Man

of

War

Evelyn Chartres

(Nom de Plume)

Copyright 2024

Ottawa, Ontario

Halifax, Nova Scotia

ABOUT

For centuries, Marc has served as Evelyn’s unwavering protector—a vampire of shadow—unfeeling, fiercely loyal, and a force to be reckoned with. But what of the man?

Man of War unravels the first century of Marc’s life. It traces his origins as an impetuous French Viscount who finds refuge in service of king and country. Watch as he wages war against the world, those beyond the grave, and with himself. Focus on the women who forged his very being.

Set against the backdrop of seventeenth-century Europe, this dark fantasy immerses the reader in a rich historical, linguistic, and cultural tale. Before reading on, consider: While good intentions pave the road to hell, jumping off comes with a price.

This standalone work welcomes new readers to a narrative that can be enjoyed independently, or in conjunction with preceding novels.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE – OMEGA MAN

PART I – JEANNE

CHAPTER 1 – DEATH'S WAKE

CHAPTER 2 – HOPE SKIP AND A SPLASH

CHAPTER 3 – LOST IN TIME

CHAPTER 4 – THE LONG ROAD BACK

CHAPTER 5 – BREAKING FORMATION

CHAPTER 6 – FACING DEATH

CHAPTER 7 – TIGHT SQUEEZE

CHAPTER 8 – LOST AND ALONE

CHAPTER 9 – HIERARCHY OF NEEDS

CHAPTER 10 – THE HIGHWAYMAN

CHAPTER 11 – CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THY SOUL

CHAPTER 12 – THE BARONY

CHAPTER 13 – THE WAY AHEAD

CHAPTER 14 – FOR KING AND COUNTRY

CHAPTER 15 – A PRELUDE TO WAR

CHAPTER 16 – A NEW POST

PART II – EMILIE

CHAPTER 17 – THE MAKING OF A GREAT EVENING

CHAPTER 18 – GIFT WRAPPED

CHAPTER 19 – THE MORNING AFTER

CHAPTER 20 – SOWING THE SEEDS

CHAPTER 21 – COMFORTABLY NUMB

CHAPTER 22 – THE HANGOVER

CHAPTER 23 – CHANGE OF PLANS

CHAPTER 24 – WAR AT THEIR DOOR

CHAPTER 25 – OUT FROM THE WOODS

CHAPTER 26 – CONTACT

CHAPTER 27 – CONSCIOUSNESS

CHAPTER 28 – REAP WHAT YOU SOW

CHAPTER 29 – DISBANDED

PART III – SUSANNA

CHAPTER 30 – DIRECTION IN EXILE

CHAPTER 31 – TEN PACES AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

CHAPTER 32 – A CHANGE OF PACE

CHAPTER 33 – A LONG WAY FOR A CLUB

CHAPTER 34 – LAVISH SURROUNDINGS

CHAPTER 35 – SIREN'S SONG

CHAPTER 36 – AN INVITATION TO DIE FOR

CHAPTER 37 – INDIGESTION

CHAPTER 38 – OUT FROM THE ETHER

CHAPTER 39 – REMEMBER, REMEMBER

CHAPTER 40 – THE PERFECT DRUG

CHAPTER 41 – WOMAN IN WHITE

CHAPTER 42 – THE FACE OF A PREDATOR

CHAPTER 43 – WHAT LIES BENEATH

CHAPTER 44 – THE ONLY WAY TO TRAVEL

CHAPTER 45 – INTO THE DEPTHS

CHAPTER 46 – THE OPPOSITION

CHAPTER 47 – UNDER STRAIN

CHAPTER 48 – WAKE UP CALL

CHAPTER 49 – A KINGDOM FOR A DREAM

CHAPTER 50 – A NEW COURSE

CHAPTER 51 – THE SHOW MUST GO ON

CHAPTER 52 – INTO THE EYE

CHAPTER 53 – THE END OF AN ERA

CHAPTER 54 – PARTS UNKNOWN

PART IV – GENEVIEVE

CHAPTER 55 – THE WORD'S A STAGE

CHAPTER 56 – A FEEDING PLAN

CHAPTER 57 – WALK IN ONE'S FOOTSTEPS

CHAPTER 58 – THE FIRST OF MANY

CHAPTER 59 – LE MONSIEUR

CHAPTER 60 – CARVED IN STONE

CHAPTER 61 – ALWAYS THE CRITIC

CHAPTER 62 – HEAT WAVE

CHAPTER 63 – HAPPILY EVER AFTER

CHAPTER 64 – A DINNER DATE

PART V – EVELYN

CHAPTER 65 – A DOLL NAMED MARIE

CHAPTER 66 – GIFT FROM AN ANGEL

CHAPTER 67 – THE PORTRAIT'S NOTEBOOK

CHAPTER 68 – THE PORTRAIT'S DREAM

CHAPTER 69 – THE MEASURE OF INSANITY

CHAPTER 70 – THE LINK

CHAPTER 71 – THE PORTRAIT'S COMMISSION

CHAPTER 72 – EVOLVING SITUATION

CHAPTER 73 – GOING HOME

CHAPTER 74 – NEW SURROUNDINGS

CHAPTER 75 – CONDITIONS

CHAPTER 76 – HOLDING A GRUDGE

CHAPTER 77 – A SIMPLE PLAN

CHAPTER 78 – THE WARM UP

CHAPTER 79 – THE PORTRAIT'S HEART OF DARKNESS

CHAPTER 80 – OUTGUNNED

CHAPTER 81 – OUTFLANKED

CHAPTER 82 – SCORCHED EARTH

CHAPTER 83 – SHALL EVER BE FORGOT

CHAPTER 84 – ASYMMETRIC WARFARE

CHAPTER 85 – PARTING WAYS

CHAPTER 86 – ASSAULT

CHAPTER 87 – BREACH

CHAPTER 88 – ONE GIANT LEAP

CHAPTER 89 – IN SUSANNA'S FOOTSTEPS

CHAPTER 90 – LAND OF HEAT AND SAND

CHAPTER 91 – THE WAGER

CHAPTER 92 – THE MONSTER

CHAPTER 93 – STORY FOR ANOTHER TIME

PART VI – EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 94 – OUTSTRETCHED ARMS

CHAPTER 95 – ICE AGE

CHAPTER 96 – RESTORING THE MAN

CHAPTER 97 – REACTOR CORE

CHAPTER 98 – HOME IN THE CLOUDS

CHAPTER 99 – END OF THE LINE

CHAPTER 100 – THREE LITTLE WORDS

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

ALSO FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

LICENCE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to thank those who helped make this novel a reality.

Amy Queau, who took on the challenge of creating the cover. The result turned out better than I hoped!

Thank you, J.G. MacLeod, for the edits and review. While nothing is perfect, I’m certain that the biggest offenders were purged.

Lastly, I wish to thank Carin Camen, Charleen Boyle, and Kayla Ray Tidwell. The brave souls who read my work throughout its development. You are my shining stars in the night, proof that I’m not navigating these waters alone.

Evelyn Chartres (Nom de Plume)

theportraitofawoman@gmail.com

http://evelynchartres.com

Man of War

PROLOGUE

OMEGA MAN

Warning, oxygen levels at 8.2% and steady. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

Marc took a deep breath of stale air before his eyes rolled over the one-hundred-and-seventeen lifeless husks surrounding him. Each was covered by a thin layer of frost, brought on by the plummeting temperatures. He suspected it would eventually get cold enough for gases in the atmosphere to sublimate.

These shelters were built for function, rather than aesthetics or comfort. It was a large and rectangular space crammed into the bowels of the space station. Like the common areas, the bulkheads were made of a composite metal with a white polymer coating. Along three sides, there were recessed bunks, stacked four high.

They reminded him of steel coffins with a side panel removed. In the dead centre of the back wall there was a door that led to a small kitchen, along with heads and washplaces. Notably, the forward bulkhead was bare, except for a sealed entrance along with a control panel immediately to the right of the door.

The deceased were primarily made up of the middle class: doctors, nurses, teachers, and maintenance personnel… They ended up caught in the middle of the conflict with nowhere to go.

La Mort (Death) did not play favourites. It claimed men and women, rich and poor, young and old. Everyone here succumbed to the effects of an atmosphere poisoned by their every breath…

“Finding their way here did nothing for these poor souls,” Marc said in a voice devoid of emotion.

Despite speaking normally, at least for him, his voice sounded distant and faint. A side effect of the carbon-dioxide rich environment. His voice was normally husky, but his mind now flagged the echo as alien. Still, hearing a human voice filled a gap in his soul he thought long lost.

It had been two weeks since workers rose up from the oppression of their masters and took control of compartments vital for power distribution and atmospheric processing. Such a move did not surprise Marc, nor was the response of those who wished to maintain the status quo. Those whose wealth built this station and paid to bring most of those who clamoured for more rights.

While the bulk of the human security forces sided with the workers, nothing could sway the loyalty of the security drones. After three days of intense fighting, over a third of the station’s population was dead.

The loss of life was tragic, at least for those capable of empathy; it paled in comparison to the damage wrought onto the station. Out of the three, redundant, fusion generators, only one remained operational… under the control of a single family…

Atmospheric processing was the hardest hit. That was where the mutineers made their last stand. With full knowledge of the risks, the order was given to retake the facility, rendering over ninety percent of the station uninhabitable.

“They would rather rule over a graveyard than share power.”

The most powerful family fortified their quarters above the only viable hydroponics facility, and the sole remaining fusion generator. There was plenty of water and food to keep what remained of the station’s residents alive, but the drones ensured no one could approach.

“If only they knew about me.”

He slipped out from his bunk, his knees creaking as his joints had frozen up. Marc might have been a vampire, immortal, but even he could freeze solid if temperatures were low enough. With every move, shards of ice cut into the soft tissue. The pain was sharp, but brief, and could be ignored.

The man weaved slowly through the field of bodies. His eyes were focused on the large, white bulkhead. For centuries, time had been on his side, endless and irrelevant to his continued existence. Now, the sands of time were running low… soon that last grain will run through the neck…

The thought of meeting his end was comforting. Dreading the idea of being trapped within the confines of this tomb orbiting the Earth for eternity… I can’t think of a worse way to go… alive but mindless…

He approached the bulkhead, the harsh lighting reflecting his face onto the surface. Other than frost covering his clothes and exposed skin, he looked no worse for wear. That would change once supplies ran out… I’ve been feeding well of late…

Warning, oxygen levels at 8.3% and steady. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

Those dark brown eyes stared back at him, giving him a view of his olive skin and wavy, black hair. He had a sharp nose, chiselled jaw and had the physique of a strongman of old. If not for being of short stature, around the average height of a modern woman, Marc would be considered handsome. He was frequently asked which school he attended, and someone recently asked where his parents were.

“Laid to rest in the family crypt centuries ago,” Marc often wished to reply.

That was not entirely true. While it applied to the Comte and Comtesse, that was not true for his mother… She’s better off for it…

“I’ve not thought of her since the Great War.”

His mother was his first taste of the cruelty inherent to this world. In his mind, it was the nobility, the affluent, the powerful, or the elite who never failed to unleash misery and woe. A snake by any other name is just as venomous…

Without thought, the fingernail on his right, index finger lengthened. The digit hardened at the tip until it turned into a razor-sharp talon. He pressed it against the bulkhead, cutting away at the polymer material until the alloy beneath shone through.

The work would be tedious and time consuming, but Marc needed to leave a physical record behind. If anything, it would remind him of who he once was if the maelstrom ever consumed him. At least hunger would not be a factor… for now…

After carving the first letter into the wall, Marc smiled. His cheeks creaked as frost broke free, which made for a horrific sight. However, the smile was entirely unnatural, like staring into the face of a man teetering on the edge of insanity.

He pulled out a white cloth from his pocket and unwrapped it to reveal a silver locket without a chain. Inside there was the portrait of someone he last saw at age fifteen… One I never had the chance to call… mother.

“Her name was Jeanne…”

PART I

JEANNE

CHAPTER 1

DEATH’S WAKE

Marc?” someone said.

The voice pierced through the high-pitched wail reverberating through his head. Annoyed at this incessant ringing, he tensed his jaw, which only made it worse.

His ass was sore, and his right leg was at an odd angle. While his right thigh was numb, he managed to wiggle his toes and straighten out his legs… Good thing there’s nothing broken…

Marc gave his head a shake to clear out the cobwebs. The ringing persisted, so he probed his ears with a finger, as though expecting to find a bell. He huffed once he realised the ringing would not subside.

“Merde,” Marc swore and was lucky that the Comte and Comtesse were not in sight.

With his vision blurred, everything before his eyes had copies, superimposed, and glowing white. Instead of relying on sight, he focused on the source of that calm voice. The speaker may as well have been speaking Greek because he could not fathom what was said.

A hand pressed against his shoulder, triggering his training. He snapped his head fast enough to surprise the man. When the three versions of his attacker coalesced into a single form, Marc relaxed visibly. He recognised Bertrand, the Keep’s weapons master.

“Marc, say something,” Bertrand said.

There was concern etched on his face. Marc could not place Bertrand’s concern until something hot and sticky dripped off his chin. He looked down and spotted several crimson droplets on his white shirt.

Without thought, Marc licked his lips and tasted the iron. He shrugged, unconcerned by a little blood, and wiped his nose using the sleeve of his shirt. The contact sent a wave of pain straight to the tips of his toes. Even as his heart raced, the bleeding tapered off, meaning this would stay between the two of them.

“What happened?” Marc asked, as his voice echoed within the confines of his skull.

He took a deep breath through his mouth and forced the air through his nose. A cloud of pink droplets spread out ahead, clearing his airways.

“My elbow left an impression on your nose,” Bertrand said with a grin.

“Better than your sword,” Marc said absentmindedly, before a stray thought settled to the forefront of his brain. “Wait… That’s an illegal move!”

“It is… What about it, my Lord?”

Marc once observed a cousin in a similar situation. The welp cried foul and had the instructor removed for forgetting their place. However, Marc liked that Bertrand gave him plenty of reasons to avoid his father.

