL, Illinois Guns of Liberty, had claimed the position of crown jewel of the American military engineering business. It had kept this title through a combination of reliability, excellent supply lines, and an ability to streamline any design they came across. The Illinois Guns of Liberty could be found in the hands of infantrymen as it had during the war, but also equipped private security companies, Pinkerton detectives, and all manners of discerning individuals. Contrary to most of its competitors, IGL had thrived in the post-war crunch. Its founders had used their profit to diversify their activities. IGL had contracted with grace to match the rarer orders, only to bounce back with more vigor like a gunpowder phoenix rising from the ashes of peace.

Now, the forges belched out black smoke in turn with falling hammers. Deadly contraptions emerged from its maw, contained in crates stamped with the eagle of its crest. IGL was Marquette’s largest employer and its roaring fires never cooled.

Despite IGL’s respectability, there were some questions as to the nature of its engineering department, as well as the strange materials they seemed to work with. Certain rumors of witchcraft and curious pursuits titillated the curiosity of the town’s gossips. It was said that they were working on ships, even though the closest body of water lay far to the north. Those rumors were left to run amok for a good reason. As in most cases, they were a lure, a smoke screen to divert the attention of the hoi polloi from the true enigma.

Situated behind the factory wall on a small hillock, the Reynaud family estate occupied a modest stretch of ground and would, to the uninitiated, appear as nothing more than a Gothic Revival estate designed for a large family. Its facade showed arched windows painted white, pink brick walls hidden coquettishly behind rigorously maintained hedges. Flowers were rare, and so were the guards, though an imposing wrought iron gate blocked the main entrance. A more astute observer would have noticed that the house came to life at night while most of the company’s activities were winding down.

Maybelle worked there as a receptionist.

Now, there were quite a few anomalies in this house, not least the death of its famed founder some thirty years before the company’s official incorporation. A massive painting of Hercule Reynaud greeted visitors with a fatherly, warm smile. It was quite recent, yet felt almost lifelike.

No, indeed, discretion was the better part of valor for most employees. Maybelle had never hoped for such good employment as a single, unwed mother despite her training, and she never would find one again if she lost it. Similarly, Hortensia Staunton from accounting was on the run from a jealous and violently separated husband, while Glenn Jefferson was wanted for murder in Virginia. She knew it because Mr. September had left his memo open on his desk while she was bringing him an order to sign.

Everyone working at the estate had reason to stay here. Quietly.

This led to the most polite and soft-spoken environment Maybelle had ever worked in, which suited her just fine. The employees kept quiet about ‘the’ woman, her strange comings and goings, her mysterious guests and other, stranger details. In return, they thrived under her black wing, left to enjoy their second chance at life in a world that would see them crushed. The woman, whom her colossal bodyguard called ‘Miz Ari’ but everyone else called Miss Reynaud, showed unerring respect, and her requests were always reasonable. Maybelle was more than willing to excuse her peculiarities for those reasons, and also because she was terrifying.

Maybelle was reasonably certain others had noticed. When Miss Reynaud walked around, sometimes, the walls would rustle. Her comings were heralded by a strange chill crawling up the spine of her attendants. She was unreasonably strong as well, sometimes picking up samples or interesting metal pieces with inhuman ease, while at other times she would pretend to struggle. Like the others, however, Maybelle would not lift the mask to see what hid under. She knew witchcraft was involved. She also knew that looking deeper might cost one more than their lives.

No, the Reynaud estate would stay polite and peaceful. At least from internal disruptions.

A chime rang from Maybelle’s desk, rousing her from her distraction. The sun had set, letting the August night dispel the day’s stifling heat. She grabbed the copper horn hanging near the wall and spoke into it.

“This is reception speaking.”

“Mrs. Starr, hello, whose child is currently asleep in the south wing guest room?”

“Wallace’s, miss. The new hire.”

“And where is she right now?”

“Undergoing training with Mr. Jefferson.”

“Inform them the child needs changing. There is no need to alter their schedule further, however. And do we have an update on the Lynn contract?”

