Demon Lord Shapeshifting System

Chapter 183 A Rose By Any Other Name

Even though Harker wasn't raised to any religion, he was familiar with several Bible stories from his mother, who was raised by a devout Catholic family down in New Orleans. Now how devoted Josephine Jones was can't really be determined, and not really all that important.

Harker always thought her to be more of an agnostic, though he did occasionally see her pray during the roughest periods of their lives while she was still alive. That was mostly the reason why he didn't question Father Gerard's behavior when he was pretending to be her. When Chloe was born, he also did notice her carrying a rosary in hand more often.

When he was younger, he didn't think much about these things. But now that things had evolved this way, he felt he shouldn't run from the past anymore.

His mother knew something. She could feel it, as the years approaching her death from childbirth came.

But what? What was she so scared about?

He looked at the roses in the garden as he pondered over this. He was only waiting for sundown so they could execute the plan of entering Victoria's room. And thanks to Roland's info now, he knew what he would be looking for.

That journal.

Roland described it to be leather bound, and to have a sort of engraving in front. Its pages were yellowed and old, some even in tatters. It would be easy to spot it, he said.

Harker hoped so, as he didn't really want the girls to spend so much trouble providing a distraction for 15 minutes. They decided among themselves what that distraction would be, and talked about the signals they would give to each other.

The plan seemed to be simple enough, but timing and execution mattered. Or else everything would fall apart.

"The roses form a ring." He then heard a voice behind him.

Harker turned, and it was Roland. He just nodded, and when he saw some other people around, reluctantly glared at his friend.

Roland just smiled at this. "Good luck."

"Have some rest. You need it." Harker said,

"Mn." He went to the tent assigned for Doctor Sornione to sleep in.

After receiving the signal, Harker went to look for Victoria's tent. He saw from afar three figures having a discussion. Sure enough, they were Victoria, 'Mary' and 'Petra'. The sisters were showing something interesting that they found in the readings.

Harker had moved quickly and slipped inside while blending into the shadows. But that sinking feeling was still there. That knowing, yet also not knowing.

Was this how his mother felt during her last days? Knowing evil, yet unable to tell what it was, and how it will approach?

Such a thing was more of a curse, really. Harker had always thought knowledge was a blessing, but instances like this were an exception. That apprehension, that paranoia…. It was slowly eating him inside, like his body cannibalizing itself.

He tried to keep a clear head, and scattered himself all over Victoria's room as a group of black worms.

Before entering, he didn't sense any presence or security measure. There was a simple lock, of course, but that won't keep someone like him. He did have to let go of the harpoon and hide it in one of the bushes, since he can't carry it with him. Clothes are a different matter, as they are easy to tear apart and join again with the worms.

And they were mostly made of organic matter too, whether it's linen, cotton or wool.That was why even clothes would be included in shapeshifting too.

But metal was a different matter. Harker did wish he could bring the harpoon along with him just for assurance.

He knew his skills were more than enough. It was mostly just to serve as a talisman, the same way people use protective pendants.

And yes, even rosaries and the symbol of the cross.

They won't do much when real danger arises. They're just there for comfort.

Harker had soon found what he believed to be the journal inside Victoria's locked drawer. It was easy to unlock by having the black worms squirm around and undo the mechanism. Anyone else might have to take time lockpicking, but not Harker.

It all felt too easy, which added to his apprehension.

Still, he acquired what was needed, and that's what's important. Any consequences afterwards will be dealt with, he doesn't have much to lose.

Yes, when you're this powerful that you are almost like a god, you don't have much to lose.

The only worry he truly had was securing the safety of his loved ones who weren't like him. Who are still weaker and have more to lose from the peril.

The journal really was very old as Roland had said. Centuries old. Harker wouldn't be surprised if it was old as Joan and Victoria, or even more. Besides the leather bounding, Harker noticed that the engraving….

Was a compass rose.

Four directions looking like a star or a cross. North, South, East, West. And in the middle, was the circular center, the ring.

Harker opened it, the smell of the aged pages pervading his nose.

The handwriting was very clean and impeccable. It turned out to not be owned by Victoria, but a navigator named Henry Clerval. Harker remembered that name, the name of Edmund Walton's right hand man, his first mate, his cartographer and childhood friend.

When he was gleaning on Joan's memories, he saw a few instances of the times she met Henry. But it was vague, and he couldn't discern his features much besides that he had yellow hair and blue eyes.

As he skimmed the pages, he saw the records of Henry in their travels. He doesn't say much about his own feelings and experiences like one would in a usual journal. This was really more of a travel log, a way to take notes on the places they traveled, experiences, important dates, persons and events, etc.

But when Harker was on the latter pages, he noticed how the handwriting had deteriorated from how it once was. The ink would often form blots from pressing the quill too hard, and sometimes there would be pages just full of ink splatters and nonsensical lines.

This happened during the year 1776. The year of Edmund Walton's death.

Harker frowned from remembering that memory. When Alejandro told him the date of Edmund Walton's date, he suddenly muttered 1761. Why was that? That would have been 15 years before the man's death, and he would be approximately 7 or 8 years old.

So why would he say that?

But it all started to make sense when he read the final page of Henry Clerval's journal.

[I still remember the first time we met, and he became like a rose bud in my bosom. It had been 15 years since, but I will never forget that memory. Nor will I ever forget any memory of the one I treasure most in this world. My dear Edmund.]