Out of caution, Marc confirmed they were still alone in this isolated area of the Keep. The cool, spring breeze soothed his cheeks, even as his nose radiated with heat… That’s going to be tender for a few days…

“Quit that,” Marc belatedly ordered.

Marc hated being reminded of his father. Every time someone called him lord, he choked back the urge to hurl.

“There are no rules in war,” Marc replied.

In actuality, there were scores of rules to waging war. There was an entire section in the family library devoted to military tactics and conduct. The strangest of which was that muskets had to be of a specific length when fitted with a bayonet.

History often celebrated those who broke the rules. In war, the dead were in no position to protest their loss. Besides, the victor invariably claimed the vanquished fought dishonourably.

“Correct, Marc,” Bertrand said with a warm smile. “Had enough for today?”

After taking a beating, Marc would normally be chomping at the bit to head in. This time, the thought of returning to the Keep soured the contents of his stomach while his sunburnt skin went pale before Bertrand’s eyes.

There was a structure that connected three towers behind Bertrand. Marc’s eyes were focused on a particular window. It was the one nearest to them, but furthest from the wings that housed the Comte and Comtesse.

While dim light filtered through the window, Marc imagined la Mort hovering just out of sight. For as long as he remembered, his governess, Jeanne, had a lingering cough that occasionally brought up blood.

In the past month, her health deteriorated noticeably. First came the night sweats, followed by fever and significant weight loss. While his father insisted that nothing was wrong, Marc knew that was a lie.

“No,” Marc replied before adopting a wry grin. “It’s not like you to take it easy on me.”

Bertrand glanced over his shoulder and understood where his student’s eyes were focused. For a moment, it appeared as though he would say something, but changed his mind. Even as an advisor to the family, there were limits to what servants could get away with.

“If you only knew…” Bertrand replied. “Well, I’ve had my fill of swords.”

Marc watched in anticipation, those nearly black eyes aglow.

“Go on. Fetch your horn and pistol,” Bertrand said. “Be quick about it.”

Upon hearing horn and pistol in the same sentence, Marc’s grin transitioned to a big, toothy smile. The Comtesse forbade firearms training within the Keep, claiming it rattled her nerves. However, it appeared that Bertrand was willing to incur her wrath today.

“Really?” Marc asked, that word overflowing with hope.

“I’ll secure the horses for the trip… Get a move on.”

Marc sprang up from the rocky ground as though no worse for wear. After taking ten strides, he turned around while moving towards his quarters.

“Meet you in the courtyard?” Marc asked.

“Unless you’d prefer to leap off the wall?”

“I’ll beat you there!” Marc exclaimed before turning around in a single bound and running off.

CHAPTER 2

HOP SKIP AND A SPLASH

Marc looked over his shoulder as the Keep faded into the distance. The sun was high in the sky, so no one would be looking for them.

The Comte frequently reminded him that children should be ‘seen and not heard.’ Although, the Comtesse preferred to say, ‘not seen or heard.’

Given how Marc preferred to have a voice, he concluded that the easiest way to keep relations civil was to stay away. This was why they trained in the isolated areas of the Keep or ventured beyond the outskirts of town for firearms training.

The somniferous sound of the horses’ hooves, striking the hard packed trail, did nothing to soothe his mind. Marc sensed there was an ulterior motive to their impromptu change in venue. The long features on Bertrand’s face agreed with that theory… He won’t even look me in the eyes…

“Where are we headed?” Marc asked to cut to the chase.

“You’ve never been one for patience, Marc,” Bertrand said, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

“That’s true… Still, I can tell when someone is evading an answer.”

No reply came, and Marc knew this could not be hurried along. When Bertrand was good and ready, he would let Marc know.

“Not far now,” Bertrand said at a near whisper.

They carried on for five minutes, until the woods swallowed them entirely. Neither feared threading through the wilds, but Marc was always in awe that the canopy here was so thick that only thin rivulets of light filtered through to the ground.

“What do you know about your governess?” Bertrand asked.

“La Mort walks in her shadow.”

Bertrand’s head snapped back, which might be dismissible as him steadying himself on his mount. However, Marc knew that few rivalled Bertrand’s abilities as a horseman.

“Your mother didn’t raise a fool,” Bertrand began. “How’d you know?”

There was something to Bertrand’s question that shed light in the dark recesses of his mind. Details buried in old memories that never fit the narrative, whispers from the kitchen staff when they thought they were alone… Is he inferring that there’s truth to these rumours?

“Things the kitchen staff said, and whispers in empty halls,” Marc answered.

It was all rumour and innuendo. However, he rarely came across the Comtesse, even at mealtimes. His father had a plethora of lies to explain her absence, but that stopped when Marc quit asking.

The few times they did meet, Marc always felt an icy chill run down his spine. That woman possessed a stare that could stop a charging bull dead in its tracks. Worst of all, he suspected that she reserved her finest vitriol for him. For being the fruit of her loins, Marc spent many a night crying into a pillow, struggling to explain why his mother would reject him.

“I’d sooner walk on water than count on them to keep a secret,” Bertrand replied.

“Would you care to try?” Marc countered. “The water’s so shallow that your feet might not get wet.”

“Are you being smart with me?”

Marc caught the threat behind those words. By itself, Marc would be worried that he would get it for that quip. However, the twinkle in those eyes told him otherwise. That left him with the choice of backing down or committing to the cause.

He dropped the reins to Enfer, backed up five paces, and ran at the stream. Upon reaching the edge, he jumped, soared over the stream, and landed with both feet on the opposing side.

Filled with pride, he turned around to gloat, but the soil under his feet gave way. He fell backwards into the water and momentarily found himself submerged. Fortunately, all he had to do was sit up to resurface.

Bertrand laughed, and Marc was tempted to join in. However, he realised Enfer was nowhere to be found… I must have spooked him with that splash…

“Maybe she did raise a fool after all,” the weapons master said after catching his breath.

The man was in tears from laughing so hard. Marc tried to stand, but the rocks were slippery, and he fell a second time. While he could not remember the last time he bathed, Marc doubted these algae-ridden waters counted.

Bertrand approached the edge with hand outstretched. Marc kept a straight face and grabbed the hand with his right and Bertrand’s arm with his left. After that, it was a simple matter of leverage. Bertrand learned firsthand that he, too, could not walk on water.

“Well played!” Bertrand said after breaking through the surface.

“Shall we save miracles for the Son of God?”

After a laugh, they waded ashore, with those layers of clothing clinging to their skin. The lack of sunlight would challenge them to dry out. They were fortunate that Bertrand’s mount had been too focused on the fresh hay to bolt.

“I think the Pope wouldn’t believe it, even if we managed the feat,” Bertrand replied. “Your mother—”

This was the third time today that his mother had come up in conversation. Still, Bertrand could not bring himself to broach the subject.

“My mother can’t bear to be in my presence,” Marc replied. “The only woman who’s been there for me has been Jeanne.”

“That’s why you need to pay your respects before she’s gone,” Bertrand began. “She may have been sworn to secrecy, but I was not!”

And just like that, his reality was upended. That explained the deplorable behaviour by both his parents and put all those rumours whispered into the halls into context… I’ve been the target of their jokes all my life!

Anger boiled over like milk left on the flame too long. Marc clenched his jaw to the point of his teeth straining, while the veins in his neck bulged. Without thought of consequence, he turned in a snap and came out swinging.

Bertrand backed away with ease. He must have expected this outcome after revealing the truth.

Marc’s fists connected with thin air, forcing him to follow the focus of his rage. Every time he attacked, Bertrand backed away and dodged. It was easier to let the boy burn out than to confront.

“I HATE YOU!” Marc screeched, his voice cracking from the strain.

The appearance of Bertrand’s face never wavered. He had seen battle, and experienced first-hand the emotional cost of sending men to their graves. A boy who needed to be reminded of his manners had no hope of getting under his skin.

“You don’t mean—” Bertrand said.

“YOU LIED TO ME,” Marc countered, his face red and distorted from rage.

“I was duty bound,” Bertrand replied calmly.

Marc was too young to understand the gravity of a soldier pledging his life to king and country. There was no way for a boy to comprehend that breaking a solemn vow took more courage than a general leading an army into battle.

“YOU TOOK THE EASY WAY OUT!”

“If only you knew…” Bertrand said in that same, calm voice.

In a stroke of luck, Marc backed Bertrand into a tree. However, the latter slid out of the way at the last, possible second. Marc’s fists connected with the trunk of an ancient tree.

The sound of the impact was muted; flesh against wood did not carry as well as a gauntlet would. Still, the stinging pain did nothing to dissuade the boy. Blinded by the maelstrom of emotions within, he pummelled the trunk until his knuckles bled.

“ENOUGH,” Bertrand ordered.

The boy may have been impertinent and impatient, but there was authority behind that command. He stopped dead in his tracks, his arms hanging loosely. In that moment, he was panting like a horse driven hard.

That lasted for a minute, as Marc’s mind consolidated sights and sounds. The boy turned around slowly as tears streaked down his cheeks and he collapsed into Bertrand’s arms.

“I hate that man,” Marc said through muffled sobs.

“I know,” Bertrand said in a near whisper.

CHAPTER 3

LOST IN TIME

It took the better part of an hour by a blazing fire to dry out. Marc suspected he would catch hell from the Comtesse for smelling like wood smoke, but that was better than the scent of that algae-rich water.

The dichotomy of heat from the fire, and wet clothes pressed against his skin was a new experience. Something he enjoyed… once my teeth quit chattering…

They spent the first half-an-hour in silence, as Marc was busy nursing his bruised ego. The stinging from his skinned fists reminded him to keep his emotions under control… or under lock and key…

Bertrand was content to stare into the fire, stoking it to keep the flames high. Marc watched his every move, as though trying to reason out why the fire responded as it did. When Bertrand noticed what Marc was doing, he used the opportunity to break the silence.

“It’s not hard,” Bertrand said. “You need to keep the embers burning red and for that, the fire needs to breathe.”

“Breathe?”

Bertrand shrugged, because he could not think of a better way to explain it. After several long and measured breaths, Bertrand cracked a smile.

“It’s something my father said,” Bertrand replied. “It never occurred to me to ask him why.”

Those words soothed Marc’s ego. A monumental task made possible because his mentor embodied both humility and humanity.

“I’ve seen fire ravage homes and whole forests,” Bertrand said. “I’ve also seen what happens if you open the door to a smokehouse…”

Marc had never seen a fire ravage a home, town, or forest. However, he had seen fields consumed by fire. The flames flowed like waves on a lake during a storm. When he stopped to consider what was said, Marc reasoned that fire mimicked life. Whether it could be classified as such was a matter left to learned men.

“I agree—” Marc said.

“No matter… I have something to show you downstream. Given that sunlight will not bless us for much longer, get your jacket.”

Marc did what was asked while Bertrand killed the fire. They left their horse tied up nearby and by his count, it took six-hundred-and-forty-three paces to reach their objectives.

They stopped by some ruins. By the looks of them, it had once been a church, with the circular window and elongated part of the spire still visible. What remained was buried by years of accumulation and vegetation.

“A place lost in time,” Bertrand said, “when Spain was nearly lost to invaders from across the sea.”

Marc was familiar with the conflict, and the sacrifices made to retake those lands. The story struck him as a work of fiction, because their greatest foes had always been the Spanish or the English… I can’t imagine anyone worse than them…

“You didn’t bring me here for a history lesson,” Marc said.

History was a sensitive subject for Marc. He bit his tongue, to avoid reminding Bertrand that his governess handled that part of his education.

“You’ll be getting an education,” Bertrand said before slapping the back of Marc’s head. “Just not on the subject you suspect.”

He followed his mentor further past the church to a hill that opened on a valley. There were stones protruding from the ground at regular intervals. Like the church, most were nearly buried by time, but enough remained to indicate they were tombstones. Nearer to the treeline, there was a gravestone that stood above the others.

“Who’s buried there?” Marc asked.

“Why don’t you run over and find out?” Bertrand said in a way that implied this was an order. “Go on… I’ll catch up.”

Marc missed the mild tremble in the man’s voice. He skipped off towards the marker and noticed that only a hand’s width was visible of those nearby. Had the summer heat not beaten back the vegetation, he would have missed the significance of this site.

With the tall grave marker ahead, Marc noted that it had been here for years. The name ‘Marcellin Champagnat’ was legible, but lichens had grown into the recessed lettering. Nature would reclaim this land, and soon, no one would remember this place existed.

“Marcellin Champagnat,” Marc said loud enough for his approaching mentor to hear.

“How sad… I’d forgotten his given name… Have you made the connection yet?”

The family name was familiar, but Marc was unable to place it. He knew the staff by their Christian names or their roles. In return, they used his title, even if he dreaded hearing it… Only Bertrand and Jeanne ever use my given name, and only when no one can hear…

There was a date below the name. He found it peculiar that Marcellin passed away a year before he was born. Although, that could be a coincidence, and did not explain who this was.

Lastly, there was an inscription, ‘Loving son and husband.’ The latter meant the man left behind a wife, a Madame Marcellin Champa—

“That’s Jeanne’s surname,” Marc replied.

“It is.”

“This was her husband?” Marc prodded. “Based on the date below, he couldn’t be my father.”

Disappointment oozed off every word. It would have been a relief to find out that he had no rank or station. That would leave Marc free to walk away from that cursed Keep and never look back… too good to be true.

Bertrand did not loosen his lips, which meant Marc needed to tie up loose ends on his own… He wants me to reason this out…

Marc knelt down to clear away the vegetation and even brushed away some of the soil. Alas, there was nothing more below the date.

“Father… didn’t waste any time in taking her as his mistress,” Marc said.

Even if the evidence confirmed his words, it was nevertheless out of character for the Comte. Marc knew the man to be cold-blooded, someone who calculated every move to achieve a desired outcome. To come across a black-haired widow and court her before Marcellin’s body was cold… That’s a level of passion he’s never shown before…

“No…” Marc added. “Wait…”

“Yes?”

His tone was lighter, as though hopeful. A sign that the truth was near.

Marc looked at his mentor straight in the eyes, but that face may as well have been etched in stone. He walked around the headstone until they stood face-to-face, minus the couple of inches the weapons master had on him.

“A snake by any other name,” Marc mused. “Did the Comte have something to do with this?”