“I’ll bring it to you immediately, miss.”

Maybelle picked the prepared file and walked the stone stairs to the second floor, where the strange woman’s palatial office was located. Her brand new leather loafers sank in the lush carpet with every silent step. Mr. Doe stood at the top, his attention focused on what appeared to be a primer on the Finnish language. He nodded at her in passing, as he always did. As usual, she held her breath when entering the last corridor until she was certain no one could hear her, and as usual, Miss Reynaud spoke as Maybelle’s hand approached the polished wood of the door, but before she could knock.

“Come in.”

The strange woman’s desk occupied almost all of the space from wall to wall, cutting the large room in half like the world's fanciest barricade. Sober carvings decorated its surface, while gas lamps cast a warm glow over the rare wood essences. Shelves occupied the far wall, some holding books, others files of recent projects. They were only half-full as their contents were regularly archived to avoid cluttering. Miss Reynaud did not like cluttering, as her desk’s surface confirmed.

The woman herself sat in her chair, holding a small telegram. One of her brows arched imperiously in a gesture that did not quite fit her youthful features. With her poise, she possessed an ageless quality that made receiving orders from her less grating to the more traditionally-minded employees.

Maybelle wordlessly placed her folder in the receiving rack and stood, waiting to be dismissed. The strange woman balled the message and tossed it in her bin. Her expression had returned to polite neutrality.

“I am informed that we should expect guests belonging to law enforcement soon. Please direct them to my office as soon as they arrive. Thank you.”

“Understood, miss.”

Maybelle returned to the reception. She spent the next hour scheduling appointments and checking inventories. The expected visitors showed up a little later.

The first was a handsome young man with hard features. He entered with vigilant eyes and a hand on his holster, from which a metal handle emerged. A cross hung from his neat tie. Maybelle surveyed the newcomer with distant interest, noting the double-barreled coach gun strapped to his back. Two older fellows in dusters followed soon after with guarded airs, weapons on display. They approached her as if expecting her to bite. She expected bank robbers to show less nervous energy.

“We’re here for Reynaud,” the lead man threatened.

“Of course. Take the stairs to your right to the second floor, then it’s the large room at the end of the corridor.”

The man blinked.

Maybelle blinked with as much exaggeration as she thought she could get away with.

“Was there anything else?” she asked coyly, but the man was already gone with his two partners in tow.

Maybelle resumed her work.

The vampire felt the men arrive when spheres of denial appeared in her Magna Arqa, bubbles of existence that refused her own, protected by their faith in something greater than themselves, and her. Her bodyguard had pulled back for now, leaving the men to trail dust on the expensive carpet. They filed in fearfully, weapons drawn, crosses revealed.

The vampire placed her elbows on the desk and rested her head on her balled fist, looking at the intruders with detached interest.

“You are Ariane, the Red Maiden?” the handsome young lad asked.

He smelled of delicious terror mixed with courage, a true hero facing impossible odds. And those were impossible odds.

“I have been called that, yes,” the vampire replied with a half smile to three gun muzzles.

“You’ll be coming with us.”

The vampire lifted a finger.

A small ball of steel smacked into the man’s revolver, tearing it off his hand. He yelped in pain when his knuckle cracked as well. The same fate befell the other two men as well with such speed that the swear words covered each other. The attack had been sudden and devastating, and the would-be hunters were left holding their broken digits. The scent of fear increased.

The vampire stood up, and the door slammed shut behind the three men. She walked around her desk with slow purpose, coming to stand in front of her guests. Her voice never abandoned its polite, descriptive tone.

“Hypothetically, if I were to stand in an empty room made of enchanted steel with a single exit you could block, three men could indeed neutralize me. I would be backed into a corner, so to speak, but this situation will never arise.”

The vampire extended a hand, and the man’s revolver jumped into it. She twirled it for effect.

“The purpose of the cross is not to make you invincible but to offer a safe haven, that is why it makes for a poor offensive tool. So long as you stay home and pray, we shall never visit you, but the moment you step into the night with a weapon in your hand is the moment you forfeit the protection neutrality afforded you. Why did you not attack during the day?”

The men kept silent, glaring at the ground and at each other with the embarrassment that comes with a swift defeat.

“Answer me!” the woman hissed.

The crosses flashed blue and the man signed themselves. One of them retreated to the door, only to find that it would not open. The vampire grinned. She cocked her borrowed gun. One of the men gave in.

“We know you cannot be found during the day. No one can see you. And there are too many guards.”

The vampire frowned at the thought of a leak, then reconsidered. She was a well-known — if mysterious — quantity in Marquette. The nosiest gossips had already drawn a parallel with Miss Delaney who had led the Dream in its heydays. And reached an unfortunate conclusion. Such was the price of hands-on management.

“There are three reasons why you still live,” she said. “First, killing law enforcement is infinitely more problematic than killing a nobody. Second, I do not want blood and brain matter on my brand new shaggy rug. Third, you were so hilariously incompetent I am more amused than vexed. You have two choices. You can leave by this door and never bother me again, or…”

Darkness crept in the corners of the room. An unnatural chill spread through the air, freezing the men’s breath in their throat. Their visions narrowed to a corridor and at the end of that tunnel was a cold presence, purple iris slitted with cat-like, baleful pupils.

“I will shred your souls and drain your life force like a fine wine and then, I will kill you.”

The men had not signed for eternal damnation. They took a collective step back.

“I thought not,” the woman said.

The door banged open and they ran away. The vampire sighed in relief.

“An Suqqam Hayatu, the tall one almost soiled himself.”

She grumbled and inspected the threshold, her toes sinking in the fluffy fabric. Satisfied that no irreparable damage had been inflicted and it was not too dusty, she returned to her paperwork, signing spending bills and inspecting diagrams of what appeared to be a large ship. Or perhaps a hot air balloon. An hour later, she contacted the reception once more.

“Maybelle, I do not see the report on the Indian territories trade route. Where is it?”

“Ah, sorry ma’am, analyst Briggs said he needed one more day because some of the reports were late. He has provided an outline of the situation. It’s in the sector report folder.”

“Hmm. Thank you.”

“Oh! Your order has arrived, ma’am. From France. The Berthe Morisot?”

“The painting? I will be right down!”

The vampire hummed a horribly off-tune little jig and put on some moccasins. She made her way down to the reception where the cylinder encasing her prize in a protective embrace awaited. She unsealed and opened it with dextrous excitement.

Maybelle leaned in and caught a glance. The painting appeared to depict a port with a couple at the forefront. Masted ships waited, moored in the distance. She squinted and realized the lines were a little blurred, the colors strange and fleeting. It was a far cry from the realistic landscapes lining the wall. Concern filled her heart but the strange woman smiled fondly, revealing, for an instant, teeth that were perhaps a little too sharp. Maybelle noted the strange Miss Reynaud seldom displayed emotions, yet now covetous greed gave her cold beauty a strange animation. After a while, she deftly rolled the painting back and replaced it in its sheath.

“Have it framed and brought to the exhibition hall. I do not need to remind you of the rule?”

“No one enters without your express consent. We will leave it in the lockbox, as usual. Ma’am.”

“Good. Well, back to it I suppose. Ta ta.”

Maybelle nodded politely and watched the young woman’s blue dress swish as she walked. Shaking her head, she focused on her next task.

***

The vampire returned to her desk, still humming with contentment. Paperwork disappeared with commendable speed. Sometimes, she would call down to request a specific document from the archive or send orders that could not be delayed. Her outbox collected notes filled with carefully written cursive.

Suddenly, she froze. Then she blinked very slowly. Ten seconds later, the chime near her copper horn rang softly.

“Ma’am, we have an intruder near the east wall. Your… security thing made a sound. It appears to be a young man with a backpack.”

“I see. If he makes a move towards the entrance, apprehend him. Otherwise, just keep an eye on him. I want to know what he plans to do.”

The vampire sat back and waited. Sometimes, her eyes would travel down as if she could see through the thick walls. Eventually, she stood and huffed a little laugh.