“It can’t be proven,” Bertrand said. “But I suspect it’s true. The only man who died during a hunt? Your father the sole witness? The same man who ordered Marcellin buried where he fell?”

The sequence of events was rather dubious, but Marc doubted anyone was so brazen as to take a life on consecrated ground. The Church was powerful, and the financial penance for such an indulgence would leave the Comte forever in their debt.

“Were his wishes followed?” Marc said as a stab in the dark.

Bertrand smiled at that question. He approached the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder. There was nothing threatening to the act, and it soothed Marc’s soul.

“To the letter,” Bertrand replied with a straight face. “He perished and was buried within these woods. We simply made sure that he was laid to rest in consecrated ground.”

Their choice was risky, as the Comte might later learn of their liberal application of an order. Still, they were technically correct, and his father rarely ventured beyond the Keep… The man’s so corpulent that he needs an attendant to help him up the stairs…

A question remained. While the result was clear enough to see, his father’s motivations for doing so were not.

“Why?” Marc had to ask.

“That’s a great question, Marc.”

Bertrand took Marc by the shoulders. Some of the staff liked to say that the man had dead eyes, but Marc always saw them shine.

“Surely, you remember the Ten Commandments?” Bertrand asked.

Marc seldom dwelled on them, given that ‘Honour thy mother and father’ ranked high on the list. Considering his feelings towards the Comte and Comtesse, Marc often wondered why God did not smite him.

Still, given what they were accusing his father of, that narrowed the list…

“I’d say that ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness’ are rather obvious,” Marc said.

Stealing was also a given, since his father was bitter that they were no longer independent. Being under the thumb of a Bourbon left him perpetually on the cusp of rage. For that reason, his father misrepresented the taxes they collected. All to line his pockets and weaken the king… At least I know where I get my temper from…

“Thou shalt not covet…” Marc said once the stars aligned.

“There you go,” Bertrand said. “A beautiful woman like your mother awoke something in him that his barren wife could not…”

It was a story that wrote itself. What a shame that Marc was a side character in such a poorly written play… I know that Christine de Pizan could write a better story…

CHAPTER 4

THE LONG ROAD BACK

They rode home in silence. Marc’s mind was a tempest of thoughts and emotions that someone his age was ill-equipped to handle. When he woke up this morning, Marc would have laughed at anyone who told him the relationship with his parents would get worse.

It was a relief to learn the truth. It granted him permission to forgo any attempt to forgive their trespasses. He was free to focus on getting out from under their thumb. All he needed was time to think of a plan and be patient… I’ll need to work on that last part…

The sky was a deep blue as they neared the gates. The sun would soon exit stage left, freeing the moon to take her rightful place in the night sky. Dressed as he was, Marc felt the bite of the cool air.

That dip in the stream was the reason they were late, which meant his absence was noticed during the evening meal… I’m pretty sure that got their tongues wagging…

Bertrand dismounted and handed Marc the reins. That saved him from explaining to his father why he came home without his horse. The gate guards were loyal to the weapons master and would not say a word… the rest are a different matter…

“Go on,” Bertrand said. “They don’t care where I was.”

For the briefest of moments, a smile crept across his mentor’s lips. Given the proximity of so many prying eyes, discretion was warranted.

“Be sure to clean your pistol,” Bertrand said loud and clear. “We’ll work on your aim next time… always an inch too high.”

Marc nodded and even managed to frown as though he were disappointed… The truth hurts…

As Bertrand patted the horse, Marc realised that his mentor used this opportunity to speak freely. The horse’s height ensured the guards could not see, and its heavy breathing that left fog in the evening air muffled their words.

“Seek out your mother before it’s too late,” Bertrand said in a hushed voice.

Marc tried to remain stoic at the mention of his mother. While his face remained neutral, at least as far as a cocky, young man could manage, his eyes shot towards that remote spot of the Keep.

As a stablehand took the reins, a voice carried by the wind reached his ears. That voice soured the contents of his empty stomach, leading him to burp up acid… I don’t have time for this!

“…Marc,” said the distant voice.

He aligned himself with the source and saw nothing at first. Had they not been moving towards Marc, he might have missed her entirely. In this instance, there was a portly woman running towards the stables. Any staff that were so well-fed reported directly to the Comtesse… What could she possibly want with me?

“Master…” the woman said. The rest was cut off by a gust of northern wind, cutting through the courtyard, which made that dip in the stream appear tropical in comparison.

“Unless…” Marc said without realising that word slipped out.

His jaw went slack, refusing to voice what seeped in from the dark recesses of his thoughts. There were few reasons why the Comtesse would take an interest in him… none of which are good…

“My Lord?” the stablehand said after catching the turmoil in those wide eyes.

“She wants to be the one to tell me…” Marc whispered.

The Comtesse used any opportunity to torment him. What she failed to understand was that Marc’s hatred for her served as his aegis. To have an effect, she needed to infuse the drama with spice. Why would she tell me? Unless…

“Mother,” Marc whispered.

“Sir?” the stablehand asked.

There had to be a method to her madness. That vile woman would not let him in on the joke unless it would decimate him. That meant that Jeanne was likely—

“MOTHER!” Marc yelled.

Marc ran away from the portly woman, taking the long way around the Keep. He was determined to deny the Comtesse the pleasure of tormenting him… I need to find out for myself…

While he was too focused to notice, the breathless servant came to a stop. She glared at him, seething at the petulant child who ignored a summons from her mistress.

CHAPTER 5

BREAKING FORMATION

Marc would never admit it, but he was thankful for the rigorous training regime Bertrand put him through. It served him well while running over the rough terrain of the outer perimeter. By the time Marc neared the side gate, his lungs were burning.

This area between the outer wall and the Keep was rarely used. The most prevalent reason was the stench on a summer day. At one end, there were the stables with their mounds of piled manure… At least they cart it off when the pile turns into a mountain…

Every morning, servants would toss the contents of the chamber pots out the nearest window. While it did wonders for the shrubbery growing along the wall, it assaulted the olfactory senses of those who passed by.

When within fifty paces of the gate, Marc slowed to a walk. As a precaution, he held his breath long enough to heighten his hearing. The distinctive thump of his father’s slow and laborious steps carried out into the night. To avoid being seen, Marc dove into the nearby bushes. His knee sank into the soft moss, with moisture clinging to his skin.

Once his lungs begged for air, Marc took in a deep breath through his mouth. The air tastes like salt and vinegar…

“Anything to report?” the Comte asked.

“Nothing since the doctor went in, my Lord,” a guard said.

Marc recognised the voice as being Hugo, a bruiser that his father handpicked to serve as one of his personal guards. There was no way he could get past them without being noticed… Bertrand has no sway with them…

“Make sure it stays that—” the Comte said.

Distorted shouting echoed down the cavernous halls. Whatever the cause was, it was serious enough to get his father’s attention.

“Go,” the Comte ordered. “Sort out that mess while I keep watch.”

There came the sound of the guards’ feet snapping together, followed by their weapons rattling as they ran deeper into the Keep. As the heavy footsteps faded, Marc realised that he would only need to contend with his father.

He snuck up to the doors and chanced a peek. The Comte faced towards the main gates. He had a nagging feeling that the commotion was brought on by an exhausted servant reporting back to the Comtesse… With any luck, she’s too winded to pass on details…

With an opportunity at hand, Marc dashed across to the other side and pressed himself against the wall. He remained like that for what felt like an eternity, his heart pounding in his ears… I hope no one—

The Comte may not have been blessed with thick hair, a chiselled physique, or a handsome face, but he did have excellent hearing. Marc wondered if that served him well to sack any disloyal staff.

“Who goes there?” the Comte asked.

Marc closed his eyes, holding his breath until his beating heart nearly deafened him. With a little luck, his Father would dismiss what—

“Do you take me for a fool, Marc?”

For a moment, Marc experienced what could only be described as the sensation of falling off a cliff. To keep himself from flying apart, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and bowed his head. When the drums faded into the background, Marc opened his eyes and moved to the centre of the doorway.

“An assassin you’re not,” his father said. “A cavalry charge through these halls would have been more discrete.”

Being mocked by his father was an age-old ritual. He guessed it was a rite of passage between father and son in their family. Marc’s hands balled into fists, while his eyes shifted from point-to-point, focused on anything but the Comte.

Were it not for his cheap, powdered wig, the Comte would have been bald. Even at fifteen years of age, Marc towered over this troll of a man. The splotchy skin, crooked nose, thin lips, and rotund physique were nothing to brag about. Marc often wondered how he managed to look nothing like his parents… I honestly can’t complain…

“My Lord,” Marc said through clenched teeth.

That response set a smile upon the Comte’s face, as though words were a reflection of defeat. What the Comte did not realise was that Marc now knew enough to truly despise the man…

“Why are you sneaking around?”

Marc’s eyes darted towards the narrow hallway that led to Jeanne’s room. Now that the sun had set, he noticed how poor the lighting was throughout this part of the Keep. When the odour of decay and mildew reached his senses, he understood why… This is where they send people to be forgotten…

“Well?” the Comte pressed.

It was clear from the crooked grin on the Comte’s face that he knew the reason. He may not know if Marc was here for his governess or his mother, but that detail changed little.

Marc dug his nails into the palm of his hands. As the pain registered in his mind, he realised that his knuckles were bleeding again. The pain numbed his emotions, as though he was trapped underwater.

“I wanted to see her,” Marc said, opting to be direct. “I heard rumours—”

“Have I lost my son? Listening to a bunch of clucking, old hens?”

Marc’s eyes narrowed, tired of these pointless games. For the first time, his father found a reason to wipe that smirk from his face.

“Then, you confirm—” Marc said in a voice nearly devoid of emotion.

“No one is to go inside until the doc—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Fear had been a constant when dealing with his father, but that emotion did not materialise tonight. In the dim light, all he saw was a bitter old man, invested entirely in tormenting others.

“How dare—”

“Dare what? Ask about my mother’s health? To see her before she passes?”

“Who told you?” the Count pressed.

His mind missed his slip of the tongue. In his confusion, he stepped back, and blinked repeatedly until he realised his error… Oh, non!

“The Comtesse, my Lord,” Marc lied.

For a moment, it appeared as though the old man believed him, but that failed to account for the commotion from earlier.

“Well played,” the Comte said. “There may be hope for you—if she did not tell—him…”

The name did not have to be uttered for Marc to know to whom the Comte was referring. In a household ruled by fear, the list of those brave enough to step out of formation was small.

The smile that returned to the Comte’s face made his son’s blood boil. While his father believed this was a victory, the reverse was true.

“He will live to regret—” the Comte said.

Marc saw red and covered the distance between them in a snap. Like the tree from earlier, his fists connected at a rapid pace. This time, the blows were softened by his father’s excess padding. Any pain from the blows was buried beneath all that pent-up rage.

The sounds of his onslaught caused the door down the hall to open. The doctor peeked through a crack, before his face froze in a silent gasp.

The sound was enough for Marc’s reasoned mind to register the opportunity. With a powerful punch, his father’s head spun towards the doctor, and he dropped like a felled tree. Marc followed the crash, before those glassy eyes burning with rage focused on the doctor.

Incensed, Marc screamed as though he was a Viking charging into battle. The physician stood fast, but was unable to stop Marc from barrelling him down. The man was pushed out of the way, leaving enough room for Marc to enter.

Before the doctor knew what happened, Marc slammed the door shut and barred it from the inside.

CHAPTER 6

FACING DEATH

Marc’s eyes fell upon his mother, Jeanne. She had always been pale, but tonight, her lips were blue and her chest was still.

Panic filled in the spaces left by his retreating rage. He raced towards the bed and lay his head against her chest. Her breathing was nearly imperceptible, but the rattle in those lungs was unmistakable… one sip at a time…

There would be repercussions for what he had done. The Comte hoped that the secret would die with Jeanne… He lost more tonight than he wagered on…

She was a mess, but Marc had no idea what to do… Is there anything that I can do?

At her bedside, he found a comb, fashioned from wood with rows of teeth on two edges. Even with the intricate design carved into the handle, it was nowhere near as ornate as those used by the Comtesse. However, someone must have cared for her a great deal to make this for her.

He picked it up, and noticed some teeth were broken. No matter, he brushed her brittle, black hair, to make her more presentable.

“You should have found a way to let me know the truth, Maman,” Marc said with a quivering, lower lip.

In the background, there was a hive of activity. The doctor must have run off in search of assistance… I don’t have long…

“In the celestial fabric that makes up my life, you were my brightest star.”

By the time her hair was presentable, the commotion outside was impossible to ignore. Soon, he would need to face the inevitable, but he smiled and kissed her clammy hand.

Someone eventually had the sense to try the door, but it did not budge. Less than a heartbeat later, the wood rattled violently as a guard slammed against the door.

The sound shocked him, and Marc faced the entrance. Out of the corner of his eye, Marc spotted a mirror, and within was the reflection of someone who did not belong. It was a woman wearing a long, flowing, white dress, with sunburned skin, and raven black hair. The moment his eyes shifted to focus on the apparition, it was gone.

The icy chill that ran down his spine did not help his state of mind… nor the violent impacts against the door…

“Je t’aime,” Marc whispered.

When he went to kiss her cheek, he spotted a silver locket. Out of time, he tore it free from her neck, and ran towards the window.

CHAPTER 7

TIGHT SQUEEZE

Marc was lucky that the moon reached its first quarter tonight. There was just enough silver light for his youthful eyes to see. He opened the window, half expecting a guard to drag him out from the other side, but there was no one there.

Given his actions, he had to make a run for it. The main gate was closed after dark, and the surrounding walls were too high to scale… I once saw a drunken guard fall off and break his neck…

While the Keep was large, the guards would eventually find him. That left him with one choice, and he gulped… Into the depths I go…

There was a stream that ran beneath the Keep, fed by the well that washed away the shit and filth of its occupants. While the grates were too narrow for a man to slip through, he remembered exploring the tunnels freely as a child… Was I even seven when I last ventured down there?

He assumed it would be a tight squeeze that risked exposure. That meant Marc needed to head for the source. Marc went left, making his way around the perimeter. He pushed onwards, refusing to stop, even with a stitch stabbing at his side.