“Well, you are quite the little monkey.”

She went to the nearest window. Suddenly, branches of pure darkness dotted with white flowers appeared out of nowhere. They parted to let the statue of a man in armor out. It rolled the precious carpet out of the way and disappeared just as it had come.

In the silent room, there was a loud thud. The strange noise was quickly followed by a muffled curse, then another lesser thud. Wards shone softly around the reinforced frame. The vampire sprang in motion. She opened the window, pushing aside the man who had tried to break in. She grabbed his wrist before he could fall back down and pulled him in bodily. Her visitor swore as he crashed on the varnished hardwood.

The man was young, muscular and tan. His clothes were worker garb, dark to fit in, and covered in sewn pockets. Surprise marred his handsome, honest traits. The vampire noted the acrid stench of garlic.

He scrambled to his feet and opened his backpack with movements panic made feverish. The vampire politely waited with a hand supporting her elbow, the other tapping a clawed finger on her chin. The intruder finally revealed his target: a rolled bundle of dynamite. The vampire’s brows rose.

“You can’t get away with it!” he blurted.

Grasping in his pocket, he found a matchstick. This did not seem to bother the vampire.

“I am afraid you might have to be more specific,” she said

“... what?”

“There are many things I intend to or have already gotten away with. You need to name which specific occurrence of me getting away with things you are referring to.”

“You stole our land! You poisoned the well and killed the cattle, only to buy it for a joke of a price! You think you can just take our home? I’ll take yours too.”

With a terrible rictus of unbidden rage, the intruder brushed the red tip against his boot and… nothing happened. With a puff of cold air, whatever fragile ember had started to form died a lonesome, pathetic death. The intruder appeared a bit aghast, but another match soon joined the first on its path to incandescence with the exact same result. Panic replaced fury in his expression.

The vampire had not moved.

After the fourth attempt, cold sweat covered his face. The vampire, however, reached a conclusion. She headed back to her office and sat, writing a quick note.

“Name and address, please.”

“What?”

A breath later, the temperature plummeted. The intruder heard a sigh and watched the monster in the skin of a young woman massage the bridge of her nose, a human gesture performed with a clawed hand.

“Are you hard of hearing or just dense? Your name and address, boy, what are they? If one of my employees has been overzealous, I want to know about it.”

“Why do you care? You’re a monster!”

“Because,” the woman patiently explained, “I have no need to create grudges and deep resentment over business when the long term cost is that young men attempt to break into my place of work at eleven in the evening, carrying dynamite instead of flowers.”

There was a lull in the conversation, but then the man frowned. He fiddled with the cross hanging from his neck, surprised that it had not stopped her from grabbing his wrist. His suspicion grew.

“You just want to go after my family.”

“I swear that this was not my intention. However, you are free to decline. I suppose we should resume our previous business and address your invasion of my private property and your threats against me?” she asked, picking up an elegant revolver with a pearl handle from a side drawer.

The man considered his options.

“Hmm. The Lord protects me.”

“Has your faith made you bulletproof? Let us put it to the test.”

“Wait!”

To his surprise, she did.

“Wait. Are you.. are you really the monster behind IGL? Is that you?”

“Yes. Do you need my signature to prove it? The company’s seal?”

“No, no, this is… quite sudden and unexpected. You are playing tricks with me, foul monster.”

His heart was not into it. The vampire tutted.

“Language please. I believe I am already being quite understanding, no need to test my patience further. Now, please state the address of the house that was stolen from you. At least.”

“My family farm. Near Rushville. We don’t live in a city, it’s just the old Adams estate. I’m Roger Adams. Folks around us know about it. They know we were done dirty by some city fellers.”

The woman tapped her finger on the wood of her desk, the tick tick tick playing with his nerves.

“Schuyler county, was it? I will verify your claims. If you are correct, your property will be returned. I understand the concept of home more than most people, I assure you.”

“Is this real? Not some lies to get rid of me?”

“Mr Adams, do you sincerely believe I need to expend any effort to get rid of you?”

She tapped on the revolver to make a point, but the man suspected there was more to it. She had not been afraid even before she got a hold of the gun. He remembered the way his matches failed. The truth was that he had no weapons left, except a stake hidden in his back pocket and a knife. He had counted on the threat of explosives to be enough and… perhaps he should have planned this with more care. So focused on getting in, he had neglected to prepare what to do once he had achieved that goal. It felt stupid in retrospect but… he had been so angry.

“No. Uh, are you speaking the truth about getting our house back?”

“If you have told the truth, then yes. The perpetrator will also be… disciplined. I provide incentives for the acquisitions of key properties across the state. Financial incentives. I also impose rules and guidelines. If someone broke my directives out of greed, there will be consequences.”

The intruder thought the woman used a lot of what his sister called euphemisms. She said it was when you say something soft that means something hard. He thought ‘consequences’ here didn’t mean what most folks meant.

The woman finished her note, then placed it on the table where it sat there waiting with the tantalizing promise of justice accomplished. She entwined her fingers in front of her and asked him a question.

“Do you know what I am?”

The intruder hesitated, thinking he could still die. Eventually, his honest nature pushed him away from the easy lie.

“I think you are a vampire.”

“Is that so? And why do you believe that?”

“My family, they said only a monster could do that to us. When I learned those fellers that harassed us were from over here, I asked about you and also my sister has that book about fantastic creatures of the world. Says a lot about pretty folks who come out at night.”

“Is that why you stink of garlic?”

“Hmmm, that’s right. The book said… it would help. It does not, does it?”

“No.”

“Damn that liar. This Simon, errr…”

“Sinead.”

The name was barely whispered, and yet it carried with it impressions, feelings. For a moment, the wan light of a nearby lamp gained a golden quality and the air smelled sweeter. The intruder got an inexplicable vision of eyes like amber, a devastating smile, the taste of wine on his lips. And also, a vision of a very erect penis. It was an extremely disturbing experience.

“Err. Yeah. Simon Nead. That man.”

He gulped.

“Can I go now?”

“Hm? Oh yes, let me help.”

The vampire stood and moved to the window once again. She opened it, giving the intruder a vision of a nearby fountain near the main entrance.

“That should be fine.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder and gripped. His cross shone blue and she lifted an index in warning. He raised his hands in surrender. He did not know how but this affected the object, which lost its radiance.

“Well, Roger Adams, I cannot say that it has been a pleasure. Next time you have a complaint, use the damn door. Now kindly show yourself out.”

Next, he was flying through the air.

Gravity and panic gripped him. He flailed his arms in vain before landing face first in the shallow pool. He managed to twist himself, hitting hard stone with his shoulder. The shock made him gasp. The cold water jolted his mind. He surfaced, breathing quickly, his heart beating against his chest. He wiped the liquid from his face.

He was in the fountain. Alive.

The window slammed shut behind him. A click to the side attracted his attention. A man wearing a crimson uniform under a Stetson sniggered, his hand resting on an engraved rifle. He had just unlocked and opened the main gate. Their presence told him all he needed to know. She had seen him coming and allowed him to do so.

He scrambled out of the fountain and advanced, dripping, through the exit. As he ran, he noticed a short blonde woman with a muscular build under a similar crimson uniform. He had not noticed her until now. She growled softly when he ran by.

Terror and relief fueled his flight. He ran until he found his room in a nearby hotel and spent the night awake with the lights on.

***

Maybelle did her best to focus on the expense sheet in front of her. Sadly, she was too curious about the intruder. She could not help but wonder what they were here for. Was this a burglary? Spying? A scorned lover? She burned to know.

Then, it started with a light tremor in the house’s foundation, a vibration of sorts. Maybelle braced and covered her ears. The voice of Miss Reynaud was soft, yet it carried through the walls with unnatural clarity.

It started with a string of expletives in some language she did not know, then French curses peppered the unholy mix. Eventually, it was in English that the eruption took place.

“I HAVE BEEN EXCEEDINGLY PATIENT AND I HAVE NOT SHED THE BLOOD OF THOSE BRAINLESS TWITS AND SO I DESERVE SOME COMFORT.”