There stood a well at the centre of the courtyard, at the heart of the Keep. He scanned the area from the periphery and realised the area appeared to be deserted… So far, my luck is holding out…

Marc made his way towards the well, hugging the outer wall to remain under a cloak of shadow. Once he had a view of all the entrances, he made a run for it.

“Halt!” a guard bellowed.

Committed to this course of action, Marc leapt over the side of the well. He grabbed the rope that led to the bucket below and let gravity do the rest. Without a point of reference, he held his breath and plunged into the depths.

Just above, the whirring sound faded until it stopped entirely. The rope went taught and Marc yelled in pain as the sudden stop dislocated his left shoulder, forcing him to let go. His screams were quickly muffled by being submerged in the murky waters.

Pain focused Marc but pulling himself up onto the wet rocks surrounding the source was challenging with one good arm. After several failed attempts, he managed, just as his adrenaline waned and exhaustion set in.

In his hurry, Marc neglected to consider the ambient lighting. He once found his way to the well as a young explorer and realised that the view reminded him of a starfield… The moonlight doesn’t reach this far down…

He struggled to get to his feet, and noticed his left shoulder was lower than the other. He once observed Bertrand take care of a dislocated shoulder under similar conditions. His jaw muscles bulged, and he counted down to three before driving his shoulder into the wall.

The flash of pain left him blinded, while the injury sent out pulses of pain. Still, regaining a range of motion was a positive development, given the situation.

With one problem out of the way, Marc did an all-around search. He half expected to see nothing but darkness, left to freeze down here until they came for him in the morning. Instead, there were traces of light from above. Be it candles, torches, and fires in the rooms above the grates, it was enough to shine a path for him to follow… I can work with—

There came a loud burp that resounded down a line that ran perpendicular to the path he planned to take. Marc’s head snapped in that direction. He was greeted by a dim, orange glow and his nose picked up a hint of decay.

He had no reason to go that way, not to mention something gnawing on bone. Marc turned his head back towards his salvation and took the first step… Probably a rat…

Even with light, Marc stumbled repeatedly and made little progress. Instead, he crawled on his hands and knees. It avoided falls, which might alert the guards of his presence.

After what felt like an eternity, he found himself under a bright source of light. As judged by the odour of wood smoke, and cooked meat, Marc concluded this was the kitchen, which made his stomach gurgle. I didn’t need to be reminded that I haven’t had a bite to eat since this morning…

Marc slammed headfirst into a solid object. He covered his mouth to muffle the sound of his blaspheming, even as something viscous and hot trickled over his fingers… That really hurt!

As the bleeding subsided, Marc prodded his nose. While sensitive, he guessed it was not broken. He clenched his jaw in frustration and probed the darkness ahead. He quickly found the offending object… a solid, steel rod?

Marc grabbed it, realising that it moved without resistance. The object had a smooth shaft, ornate handle, and something resembling a fleur-de-lis at the other end. As he brought it into the light, Marc realised it was a fireplace poker… That’s not something you’d expect to find down here… Unless…

“Bertrand,” Marc whispered.

His mentor must have guessed the route Marc would take. While not immediately useful, the poker might yet come in handy.

“Only one way to find out…”

* * * *

As a child, it took him the better part of a day to find the exterior wall’s grate. This time, he managed the same in about ten minutes… I think my imagination did much to drag out the experience…

The iron bars were too close together for him to squeeze through. While a diminutive seven-year-old could slip in and out, his fifteen-year-old self was out of luck. However, he needed only a couple of inches more to squeeze his head through and hoped the rest of him would follow.

“That’s why he left the poker where I would find it…” Marc whispered.

Bertrand was the only one who knew Marc explored the tunnels as a child… The one who realised that I would rather find my own way in life than see my father again…

The bars were thick, made of iron, and heavily corroded. Even Hercule would be challenged to bend them. That meant he had to be smart about this. He needed enough space to pass though, but there were ways of adding to the gap.

He hooked the poker near the centre, with the stem leaning against the adjacent bar facing him. The ensuing angle gave him a half-a-foot of leverage.

Marc placed his boots against the handle while holding onto the outer bars. Despite his legs doing most of the work, he knew it would strain his shoulder. It’s not like I have other choices…

He pushed hard against the poker. The force applied worked like a lever and bent outwards the middle bar, while pushing away the other. The pain was intense, so much so that his sight was blurred from tears. Still, he suffered through the brunt of the pain until the handle was flat against the bars… Just a bit more…

This was repeated two more times, above and below the original bend points. On his third attempt, Marc could not bring himself to go through with it. He took several hard breaths before fighting through the blinding pain until the stem snapped clean in half.

From afar, there was no apparent difference in spacing between the bars. However, they now varied in depth. With a few scrapes, Marc managed to squeeze his head through, even as a flake of rust cut into the side of his scalp. His head was followed by one arm and the other. As he shifted his weight to align himself with the opening, he lost his footing and wedged himself between the bars at the narrow point below.

The slippery rocks made it impossible to regain sure footing. Marc was tempted to call out, but something brushed up against his cheek.

His hand grabbed onto a leather strap and felt the hot breath of an animal. It was Enfer, the horse who bolted earlier and must have wandered back to the Keep on his own. Since the main gates were closed, Enfer chose to spend the night near the water.

“Good boy, Enfer,” Marc said and made a clicking sound.

The horse walked back and pulled Marc up and through the grates. Marc hugged Enfer for his good fortune before getting onto the saddle… Where should I go?

For now, it made no difference where he went. Marc must get as far away as he could from the Keep and the town that was under his father’s shadow.

CHAPTER 8

LOST AND ALONE

Marc was startled awake when Enfer came to a stop. It surprised him that he slept at all, but once the adrenaline tapered off, the rhythmic movements of his horse did the rest.

There was drool on Enfer’s mane, and Marc’s cheeks grew hot at the thought that someone might catch him like this… Wait… Where am I?

This was the first pertinent question of the day, which came with no answers… Nor is anyone around to tell me…

After rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Marc scanned the area. Nondescript trees, shrubs, mountains, and a creek were all the details he had. None of it differed from the terrain he grew up in. Unfamiliarity with my surroundings is not a bad thing…

When he looked over his horse’s flank, he spotted a well-travelled road. That implied this was an established route… I just need to make sure we aren’t headed back into my father’s grasp…

The wind picked up as the sun peeked over the mountains. He shivered from the cold, but Enfer did not appear to mind. His horse was too busy drinking water from the creek… He must be exhausted…

The cloudless sky at the crack of dawn brought the promise of a beautiful day. The world would sleep for a while yet, and he guessed that his father would send guards into those tunnels in a couple of hours. Around noon, they would report back empty-handed to the Comte… Fear of his wrath ensured they would be thorough in their search…

Assuming they missed the grate he tampered with, the guards would expand their search to cover the entire Keep. The distance he could cover on foot in a day was limited, and no one would suspect that he had Enfer with him. That meant he had half-a-day’s lead on potential pursuers… That doesn’t answer my question…

There were no signs as to where he was. If Enfer drifted into Spain, the guards would not follow him… Unless he hires an assassin…

There were perils inherent to being the son of a French Comte. Bernard said it was best to avoid Spain altogether. If captured, they would use him as a bargaining chip to gain further concessions with the Bourbons.

If they were still in France, then his father was free to hunt him down. Out of spite, the Comte would enlist his extended family to assist in the search.

His options were limited, especially if they put a price on his head; however, finding him might be challenging if they could not recognise him on sight.

Marc needed a distraction, so he dismounted to stretch his legs. He patted Enfer on his side, holding his hand in place long enough to get a feel. The laboured breaths made it obvious they would be here for a while.

After searching through his saddlebags Marc found his horn and pistol. He smiled at his luck. While a pistol was not as versatile as a musket, it would deter those who sought to do him harm… long enough for them to come back in greater numbers and for me to make a run for it…

Other than his weapon, lead balls, and powder, he came up empty. Unsurprising, since they were gone for the day… not some journey to find the Holy Grail…

“No one could have planned for this,” Marc whispered.

He grabbed Enfer by the reins and led him down the creek until they were no longer visible from the road. Marc left the horse free to roam for grass, as he collected dry bark, deadfall, and twigs to start a fire.

Marc knelt and caught sight of a hare observing them from under the brush. His instinct was to give chase, but knew he would end up bruised and bloodied…especially my ego…

Placing one foot gently behind the other, Marc backed away until he was with Enfer. He deposited everything he picked up into a pile, careful to avoid making any sound that would spook the animal.

Next, he grabbed his pistol. He laid out everything needed to load both barrels, while using Enfer for cover. He knew the steps well; Bertrand had seen to that. At the thought of the man, Marc closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and let it out through his mouth… I hope he’s alright…

After pouring in two seconds worth of powder, Marc returned his focus to the hare. The woodland creature was still there, nibbling at the bark of a sapling. He capped the horn and returned it to his saddlebags.

Next came a wad of cloth, and a lead ball, which he rammed into place using the attached ramrod. After the barrel was loaded, he added powder to the flash pan, and brought back the flintlock’s hammer.

This time, Marc repeated the steps in reverse. He carefully set one foot ahead of the other while avoiding stepping over dry leaves or snapping a twig. He froze in place whenever the hare moved unexpectedly. Pistols were notoriously inaccurate; he must get close… A lot closer than I would for a duel…

At twelve paces, he raised his arm and aligned his body perpendicular to his target. With his head turned right, his dominant eye focused on the single bead at the tip of the barrel.

“You’re about an inch too high,” Bertrand said the last time he fired his pistol.

Marc took measured breaths as his finger slid onto the trigger. When he was ready, he took a breath, held it, and squeezed. First came the spark as the flint struck the pan, followed by a flash. When he let out his breath, he was enveloped in a large, grey cloud of smoke. The presence of brimstone in the particulates burned the inside of his nose.

As the smoke, and ringing in his ears cleared, Marc spotted the lifeless hare. Brimming with pride, he smiled while approaching his prize. After he picked up breakfast, Marc remembered a detail… I don’t have a knife…

* * * *

“…still an inch too high,” Marc said in a hushed tone as though fearing the trees would laugh at him.

The shot managed to sever its spine. While fortunate, it reminded him that he needed to work on his aim. At least he could get some breakfast while Enfer fed off the tall grass growing along the creek.

“I won’t have to worry about finding the ball in the meat…”

It was common to find meat tainted with pellets, but the lead ball went through and through, removing any fear of chipping a tooth.

A trail of blood red water flowed down from where he stood. Without a blade, Marc used several frangible rocks that left behind sharp edges when shattered. It was hard work to skin, and dress the hare, but at least it was cooking over an open flame.

With his hands free of blood, Marc ran his fingers over his knuckles. The wounds from yesterday were scabbed over… At least there’s no pain…

The young man ventured back to his campsite. While waiting for his meal, Marc leaned back against an enormous tree trunk. The change in pace was enough for the aches and pains from yesterday to make themselves known. It was uncomfortable, especially around the shoulder, but he knew at least he had the luxury of youth. How many times did I hear Bertrand complain about his bad knees on cold and wet days?

“What have I done?”

This was not a matter of guilt, inasmuch as a case of his mind processing what happened. Beating his father, while deserved, was still a crime. One that came with severe penalties… I’ll get a lot more than a slap on the wrist for that…

Even if his father was willing to forgive and forget the whole thing, the Comtesse would see that he was punished… She could never stomach the sight of me.

“Sending an assassin is looking more likely.”

Knowing how they operated, Marc concluded the events from last night would be hushed up. Fear of reprisal ensured the staff toed the line.

“That leaves them to deal with this situation quietly.”

He suspected they would pray that Marc simply perished, swallowed up by a world that was dangerous at the best of times… All to save them the trouble of having someone hunt me down…

However, he lacked coins and supplies. His clothes were a problem, as was Enfer. The quality of his clothes, even bloodied and torn, marked him as a noble… No peasant could afford a horse like Enfer or his saddle…

He needed an ally, but had no contacts outside of the Keep and town. He doubted anyone would risk the fury of the Comte to help him… or do it overtly…

Marc did have time and distance going for him. Whatever solution he found, it had to increase his odds for survival… I need a way ahead that further complicates their search—

“Merde!”

The open flame flared up from the dripping fat and engulfed his meal. Marc grabbed the stick and shook it violently, which proved to be ineffective at dousing the flames.

Out of options, he ran towards the creek and dunked the flaming meat into the water. At the sight of his sopping wet breakfast, his jaw went slack, and he let out a long sigh. The feeling of defeat made him aware of how fatigued he was.

He shook his head and tensed his jaw to steel his resolve. Ultimately, while the outside was black, plenty of the meat was edible. He took a step towards the shore… I suppose it’s not all—

He slipped on the wet rocks and fell into the water. His sight was momentarily covered in a haze of silt and bubbles, but he quickly breached the surface.

“Wait…” Marc said, “Where—”

About twenty-five paces downstream, there was his meal bobbing on the surface of the creek. He rolled his eyes towards the sky as though waiting for God to smite him. In frustration, Marc slapped the water. The sting that ran up from his hand tore his mind away from the self-pity that threatened to swallow him whole.

“I think Enfer had the right idea all along…”

When he stood up, an idea struck him like an arrow to the chest. He had an uncle up north. A baron who hated his father. Someone known for following orders to the letter, all to annoy the Comte. It was rare to hear his father mention his uncle without a slew of cursed words following.

At least he had a destination in mind, one that would further distance him from his father’s grasp. Based on the travel of the sun, he concluded this road led north, which was fortunate… Best not dwell on a gift from les Moires (the Fates)…

While doubtful that he would get a warm welcome, Marc figured his uncle would help… if only to get under my Father’s skin…

CHAPTER 9

HIERARCHY OF NEEDS

Marc needed supplies, and his uncle was at least a week away on foot. That was a sobering detail once he considered his only source of income.

He came across a few travellers along the road. Most were on foot, ferrying their goods in baskets, pouches, or handcarts. The sight of a mount and saddle caused them to move off to the side and wait for him to pass… I’m drawing too much attention to myself…

Marc nodded politely every time and hurried along. This minimised their interaction, and prevented conversations laden with poorly thought out lies… leading to suspicion.

Early in the afternoon, he arrived at a village with an auberge and stables. He took Enfer to the back where a stableboy was busy cleaning out the stalls.

“That’s a beautiful animal,” the stableboy said.

“Merci, his name is Enfer,” Marc replied, before dismounting.

The boy’s eyes grew wide before covering his mouth. It was amusing to see someone who worked regularly around horse shit react adversely to a word.

“Why would you name him after a place of eternal damnation?” the boy asked in a hushed voice.

“He’s named after the Greek god of the underworld.”

“Oh,” the boy said as his features went slack.

“I’m looking for the hosteler.”

“That would be my father. He’s in town for supplies.”

“Well, that’s a shame…” Marc said before smiling. “Perhaps you could help me…”

* * * *

It was said that one should never look a gift horse in the mouth. While Enfer was a strong and healthy stallion, his mouth was not the problem; it was the saddle and his appearance.

Enfer was worth significantly more than they agreed upon, and the boy had to suspect as such. Marc hoped the story he concocted about being robbed explained the low price, along with his bloodied and dishevelled clothes.

In the end, Marc had enough to buy supplies, and secure a night at the auberge. He also kept the leather saddlebags that contained his powder horn and pistol. This way, he could take everything he owned with him, while keeping his hands free.

Last, he convinced the boy to sell his Sunday best. The clothes were threadworn and patched in several places. Marc noted the scent of cedar, likely to keep the moths at bay. While they were a poor fit, no one would look at him twice in these… That’s exactly what I need…

Before the stableboy took Enfer away, Marc ran a hand through his mane. The horse may have been a pain in his ass, but Enfer did get him out of a perilous situation.

“We stumble from time to time, but it’s what we do when it counts that matters,” Bertrand would say.

* * * *

After a hearty stew, Marc pocketed what remained of the salt pork and bread before retiring to his room. While early, there were risks to lingering in the common areas. He laid upon a straw mattress and was soon under Morpheus’ spell. Marc awoke near sundown, stirred awake by the growing activity below as the evening meal was served.

As a precaution, he waited until nightfall and left through the window. Like a shadow in the night, he hugged the treeline, and let the welcoming light and cheers from the auberge fade into the distance.

CHAPTER 10

THE HIGHWAYMAN

The moon was in the early stages of a waxing gibbous. It was enough to see the road, contrasted by the dark and foreboding forest at both sides. His steps were light, and surprisingly, so was his spirit… Why?

Given that his mother was dead, and Bertrand was likely in chains, Marc should have been a sobbing mess. A part of him wanted to beg for God to take him, but this was the first time he felt as though he was in control of his destiny.

“I’m going on an adventure,” Marc whispered, as though worried that saying it out loud would—

“Halt!” a man ordered.

After all those years of training, Marc did exactly that. The sound came from the woods, so his eyes shifted from the road to the trees before spotting the dark silhouette of a man.

It was the sight of steel glistening in the moonlight that garnered his attention. Before the contents of his stomach dropped to his toes, he realised there were no campfires nearby… An assassin would never announce themselves before striking, and guards don’t like being out in the cold and dark…

“Friend or foe?” Marc asked, while questioning why he asked at all.

“A friend,” the man said, but the tone contained all the hallmarks of someone who barely understood sarcasm. “If you have the coin.”

There it was, the answer to his question. In hindsight, it might have been wiser to take the road less travelled… I figure brigands were unlikely to patrol routes that see little to no traffic…

“I don’t have much on me,” Marc said. “I couldn’t afford a night at an auberge.”

The man took a few steps forward, until the silver glow of the moon brought out the features of his face. He was good looking, with dark hair, dark eyes, chiselled jaw, and a powerful physique. The kitchen staff often gabbed about such men and their roguish good looks… He’s someone who works for a living…

That smile did the man no favours. It was a crooked smirk that fell upon his face as though it was his natural state of being. That was a trait shared amongst many of the guards who reported solely to his father.

What differed was the man’s poor stance. He also wielded that sword as though it were a club. This was not a seasoned soldier.

“You’re rather well fed for a pauper,” the rogue said.

“I never said that I was… I do have salt pork and bread, along with a few coins…”

He let his leather pouches drop to the ground as a show of good faith. The man was about twelve paces away, so Marc had to be ready.

“You’re hiding something—”

“What would I have to hide?”

Marc knelt and reached for the nearest pouch. The coins and his food were in the other pouch, but he needed his loaded pistol. He pretended to fumble through the contents, his nose pointed at the bag.

However, his eyes remained locked onto the man as that smile faded… Leave it to a brigand to assume the worst in their victims…

“I said HA—”

His pistol was already drawn. It was aimed at the man’s chest and this time, Marc purposefully lowered his aim on account of his marksmanship. The man hesitated for a fraction of a second, but that sickly smile returned to those lips, and he charged… He thinks I won’t pull the trigger…

It was one thing to shoot an animal for food; it was another matter to take a human life. As Marc counted down the steps, he knew it had to end badly for one of them.

His finger sat on the trigger. Marc remained perfectly calm, even as the assailant yelled like a berserker headed into battle. He squeezed the trigger when they were five paces apart. The weapon came to life, and the flash briefly lit up the forest. Even through the purple streaks in his vision, he saw the man drop like a stone, with a hole torn through his chest.

“He thought wrong.”

His jaw muscles bulged and he kept still for at least a minute. That is until a stray sound from the woods caught his attention.

His eyes flowed over the terrain towards the source before the rest of his face followed. There was nothing. While he was not afraid of what lurked under the tenebrous cover, Marc had plenty of reasons to be cautious.

He loaded another round into his pistol before shouldering the pouches. He needed to investigate the source of those sounds for a potential threat before dealing with that body.

“Plenty of men have hung from their necks for what I’ve done,” Marc whispered.

The act of taking a human life made him a murderer, even if this was justifiably an act of self-defence. That rogue was now feast for the crows, taken by someone nearer to the genesis of their story… At least my mother never lived long enough to find out what I’ve done…

With a pistol at hand, he ventured into the woods, but there were no additional sounds to confirm his senses. There was a clearing up ahead. As Marc approached, he made out the silhouette of a horse tied to a tree. It can’t be…

“Enfer?”

The horse responded to his name. While he had a different saddle, Marc could recognise the silhouette of that horse anywhere… It seems I was the one being played…

“Viens,” Marc said after untying the reins. “We need to get out of here. Someone will ask why their father never made it home.”

CHAPTER 11

CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THY SOUL

The act of taking a life weighed heavily on Marc’s conscience. In the heat of the moment, his instincts told him this was a matter of life and death. While reason agreed with that assessment, the soul would not so easily forget his trespasses.

With the help of Enfer, Marc dragged the body for a mile until they reached a ravine. From there, he let gravity do the rest… That could have been me down there…

The further he was from the scene of the crime, the more guilt gnawed at him. This feeling worsened when Marc stopped by a stream to wash. He found that the blood would not wash away. While his reasoned mind claimed otherwise… All I see is the blood…

“I need to come to terms with what I’ve done…”

What he needed was to talk to someone. An individual who had taken a life like Bertrand. However, that was not possible… Bertrand is probably in chains…

A few hours after the moon reached its apex, Marc began to shiver. He did not want to lose time by making camp. He pushed onwards down the road, until he reached a small village with a church and cemetery on the outskirts… This might do…

He tied up Enfer outside the church and went inside, which still contained the heat of the sun. Even in the low light, he saw the simplicity; walls made of stone with large, wooden beams supporting the roof.

Moonlight filtered through the windows, and the votive candles provided ample light. He made his way to a tiny cross faced with several small candles. He lit one and knelt on the hard-packed earth before the cross.

Marc prayed often as a child. He would ask for his parents to love him, and as he got older, begged God for an escape. Unsurprisingly, none of his requests ever came true… even if his requests were altruistic… Like asking for Jeanne to be freed of her cough…

While he doubted God would wave his hand and make everything better, Marc needed to confess his sins, even if he planned to never again speak of it.

He pressed his hands together, closed his eyes, and focused on the stillness of the hour. For the first time in years, he felt truly alone.

“I took a life today,” Marc began silently. “I’m sure you already know. I believe there was no other way out of that situation.”

How exactly does one talk to an all-knowing god? Marc expected that God was fully aware of the situation and the doubt poisoning his heart. Not for his prayers going unanswered, but for permitting evil to find a home in the hearts of men.

“A part of me wants to take it back, but I’m convinced that I’d be the one laying at the bottom of a ravine.”

Trying to justify himself did nothing to ease his guilt. His words were empty… Focus…

“They say you forgive all sins,” Marc began. “I place myself in your hands. If you feel the need to punish me for what I’ve done, then do so. Otherwise, I’ll live my life as best I can, faced with the totality of my sins.”

He doubted this was a better way of broaching the subject with God. However, Marc needed to accept responsibility for his actions. It was his fault that he had to leave the Keep and encountered that rogue. Both these grave sins were his to bear… no matter how much my Father deserved—

“I can’t believe no one noticed,” a man said. “The Father was dead for months!”

Marc opened his eyes and looked towards the altar. The place was so quiet that he could hear Enfer munching on grass outside… How did they get here?

“People see only what they wish to see,” an older man said.

Both wore light, leather armour, including a band around the neck, and dark clothing. The men were armed, with a sword and main gauche. Although the younger man also carried a hatchet with a black, viscous liquid dripping off the axehead… It looks more like pitch—

“At least it won’t be bothering anyone—” the younger man said.

Marc once came across an egg that was left in the heat for too long. When it fell and broke open, the stench of it was precisely what assaulted his nose now. It was so bad that his eyes watered, leading him to choke back the air.

“Wait…” the older man said. “…over there.”

Both men stopped dead in their tracks and looked straight at Marc. For a second, he wondered if God did wave his hand… That would certainly help me find my faith…

“Hello, there,” the younger man said. “What brings you here?”

The voice was calm and entirely disarming, but Marc had plenty of reasons to remain on edge.

“Are you here for me?” Marc asked.

That was a good question. While he doubted they were assassins, they may have known the rogue… It can’t be my father, he’s not that well organised…

Both men laughed and approached. The pervasive odour was so bad that Marc had to breathe through his mouth. They realised why Marc was reacting and halted.

“We were cleaning out an infestation downstairs,” the older man said.

The younger one hid the hatchet behind his back. While it did nothing to arrest the scent, it lessened the threat.

“So,” Marc began. “I’m free to go?”

“For as long as you live and breathe,” the younger man quipped.

The other man gave his partner the evil eye. It was enough to wipe that smirk entirely from the young man’s face. Whatever they were, there clearly was a hierarchy.

“Thank you,” Marc said as he got back on his feet.

He hurriedly exited the church and never looked back. Marc wondered why they were more concerned with his being there, than anyone his age travelling alone at night.

“Let’s check the grounds again,” the older man said. “In case there’s another nest…”

That statement left Marc with a lot of questions. He was more than willing to forget that he was ever here. Some things were better left to the imagination.

CHAPTER 12

THE BARONY

With the help of Enfer, Marc quickly reached the town at the centre of his uncle’s barony. He had visited him once, several years before, with the Comte and Comtesse. He remembered being stuck in a carriage for days with those two, which gave him a taste of what ‘torment’ meant.

The first thing he noticed was the townspeople. Back home, the streets were quiet, except for the market. Even there, people often spoke in hushed voices. His father was known for his love of zealous tax collectors ever out for their pound of flesh.

In contrast, this village was vibrant. The townspeople even smiled and greeted him as he rode by. Fear did not permeate the fabric of life here. Overall, they appeared to be in good health and better dressed… money in their pockets means they can afford food, shelter, and a physician…

After wandering around the town, Marc found himself in front of his uncle’s home. Compared to the Keep, this was nothing more than a large home. However, it looked warm and inviting… I’m sure thick walls and arrow slits back home have the opposite effect…

To walk in was another matter entirely. For one, word of his transgressions must have reached the outer edges of his Father’s lands by now… that will force him to act…

Even a baron would have a sizable staff on hand. Using either the front door or the servants’ entrance would get noticed…someone might report me…

He had to find a way of reaching out to his uncle without arousing suspicions. While outwardly a simple concept, the execution of it was—Unless?

The sky was transitioning to a dark blue, which meant there would be evening mass. While their father preferred priests to come to him for a brief, private ceremony, he doubted it was the same for his uncle.

Marc looked around and found three things he needed to enact his plan. The first was stables for Enfer, given how daunting it was to sneak up on anyone with a large horse.

The second was sighting the steeples of this town’s impressive church. The tall, stone spires and silver roofs that shone brightly in the twilight were a potent clue.

Last, there were several alleys along the route where he could remain out of sight. All he had to do was wait until his uncle returned home. If he took a horse or carriage, then Marc would need to alter his plan… accordingly.

Once in position, Marc stacked the leather pouches to serve as a makeshift seat. All that was left for him to do was wait in the shadows of the alley.

“This is going to take a while,” Marc said before a tear rolled silently off his cheek.

His body hummed with energy, while a swirling mass of thoughts and emotion sought an outlet. However, showing up teary-eyed and weary would do little to endear him to his uncle… It’s not the first time…

There was a rain barrel nearby, so he splashed his face with the cool water before wiping the grime and blood away… It’s time to act like a man…

As he fought to suppress these emotions, a part of him died. He banished that part of himself to the depths of his mind, never again to see the light of day.

* * * *

“What’s wrong, Marc?” Uncle Renée asked.

Marc froze in place and stiffened. Up until his uncle spoke, Marc believed that he was alone, free to weep in silence.

“Nothing,” a younger version of Marc said.

“Really?” Renée said. “Those tears say otherwise.”

Marc did not want to admit that he had been crying. The Comtesse would find a way to torment him for showing weakness…

“I… I… I’m heading back tomorrow,” Marc confessed.

“And?” Renée pressed.

“…With them…”

His uncle paused to find his words. Marc noticed that smile never faded.

“I see—” Renée said.

“I hate them!”

There came another pause; this time, the smile frayed at the edges.

“So, I’m not the only one then.”

“Really? At least you can get away from them…”

“Yes… really. Let’s keep this between us?”