Maybelle grabbed the copper horn. A moment later, the chime rang.

“This is the reception.”

“Mrs Starr. Can I have a coffee please? Blend number five with some cream and a, no, make that two sugars. Have Mr Jefferson prepare it please. Thank you.”

“A long one, miss?”

“Yes. And get the office of the architect to get me a proposal for a tower. Seven floors at least, with a large basement. And the office on the top floor. Gargoyles. The works.”

“Understood.”

Maybelle hung up and raced to the majordomo. Seven minutes later, he walked by her at a brisk pace with a silver platter in his hands, trailing the enticing smell of a perfect roast behind him.

***

Ariane aspired to some respite after being intruded in her sanctum not once but twice in the span of a few hours. Restraining specific instincts had become incredibly hard since the dragon hunt, especially those that related to territory. If anyone had dared enter her private, special collection of paintings and art, she would have just dismembered them where they stood. As it was, it had taken all of her self-control not to bite the idiots.

She raised the cup to her lips. Cream altered the taste greatly, especially to her enhanced senses, and yet there was a smooth quality to the sweetened coffee that brought balm to her irritated mind. A few sips later, she felt better. That was when the screams started.

The vampire stayed perfectly unmoving as cries and chants grew in volume until the words were clear to all but the most hard of hearing.

“No more gin, drink water, close the pubs and stay sober!”

The sentence was repeated at nauseam by distinctly female throats coming from the gate. Ariane placed the half-empty cup in its decorated saucer. Outside of her property, a group of women had gathered in conservative dresses waving around signs and banners. There must have been two dozen of them and they seem agitated. Ariane came to a quick conclusion.

“Tonight is Thursday. The temperance league holds its weekly meeting,” the vampire idly commented.

It was well-known that IGL owned and regulated the town’s brewery to contain the endemic spread of alcoholism which now affected most of the United States. The temperance league were merely complaining directly to the owner.

Ariane placed her hands on the window’s stool, resting her head against the cold glass.

The human Lord was testing her.

The problem was that she had been forsaken by said lord long ago and really, that was a little too much. In the middle of her coffee. Sacrilegious, even.

She returned to her cup but the relaxation that came with the ritual had been broken.

“You know what? Fine. Fine!”

A chime later, she had Maybelle Starr on the horn.

“Reception here.”

“We have manure, right? From the stables?”

Consternated silence met her question, though the girl recovered quickly.

“Yes. We do.”

“Excellent. Have a boy race and fetch me a large bucket.”

“... to your office miss?”

“Over my carpets? Have you lost your senses? No, have them meet me by the fountain. I will be right down. And tell them to hurry, my patience is wearing thin.”

Grumbling, Ariane put on her moccasins, again, and walked down, again. It was dark in the inner court so the protesters did not spot her. She could see them and realized in a calmer part of her mind that they would pay for everyone else’s behavior. She also knew she did not really care.

A sleepy stable lad rushed by her side, the required bucket held in a strong grip. The container looked heavy, and its payload let out an acrid stench.

“Good. Place it here.”

“On the ground, ma’am?”

“Yes, and step back.”

The lad did so.

In an instant, a root erupted from the ground and seized the bucket. It snapped forward like the arm of an ancient siege weapon, catapulting its nasty content across the courtyard.

Some of it splattered on the metal frame.

More found the dresses, exposed skin and singing mouths of the protesters.

Atrocious screams and terrible wails replaced the slogans. Their misery drowned the street with a terrible din. The abused troop retreated in poor order, leaving behind discarded hats and abandoned umbrellas soiled with excrement.

The root disappeared as if it had never existed. Only the discarded bucket remained, a mute witness to the terrible crime that had occurred.

Near the gates, the female sentry gagged. Her male counterpart sighed and left to fetch a shovel.

“Kill one warn a hundred,” the vampire soberly commented.

Nodding to herself, she left for the tranquility of her art collection, knowing that if anyone came to bother her, Pookie would get an extra meal.