* * * *

Marc waited for hours. Before the church bells rang, the village was covered in a thick blanket of scents that came from the preparation of evening meals. Marc grabbed some of the remaining stale bread and salt pork. Every bite tasted like sawdust and ash.

He was tempted to throw caution to the wind and find a tavern, but he steeled his resolve, reminded that his tendency to leap first without looking was precisely what got him into this mess… Was I better off back at the Keep?

When the church bells rang throughout the town, Marc swore that every door opened at the same time. Soon, the streets were awash in people heading to church.

The mood was vibrant, a pleasant change from living under the Comte. He caught a few snippets of conversations as the people passed by. It was mundane and carefree, ranging from how their children were doing, to discussions that verged on the political… No one from our town would openly discuss such matters…

His uncle passed by him on the way to church. The man greeted those he encountered with a smile and often asked them by name how they were doing.

The family resemblance was striking, except his uncle was thinner, taller, and walked with a kind face that proved to be infectious. Even if they had been twins, no one would have trouble telling the brothers apart.

Marc would have to wait; his uncle’s absence could not be noticed… Not to mention half the town would know that I was here…

For another hour, he waited in relative silence. On occasion, the wind carried the sounds of song and prayer. Still, in his mind, this was the longest wait of his life.

His uncle was one of the last to depart. Marc watched as the conversation with the pastor carried on, but he was glad for having the opportunity to stretch his legs. When he shouldered the saddlebags, Marc winced. The weight must have strained his sore shoulder.

Before the stars pierced the celestial veil, his uncle left for home. Marc kept to the shadows and waited until the man was within earshot to call out.

“Uncle,” Marc said.

While he wanted to sound like a man, his voice cracked. Such was the bane of a young man trapped within a changing body.

The Baron’s step wavered momentarily, but he did not stop. To further secure his attention, he emerged from the shadows.

“Uncle René. It’s me.”

His uncle stopped, looking down as though there was something at his feet.

“Oh! Someone dropped a coin…”

René bent down and pretended to grab something from the cobblestone road. He turned his head for a couple of breaths and Marc caught his smile.

“Follow me discreetly,” René said. “We’ll meet in the garden behind the home.”

Marc nodded before slipping back into the shadows. Meanwhile, the Baron walked home as was his custom.

CHAPTER 13

THE WAY AHEAD

Uncle!” Marc exclaimed as René walked into the garden.

“I should’ve guessed it was you,” René said. “When we got word from your father, we worried that you’d be apprehended. You made it here in good time.”

“I did! Having Enfer with me certainly helped.”

“He certainly did,” Renee said before smiling. “The messenger arrived only this morning. He had to switch horses twice to get here.”

That meant the Comte opted for an overt approach to finding him. Marc had been certain that his father would significantly delay making a decision… His wife likely nudged him along…

“Come here, Marc.”

René pulled him in and hugged Marc with enough strength to squeeze out the air from his lungs.

“Hopefully, you beat some sense into that miserable old man,” Renée said.

“About that…”

“No details. The less I know the better.”

Marc nodded. His uncle would not be able to take him in; that much was obvious. However, the way this was playing out implied there was something up his sleeve… how can you plan on such short notice?

“You already know that you can’t stay,” René said. “Doing so risks incurring that miserable old man’s wrath.”

“To be honest,” Marc replied while mulling over his words, “I was hoping for shelter and time to think, but the messenger’s arrival makes that impossible… I don’t want him to win.”

“That’d be a shame.”

“I need a plan that’ll sour his mood…”

Not only that, but Marc had to hide where his Father would not dare look. Heading south to Spain was certainly an option, but he doubted they would welcome him with open arms.

There was a man his Father detested above all others. The mere mention of him would send the vile man into a rage.

“…could always swear allegiance to the King,” Marc said absentmindedly.

“He’d drop dead on the spot if he ever found out.”

A wry smile crept across both their lips. Marc suspected there was something more to it… It’s like I’m reading his mind…

The sound of footsteps approached from behind, and Marc’s eyes widened. He was about to bolt, but his uncle shook his head. Marc hesitated before complying.

“I sent for someone when I got home,” René said. “A plan I kept tucked away in case you needed a way out.”

That explained his delay in reaching the garden. It also implied that his uncle planned to reveal what he had in mind… A silent victory that denies my father any satisfaction…

“That was fast, Maternien,” René said.

“You’ve never had me summoned before, let alone this late in the evening, René,” Maternien replied.

The fact they used their given names soothed Marc’s mind, enough that at his uncle’s urging, he turned around to have a better look at the man.

Maternien was tall and well-built, with thinning, grey hair to complement the look. The distant stare in those eyes was a sign he once waged war, and the crooked nose seemingly confirmed that fact.

“This is my nephew. He needs to learn some discipline… and patience. He got into trouble back home and requires guidance.”

“So, that’s why you had me summoned. I—”

“Maternien has a younger brother who commands the local garrison,” René replied. “I’m hopeful we can bring him a recruit in the morning.”

“And your name is?” Maternien asked.

Marc opened his mouth to say something, but his uncle had all the answers.

“Joseph Jacques Jean Marc des Plaines.”

“That’s not a common family name for these parts,” Maternien replied.

“No, it’s not. My cousin married a baron up north, and she’s worried about him.”

The wry grin that crept across Maternien’s face hinted he did not buy the story; however, loyalty meant he would never question the lie… My uncle could have said that I was Lucifer, and it would not have mattered…

“I’ll take Marc in the morning to see my brother. I suspect he’ll find some use for the boy. The local garrison is always desperate for men.”

“What about Enfer?” Marc asked.

“Don’t you worry about him; I’ll make sure he’s taken care of,” René said.

“Thank you,” Marc said to both of them.

CHAPTER 14

FOR KING AND COUNTRY

Warning, oxygen levels at 9.5% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

The reason why oxygen levels were on the rise left him scratching his head. Given his heightened hearing, he would have known if atmospheric processors were back online. The steps needed to recycle, scrub, and return breathable air were loud and a constant annoyance for him… I’ve been enjoying the peace and quiet…

After some thought, the answer was plain enough to see. The accumulation of snow meant that carbon-dioxide was being sublimated from the atmosphere… Leading to a comparative increase in oxygen levels…

Marc finished engraving the last word into the bulkhead before pausing. The shelter reminded him of a battlefield after snowfall. The cold made him sluggish, forcing him to move about or risk his joints freezing in place… If the temperature keeps dropping, I’ll end up looking like an abominable snowman…

It would get a lot colder before the ruling family considered releasing the security lockouts. Any hot spots brought on by survivalists would soon be extinguished. Without power from the fusion generators, residents had to rely on fuel, batteries, or some sort of chemical reaction… None of which last for long in the dead of space…

There was an alternate method to releasing the locks; however, Marc suspected it would take a long time for the conditions to be met… Oxygen levels need to return to a breathable level…

Fortunately, the cold had no long-term effects on him. Even if he froze solid, he would thaw out once they restored life support… Then, I’ll be free to complete my mission…

“That gives me plenty of time to write my thoughts.”

To regain a range of motion, he opened and closed his fists several times. The sounds those motions made were akin to stepping on broken glass. The pain focused him and shot him back into the mind of a child who just signed away his life for king and country.

“They handed me a uniform and a drum on my first day,” Marc recited before etching the words onto the bulkhead.

He remembered all that drill, the discipline, and most importantly, the repercussions for failure. The regiment was now his mother and father, but soldiers were not known to spare the rod… They had no tolerance for tears…

Marc learned how to take his beatings and carry on until they were into battle. He remembered the excitement of going into combat, and the steady march of the soldier’s firm steps as they moved to their position on the board… We were little more than pawns…

For a young man, drunk on stories of glory told by the other soldiers, that moment exemplified his thirst for honour… right up until we were ambushed…

That was the moment Marc learned there was no glory in war. The air was filled with the scent of charred flesh, blood, and acrid smoke from gunpowder. There was the thunderous roar of cannons, the whizzing of musket balls passing by his head, steel against steel, and men crying in agony until they bled out.

In the first volley, five men standing near him fell. The wounds were similar to the one Marc left on that rogue. Blood splatter covered the back of his uniform. It oozed down his neck and made him shiver. He should have panicked, as rational beings ought to do; yet, all that training and discipline suppressed the thoughts.

His mind steadied, and the passage of time slowed to a crawl. He watched lead balls, fired from muskets, exiting the barrels in excruciating detail. Men who were mortally wounded fell like rag dolls cast aside by a child.

“Later in life, I learned that most soldiers don’t aim to kill,” Marc narrated. “Many hope the gunfire will deter the enemy. These… lofty ideals… often fall to the wayside once they get a taste of the raw brutality of combat.”

“I remember the words of a Soviet soldier standing on a ridge in Afghanistan overlooking the hostile lands they were expected to tame. He, too, wondered if he could take a life and live with that reality… right until he felt something hot splatter against his face. He realised it was arterial spray from his comrade, struck by a sniper. In that moment, he knew he could kill…”

This drummer boy turned towards the attack and saw the distinctive colours of a Spanish infantry unit breaking through the treeline. They were calm, lined up neatly and ready for a fight… They won’t have the chance to walk all over us!

He dropped to his knees and grabbed the nearest musket. Drums were not the only thing he practised with before this day. Marc took aim and pulled the trigger. He watched as the ball punctured fabric, skin, and muscle before shattering bone… I’m already going to Hell… what’s one more life?

He grabbed another three muskets and squeezed their triggers without hesitation. Instead of reloading, he found his footing and ran straight at them, with a bayonet affixed.

“Pour la France!” Marc yelled, rallying the others to his cause.

The Spanish may have drawn first blood, but those remaining ensured their opponent regretted their choice.

* * * *

Warning, oxygen levels at 9.6% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“Despite losing our capitaine and adjudant, we were victorious.”

He remembered hoping this would be the last of it. A fantasy in which they were recognised by le Roi himself, earning a respite from the war. Instead, they were absorbed into another company that suffered heavy losses. With numbers replenished, Marc went back to the front.

After their third battle, Marc was summoned to headquarters. At the age of sixteen, he received a commendation and promotion… the first of many…

“It could be said that the life of a soldier was composed primarily of boredom. That’s why the adjudant and his sergeants were tasked with keeping the rank and file busy.”

Peacetime was by far the worst time for a soldier. While routine and discipline were important, there were only so many times they could make the men do the same task before they considered their options… Having women near a garrison complicated matters…

As a result, their ranks ebbed and flowed with the times. During long stretches of peace, they became a shadow of themselves.

However, France had more than her fair share of enemies. Regional conflicts were common, requiring quick and decisive action by those who chose this life, as Marc had… In times of war, there’s never a shortage of young men seeking glory…

Large wars and conflicts involving several nations were rare, but not unheard of. Marc learned that changes in the monarch often whet that nation’s appetite for war.

“For a new king, a war solidified their hold over their subjects. The numbers needed to secure a victory were entirely irrelevant. Those who fought in their name were nothing more than faceless pieces on the board…”

CHAPTER 15

A PRELUDE TO WAR

The year after his promotion to sergeant, Marc received word that the Comte passed away. His father had been in poor health, a point of pride for Marc considering he caused his decline.

Given that the man had no official heir, that left Marc with options. He was free to soldier on or claim his birthright to have a positive impact within the county… Not bad for someone who’s twenty-one years old…

Marc had no wish to return to the Keep, but he sought to emulate what Uncle René had done… No one should have to live in fear of those of higher stations…

He took an extended leave of absence, and with permission from his capitaine, secured the use of a horse named Limos for the journey home.

His uncle recommended that he secure a set of peasant’s clothing for the journey; however, Marc felt it was safer to travel in uniform. Besides, it was sure to loosen a few tongues back home.

“We shall see,” Marc said to no one in particular.

He tapped on Limos’ side to get going. Looking back, Marc viewed this as a bittersweet moment. Alas, he was too caught up in the details to pay heed to the significance of the event.

“Won’t we Limos?”

* * * *

“Everything’s different,” Marc said from atop a ridge.

They had a view of the Keep looming over the town. Despite what he said, Marc was hard pressed to define what exactly had changed.

It was Marc who was different, forged by his choices, both physically and emotionally. Discipline taught him to keep his emotions in check, safe in the knowledge that soldiers never followed men who wore their hearts on their sleeves.

“Viens.”

They used the well-travelled path towards the Keep. Few shied away from his approach. They went on with their business or acknowledged him with a pleasant greeting.

He rather enjoyed the anonymity that came with being a soldier. They wore uniforms and trained to a single standard for a reason. It was not to encourage individuality, but to instil a sense of camaraderie between them. Units that failed to do so were sure to break.

On the ground, amongst the ageless buildings and structures, Marc noted the town appeared to be worn… They can’t afford to maintain their homes and pay what is owed to the tax collectors…

The most notable change was amongst the people; every single smile was forced. They collectively appeared to be exhausted, their eyes weary, visible even amongst the youth… Whereas the Keep looks better than ever…

Marc tensed his jaw, which was one of the few emotional cues he showed nowadays. It proved to be an effective method of keeping the soldiers in line without making a sound. As his eyes narrowed on his father’s home, a list of priorities quickly formed in his mind.

“I won’t stand for such a blatant display of hypocrisy,” Marc said sternly.

* * * *

Marc rode up the cobblestone path towards the Keep. Convention demanded that riders dismount and lead their horses on foot, but he wanted to push the boundaries… They don’t seem to care…

Limos was a rather large animal. Marc sat higher than the horsemen he passed and towered over the guards.

“State your business,” the eldest guard said.

To test their resolve, Marc remained mounted. The horse stood perfectly still, but its muscles twitched, ready to go to a gallop on a single command.

“I’m here to see the Steward,” Marc said.

There was authority in his voice, something he learned through years of readying men for combat. His father had no such presence, as his authority came primarily from his royal rank…and maintained through threats of violence…

The guard cocked an eyebrow while staring at Marc. Based on that reaction alone, his request was unexpected… a soldier showing up on their doorstep does muddy the waters…

The one who challenged him was roughly his age, but Marc did not recognise him… The Comtesse could not tolerate children in her presence…

“You—What business do you have with the Steward?” the eldest guard asked as a precaution.

The subordinate standing to his side was tempted to add something, but an elbow to his ribs changed his mind… It’s never wise to run your mouth off at a soldier on a war horse…

“Other than being a loyal soldier to le Roi?” Marc said to toy with the man. “Would the son of the dearly departed Comte be reason enough to see the Steward?”

“The Comte had no son,” the eldest said.

Marc narrowed his gaze while edging the horse closer. It was only a couple of steps, but they would now feel the beast’s hot breath against their cheeks… I admit, the cavalry has an edge for filling the hearts of men with fear…

“You may want to reconsider that response…”

“I said the—” the eldest repeated, proving that this man had a backbone… I can’t speak for his wisdom…

The guards were armed, but Limos could trample them without slowing down. To escalate matters, Marc grabbed the hilt of his sword, and drew the blade out a couple of inches so the steel gleamed in the light. The entire time his eyes were focused directly on the subordinate.

“Summon the Steward and be quick about it,” Marc ordered.

The ultimatum underlying that order was clear, and the subordinate broke formation. He ran towards the Keep as though his life depended on it… In his mind, it does…

“You and I are going to have a chat…” Marc said.

The eldest gulped, and Marc permitted himself to smile… One needs to cherish the little victories in life…

* * * *

There were soon signs that the Steward had been notified. A crowd formed near the gate, some of whom he recognised as kitchen staff. He imagined that the ovens were left unattended, all to gawk at the unfolding drama. The numbers of guards on scene increased noticeably, but he was not worried.

Killing a member of le Roi’s army had repercussions, whereas murdering the rightful heir would take things to a whole new level… I know they aren’t equipped to deal with Limos…

However, the Steward wasted little time in getting there. Marc recognised him on the spot as being one of his father’s boot licks. This was Théodore Guérin and Marc decided then and there that he would be getting the sack.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Théodore demanded.

The Steward only had eyes for the guard, a ploy designed to put Marc in his place. Such a plan was doomed to failure, because Théodore had no idea who he was dealing with.

To alter the balance, Marc opted to use the man’s Christian name… It might not hurt if I also shared my opinion of him—

Among the swelling ranks of the guards, one approached with a limp. The man was visibly pained, which made those twisted, facial features difficult to identify. Still, Marc could not miss Bertrand’s distinctive blue eyes… At least, I have an ally in the crowd…

“Théodore, what a pleasure to see you again,” Marc said before moving himself between the guard and Steward. “Are you still inspecting the Comtesse’s sheets every morning?”

His father was a miserable old man, so it came naturally to presume that his wife would stray. He remembered vividly how Théodore whined constantly about that duty to anyone who would listen.

“Wha—” Théodore said.

Théodore froze as his mind took in the totality of those words. He remained as such for several breaths, long enough that the elder guard coughed to prompt the Steward.

As Théodore recovered, his eyes darted towards Marc. Those grey eyes were glassy and lacked any sign of recognition. The uniform was sure to throw the man off, but Marc’s sunburnt skin and sharp features were potent clues. When the man rolled back the years, he took in a sharp breath.

Blood drained from that face, leaving waxen skin that reminded Marc of a desiccated corpse. This was not helped by the wiry hair that refused to be tamed… At least, I’m witnessing your true form…

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Théodore said softly as though confessing his sins to a ghost.

“Only one of us looks like a corpse, Théodore.”

That trembling voice was a sign that Théodore’s reality had been shattered by a cannonade. His father must have sent someone to make the problem go away. Marc assumed that he had his uncle to thank for that… I’ll be sure to send him something nice for our wine stores…

“You can’t be here…” Théodore said. “Guards!”

As the guards roused themselves from their collective stupor, Limos neighed before getting on his hind legs. It was never a good idea to spook a warhorse, but Marc kept his cool and calmed the beast down.

“You dare question the legitimacy of your Comte?”

To escalate matters, Marc drew his sword. The sight of the blade caused those within striking distance to back away. The Steward was so panicked by the sight of the gleaming steel that he tripped and fell on his rump.

Bertrand moved forward, past the row of guards. While some were armed, many favoured curiosity over duty. Without concern, Bertrand walked into the inner circle.

“You still haven’t learned patience,” Bertrand said, adopting his mentoring tone.

“Oh,” Marc began, “I have. It’s more fun this way.”

The Steward struggled to get back on his feet. He even managed to look petty by batting away the hand of a guard who offered assistance. While the humiliation was self-inflicted, his narrow eyes burned bright as funeral pyres… I’m sure he blames me for all of this…

“Do you have proof?” Théodore asked.

“I do. I carry a letter from Archbishop Judoc with testimonials from my uncle, the Baron of—”

“Lies!”

“Lies?” Bertrand said. “This from the man who hinted that the Comte’s heir had been murdered?”

“It’s nice to see someone else caught that,” Marc said.

The crowd could no longer be contained. At first, there was the occasional whisper, but that grew until their idle chatter became a dull roar. All the while, Marc bit the inside of his cheek, fighting against the urge to cut the man down… At least, this one deserves it…

“Guard,” Marc said to rouse a guard behind the Steward. “Escort this man off the premises.”

“You can’t do—”

“I can and it’s done.” Marc turned to face the elder. “That’s an order from your comte.”

The guard’s lower lip trembled as beads of sweat formed along his lower lip. The man was clearly torn as his eyes went from Marc to the Steward. Marc imagined the man weighing in on who to fear the most, be it the old man that ran the household, or the one claiming to be the rightful heir.

“You have your orders,” Bertrand said calmly.

Upon confirmation, the elder sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath before approaching the Steward. The moment he touched Théodore, the reaction was violent. However, when no one came to his aid, the defeated Steward hung his head and followed the guard away from the scene.

As though rehearsed, fresh guards took their place at the front gates. Marc used the opportunity to sheath his sword and dismount, handing the reins to a stablehand nearby. He made an impression showing up here. That had been necessary to gain the upper hand, but it was time to be more… stately.

“What’s your name?” Marc asked the stablehand.

After some hesitation, the young man gulped and said, “Octave… my Lord.”

“Please, take Limos to the stables,” Marc said with a smile. “Make sure he gets some hay and water.”

“Right away, my Lord.”

“Great…” Bertrand said.

The cacophony was building in the background, and Marc looked up in time to see a rotund, grey-haired banshee headed their way. In a show of force, she had half-a-dozen ladies in tow.

“Merde…” He leaned over to Bertrand and whispered, “I suppose, it’s considered poor form to have her shot?”

Bertrand nodded, but that wry smile hinted the desire was shared. Not even her husband could stand being around that vile woman for long.

“Who dares disrupt my afternoon—”

The effect he had on the Comtesse was similar to that of the Steward. The exception was that her lips nearly disappeared, and what remained was pressed white.

“You’re supposed to be—” the Comtesse said.

The intensity of the fire burning in those eyes would have made Lucifer uncomfortable… She was probably the one who urged father to have the problem go away…

“Dead?” Marc guessed. “Bertrand, that’s the second person to tell me that I should be dead. Does that strike you as peculiar?”

“It does, my Lord,” Bertrand replied.

Marc gave the man a side glance before a grin crept over his lips. He could have remained a soldier and avoided this quagmire of treachery. He only had himself to blame… Watching her squirm does add value…

“I’m afraid you won’t have the time for a nap,” Marc said flatly.

“What do you mean?” the Comtesse asked.

“You need to pack.”

“Pack? What?”

During this exchange, Bertrand distanced himself and whispered something into the ear of another guard. After a quick nod, that guard melted into the crowd.

“Why, yes,” Marc said. “You’ll be taking up residence at the cottage with a staff of… let’s say eight?”

“I’m the Comtesse!”

“Wrong. You were. That title belongs to my future wife.”

Blood flushed through her fat face, visible even through the white powder. Marc made out the bulging veins and blotchy complexion reminiscent of a rotten tomato. In the past he would have run for the hills, but she was powerless to stop him… I’m enjoying the reversal…

“I need at least twice that,” the Comtesse countered.

“Fine,” Marc said. “I’ll give you a staff of twelve.”

Before that sickly smile, that could curdle milk, crept over her features, Marc lifted a finger to silence her. There were conditions to his counteroffer.

“For every hour you delay your departure, you forfeit one of your staff.”

“How dare—”

“I will not be swayed by your venom,” Marc said. “I remind you, the sands of time are slipping through the hourglass…”

There was a long pause until one of her staff laid a hand on her shoulder. Just like the Steward, she was a tempest that broke apart before a single drop of rain reached the ground. Until now, he never realised how alike these two were… that might explain why the sheets were always immaculate…

“Well,” Marc said. “That was fun.”

“It was, my Lord,” Bertrand said.

“What did he do to you?”

There was a pause and Marc guessed as to why. While those eyes glowed, the body was beginning to fail him. Marc knew that being a soldier was a young man’s game.

“After three months in a cell, he had me flogged, and demoted.”

That sounded like his father. While he could not implicate Bertrand directly in what happened, he made sure to castigate anyone close to Marc. To add insult to injury, they kept him around as a guard… A daily reminder that crossing my Father came with repercussions…

“I hope he suffered greatly right up until la Mort came for him.”

A part of Marc wished that he killed the miserable wretch that night. However, that would have altered his course in life… Our actions forge us and influence those surrounding us…

His uncle would never help a murderer to disappear. Had Marc not witnessed a better way to govern, he would have never agreed to take his birthright.

“It’s high time we made some changes around here,” Marc said.

“You’ve been slacking off ever since you got here…”

Marc looked at all the staff and servants who made up the crowd. This was not the place or time to outline his priorities… We need to do better than what my Father did…

“Isn’t there work to be done?” Bertrand said, sensing where Marc’s thoughts were.

As they dispersed, Marc grabbed his mentor by the arm and brought him in for a hug. It was the least he could do to repay the man back for what he was subjected to… I would have been stuck down there until my father got well enough to skin me alive…

“Thank you for the support,” Marc said. “The world needs more of you.”

Marc caught the sight of a horse and rider racing towards the Keep in the distance. As judged by the appearance of the horse… it might not make it here…

“This can’t be good,” Marc said.

Bertrand broke away to have a look. Riders rarely rode through town at a full gallop, and this one wore le Roi’s colours.

“He wouldn’t send a messenger to bless this transition?”

“I doubt he follows changes in his court that closely,” Bertrand said. “Besides, the hate your Father reserved for his liege was mutual…”

“Guard,” Marc said. “Inform the stables that the messenger’s horse will need care… Have them prepare one of our horses as well.”

A guard broke ranks and left for the stables, and another took his place. While Bertrand was a lowly guard, the old weapons master made sure standards were upheld.

“You’re adjusting well to your role,” Bertrand commented.

“To be fair, it was a rough couple of months after my promotion. The switch between following and leading was not intuitive,” Marc said. “The adjudant had been in the service since Caïn and stepped in after I failed. Only then was I ready to follow his advice.”

“Smart man.”

“Wise, too. You’d like him.”

Like Marc, the man rode straight in, pulling hard at the last minute to bring his horse to a stop. Any closer and he would have run the guard over.

The rider was young, pale, and wild eyed. Marc and Bertrand looked at one another and came to the same conclusion… It can only mean one thing…

“War,” they said in unison.

After exchanging a couple of words with the guard, the messenger went directly for Marc. Despite the slack jaw, likely brought on by the sight of the uniform, Marc took the letter and broke the royal seal.

In the background, the guard that Bertrand sent off earlier returned to the front gates. While not out of breath, his eyes were small and his face long, as he gulped in the fresh air… They’ll need more drills to whip them into shape…

“We are at war with Spain,” Marc said. “That cancels my leave of absence, and I need to get back to my garrison.”

He said that aloud for the benefit of those lingering nearby, because he effectively needed to be in two places at once.

“You three,” Marc said looking at the nearest guards and the messenger. “I need your names.”

Without hesitation, all three complied. He first turned to the messenger and spoke.

“I formally accept this letter and the responsibility bestowed upon me,” Marc said. “My first duty as Comte is to assign a steward who will comply with the terms outlined in this letter.”

That part was obvious, and did not explain why he needed their names.

“Given the time, you three shall be my witnesses,” Marc went on. “I hereby declare that Bertrand Comminges shall serve as my Steward during my absence. Given my obligations, I must report to the garrison.”

There were no words exchanged. They all shared the same loose jawed expression, Bertrand included. Being elevated to act in the Comte’s stead was quite the leap.

“I have full trust in your abilities,” Marc said. “Rule as I would. While war is upon us, find a way to give our people room to breathe. Had my father been alive, the locals would have revolted and given this land to Spain.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Given time, the full weight of the responsibilities bestowed upon Bertrand would make themselves known… At least I’m already packed…

“You’ll make a fine Steward,” Marc said. “You have the heart and wisdom to help our people, and I have the courage to keep our enemy at bay… I must go.”

Marc was about to kick off towards the stables, when he caught the sound of Bertrand clearing his throat. That was how Bertrand would communicate to Marc of a lapse in decorum… What did I forget?

“You’ll need this,” Bertrand said before tossing him a golden object.

When Marc caught it in mid-air, he realised it was his Father’s signet ring. In actuality, it belonged to him, but the transition was too recent to make the logical leap.

He slipped it on and found that it fit his pinky finger perfectly. Marc smiled at his mentor for remembering the one thing that represented his authority. Father must be rolling in his grave right now… or over a spit en Enfer…

“I see I made the right choice!” Marc said before marching smartly towards the stables.

CHAPTER 16

A NEW POST

Warning, oxygen levels at 9.9% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

Marc paused after hearing that last warning. How many times did that announcement come over the public address? He had no idea. It had been repeated every fifteen minutes for the past eight days… The number’s not important right now…

He was about to enter a notable milestone of his life. While many would view his becoming a Comte as his crowning achievement, or even the battles he fought, Marc preferred to focus on those who shaped him into the man he became… good or bad…

His mother, Jeanne, had always been there. She taught him to read, write, count, and think for himself. She was the reason Marc knew anything at all about their history, including those of the Greek and Roman empires.

Bertrand was an excellent mentor, but it was his mother who prepared him for something more than being a dutiful soldier. That knowledge proved invaluable when he took his commission, because officers did far more than soldiers ever gave them credit for.

It was often said that exemplary leadership was sending troops to Hell and having them look forward to the trip. While there was truth to that, there was much more to leading men than eloquent prose and motivational speeches.

An officer shielded their soldiers from the chaos that invariably rained down from above. In hindsight, Marc had few concerns as a soldier. As long as he was fed, well rested, and had direction, he was content… Look after your men and they’ll look out for you in return…

As an officer, he learned that wars could be won by losing a battle. However, the men were expected to fight as though they would win. An easy victory for the enemy jeopardises the greater plan… Sometimes, you end up winning despite all odds…

“Now, where was I?”

Marc’s mind filtered out errant thoughts until the linear progression of his life was clear. Centuries of memories were often a challenge to keep straight. Nevertheless, the narrative was forming beautifully.

Warning, oxygen levels at 10.0% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“Right. The sands of time wait for no one… Her name was Émilie…”

* * * *

In the movies, a nation’s armies pounced on the enemy as soon as formal declarations of war were made. That was rarely true in practice. A nation needed time to build up and mobilise their armies. Armed forces who were at peace typically took the longest to prepare. When Marc lived and breathed, Europe was always involved in some conflict or another. However, formal declarations of war against another nation were something else entirely.

Prior to the reign of le Roi Soleil, France, like her enemies, had a small standing army. Their defences were composed of regional guard units, like his, mercenaries, and militias. It took time to establish a large and coherent fighting force, and that meant conscription and taxes.

Hostilities breaking out after claiming his title changed everything for Marc. Upon arriving at the garrison with Limos, he was summarily dismissed. Had he been anyone else, they would have overlooked his true identity and sent him marching into war.

However, royalty did not fill the ranks as soldiers, but led as officers, and generals. So, the first order the colonel gave him after being dismissed from the service was to commission him to the rank of lieutenant. Like being promoted to the rank of sergeant, he suspected the role would take some getting used to.

After accepting his commission, they immediately gave him his new orders. He was to take over a small garrison near the Spanish border, shore up its defences, and await further direction. When dismissed, he saluted the colonel and marched himself out.

He had never been that close to the border that France shared with Spain. The colonel told him to expect a population that looked more Spanish than the average Parisian. Given his sunburnt skin, dark eyes, and hair, he figured that he would fit right in…

PART II

ÉMILIE

CHAPTER 17

THE MAKING OF A GREAT EVENING

Six months later, at the tender age of twenty-one, Marc was sitting in a tavern with his senior staff. By now, he should have a subordinate officer assigned to him, but the promise of men and equipment seldom materialised… We’re told to make do…

The fortification that housed his garrison was designed to accommodate a quarter of their number. To make do, those not on duty were free to go into town. It turned out that interacting with the locals helped relations immensely… They actually look forward to our return…

It did challenge the sergeants to keep the soldiers in line, but there was no better alternative. Sometimes, the decisions made, like frequenting a local tavern with his men, fell into a grey area… soldiers need more than discipline…

A young and busty brunette came along with a fresh bottle of wine. As was the custom, Marc took the first sip before deciding whether to accept or reject the bottle. Tonight, he noted several peculiar stares from the rank and file… Not exactly making me feel at ease…

“Merci, that will do,” Marc said. “Please, leave the bottle.”

Through experience, Marc learned that paying for a round of drinks from time-to-time went a long way to maintaining morale. His choice to buy some tonight met several objectives…

Sergeant Séez looked every bit like the Spanish, including that suave machismo they were known for. No matter his swagger, trouble found him. This morning, he broke up a fight between two soldiers. They both fell for the same girl and were willing to kill the other to prove themselves the better suitor… I don’t miss mothering the soldiers…

The men ended up in cells for the night, so they had to stand up a prisoner watch. That meant there were fewer men in attendance tonight. The additional watches ensured the prisoners would not hurt themselves, or anyone else, until they addressed the situation… The men on duty will learn of what they missed, and ensure no one else spoils their fun again…

Meanwhile, Sergeant Chabanel, with his blond hair and blue eyes, suffered heavy losses in a recent clash with the Spanish. While they were quick for once in sending them conscripts, that meant fresh troops to train and integrate.

These events added more work to everyone’s plate… My gift to them lets them know I’m aware of their challenges…

There was also Adjudant Cornay, a solid soldier who had been in service of le Roi two years longer than Marc. The man was approaching his thirties, and his hair was more salt than pepper. He was tall, built, and had weather-worn skin… He says that’s from his time as a merchant sailor…

When they first met, Cornay gave him one of those stares. The one soldiers saved for their officers as they pondered what needed to be excised from their minds before trusting them with the men.

When he caught Marc’s rigid demeanour, crisp drill, and ability to take command, those thoughts were dismissed. They were cut from the same cloth and even fought in the same conflicts.

It was Cornay who recommended they integrate with the townspeople. Marc’s soldier side wanted to say ‘non’ in the name of discipline but being practical paid off in the end.

“Mon Lieutenant,” Cornay began. “Is there something wrong?”

Finally, I might get some answers for what’s on their mind… Marc had to admit this was an example of the lapses in discipline he feared, namely the overly familiar tone his Adjudant was using to address him. Marc liked to maintain the appearance of a rigid separation between the ranks in public.

“What do you mean, Adjudant?” Marc asked.

Unlike some commanders, Marc did not drop rank. He felt that they worked hard to get where they were and should be recognised for their accomplishment.

“I’ve seen your marksmanship, mon Lieutenant,” Cornay said. “You’re clearly not blind.”

“Is there a point to this, Adjudant?”

“Several men claim that you failed to notice Beatriz, mon Lieutenant.”

Upon hearing the word ‘men’ in that statement, the contents of Marc’s stomach soured. He was all for solidarity, but none of them should be so bored as to take an active interest in what he took notice of.

However, the name Beatriz meant nothing to him. It was not uncommon around here, since families from both sides of the border were known to intermarry. The name itself implied Spanish roots, but that was hardly telling.

“Adjudant?”

As his second smiled, Marc felt his ears grow warm. While he hid much of his emotional state behind a mask, Marc had no control over reactions that were instinctual… Knowing that I’m blushing makes this more embarrassing…

For reasons that were not entirely clear to him, the ambient noise level dropped significantly. He heard blood flowing through his veins… I better get an answer soon…

“She’s the beauty who always leans over to give you a view of what she has to offer,” Cornay replied in a hushed tone.

The tavern was now quiet as a tomb. In the distance, he caught sight of Beatriz picking up a round at the bar. She must have been at least sixty paces away, yet she stared right at Cornay with a distorted face.

Marc would have sworn there were two of her. Within the span of a second, she appeared to be holding a tray of drinks and simultaneously placing them down on the bar. He blinked and she vanished, followed by the door behind the counter slamming shut, and the sound of hurried footsteps.

His behaviour was shameful. It never occurred to Marc to ask for her name, but he knew everyone who was stationed at or worked for the garrison… barely noticed she was there…

“Do you enjoy humiliating women, Adjudant?”

The tone of Marc’s voice had changed; it was cold as ice and painfully formal. The smiles faded from those within earshot and both his sergeants gulped. In addition to tensing his jaw, this was a sign that Marc was on the cusp of losing his composure.

Years of discipline and self-control ensured he never lost his temper like he did as a child. However, there were ways of taking out his frustrations while appearing perfectly calm.

Marc was fuming and wanted his men to know, but his Adjutant had nerves of steel and would not be swayed… You have to respect the man for that…

“Apologies, mon Lieutenant,” Cornay replied. “I didn’t expect my voice to carry… We simply wanted to surprise you.”

The rest could be inferred. The men must have arranged something for him, and Beatriz should not have been able to overhear the announcement. Still, what did any of this have to do with their barmaid? Was she flirting with me?

Marc’s mind naturally shifted towards suspicion when women were too nice… Why else would a beautiful woman with a Spanish surname flirt with a low-level, French officer?

“I expect you’ll apologise personally for this slight. Understood?”

“Oui, mon Lieutenant,” Cornay said.

By now, the sergeants were so stiff they may as well have been fashioned out of stone.

“But first, the men have pooled their money and secured quarters for you tonight,” Cornay added.

Marc could no longer contain the confusion this offer wrought. He gave his head a shake and cocked his brow. Given that he had his own quarters back at the garrison, why would he need to spend the night here?

“Adjudant?” Marc asked.

That came out louder than expected because the heart beating in his ears was deafening.

“We felt you needed a diversion, mon Lieutenant,” Cornay said. “Your room is the third to the left of the top of the stairs… take the bottle with you. We have you covered tonight.”

Marc narrowed his gaze, but backing out would severely undermine his authority. This was their way of thanking him, which explained why Cornay took liberties to make it happen.

As a sergeant, Marc remembered telling their lieutenant not to worry because they had the situation well in hand. It permitted them to deal with a matter internally before escalating further up the chain. Good officers knew to nod and leave them to it, safe in the knowledge that their senior staff had the garrison’s best interest in mind.

“Very well,” Marc said. “I…thank you all for your…thoughtful… gift.”

With nothing else to add, he grabbed the bottle in one hand, and his hat in the other before going upstairs. While he had no way of knowing for certain, Marc felt as though they were collectively focused on him… It won’t take much more for my ears to catch fire…

CHAPTER 18

GIFT WRAPPED

Marc walked through the door expecting to be greeted by darkness. Instead, there was a candle flickering in the breeze of an open window. He hung his hat by the entrance before placing the bottle on the shelf… I don’t want to stumble around and make a mess of things…

He stood there for a moment at the threshold, permitting his eyes to adjust. He became aware there was someone in the room with him. As they moved into his field of view, Marc spotted the top of a pair of milky white breasts.

“Allô?” a soft, feminine voice said.

“Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle,” Marc said in a hurried tone before realising the door had shut behind him. “I must have—”

“Please, don’t go… I’m part of the surprise…”

Her tone was light and cheerful, as though being offered as a surprise to a man was a mundane occurrence. That should have been a clue as to his situation, but his mind would not tie the pieces together.

“I should—” Marc said.

His mind locked up entirely, as though nobody was at the helm. When his consciousness faded back into reality, the first sight he focused on was those bright blue eyes.

“I was beginning to worry,” the woman said. “I’m Émilie.”

“…Marc…”

As his conscious mind regained control, more of her came into view. She was short, delightfully plump, with alabaster skin, blonde hair, dimples, and soft, pink lips.

It was the sight of the second matching pair, visible through a curly blonde bush, that threw his mind for a loop. Other than a bodice tied from the front, she was as God made her.

“I know…” Émilie replied. “Why are you so nervous?”

“N-n-n-n-nervous?”

“Oui,” she replied in a husky voice.

Her answer bounced around inside his head. He initially assumed that she was taunting him, but the subtle smile on her lips carried no hint of malice. There was concern within those blue eyes, but that word repeated over and over.

“Why don’t I help you out of your coat?”

Without realising it, Marc backed away into the door. The sound would have been noticed had the tavern not been bursting at the seams with patrons.

Émilie hesitated. Her eyebrows were creased, with lips parted. Instead of giving up, she took another step toward him with her slender fingers outstretched.

Marc laughed nervously. With the door in the way, he slipped past her. For a disciple of Arès, the Greek god of war, this was borderline cowardice. Everything about this situation was wrong, but Marc could not summon reason or courage to his aid.

“Why are you being so difficult?” Émilie pressed. “They said you’re a war hero, and that every man under your command owes you their life.”

None of those words registered. If she advanced, he would either back away or evade. Her dimpled smile began to fray. Meanwhile, his nervous chuckles worsened, bordering on manic.

“A big, strong man like yourself should have no trouble—”

Cornered once again, he backed into the bedframe and fell onto the mattress. The sound of the impact was muted by the straw filling, save for his sword’s scabbard, which made a resounding clang as it struck wood.

With an opportunity at hand, Émilie straddled him. While fully clothed, the heat from between her legs was intense. Once more, reason and courage were nowhere to be found and Marc froze.

She took this as a sign that she had won, scooting down to unbutton his coat. Despite the southern part of France being decidedly hot in the summer, Marc always wore his uniform in accordance with regulations. How else could he hold men to account?

“My, my…” Émilie said. “I see you’re responding to my presence…wait. That’s the hilt of your sword…”

The room went silent, so quiet that they could both hear the candle flickering in the wind. They remained like that for several breaths until her hand brushed up against Marc’s groyne…

Disappointed, Émilie slid off, and buried her head in a pillow to cry. Marc remained in place until the sounds of her sobbing reached his misfiring brain, triggering parts of his mind wired for empathy.

After sitting up, Marc buttoned his coat out of habit. He adjusted his sword, so it no longer pressed into his side. After taking a few solid breaths, he looked down at the sobbing mess, completely clueless on what to do.

He considered leaving the room, but his Adjudant specified the room was available for the entire night. Either way, leaving a woman in tears was decidedly not proper. Instead, he aligned his body to have a better look at her. Her plump and bare ass faced him, which somehow made the situation easier for him to handle.

“What’s wrong?”

When there came no reply, he tried to nudge a part of her that was covered. She violently pushed away his hand.

“Go away!”

“That might not comply with the terms of—”

Such a cold and logical reply unsurprisingly had an adverse reaction. There were times for reason, and moments when compassion and warmth were necessary. Alas, Marc had been exposed to the former for most of the formative years of his life.

“I don’t care if they pay me!” Émilie hissed.

The word pay altered his outlook on this situation. The room for the night, a beautiful, half-naked woman, and her strong advances, all under the guise of a surprise. Until that moment, Marc never realised there were courtesans here in town… That certainly explains why morale is so high…

“Why wouldn’t they pay you?”

“Because you rejected me!”

Her crying transitioned to a wail. It was long and woeful, and Marc could think of nothing to counter it.

“I’ll be humiliated,” she added.

While decidedly ill-suited for this challenge, several would be displeased if this was handled poorly… This could undermine me entirely with the men…

“Rejected?” Marc asked. “Mademoiselle, I don’t even know you.”

How that statement led to a positive outcome would forever remain one of life’s great mysteries. It was the kindness in his voice, along with the use of mademoiselle, which showed a measure of respect. Many forgot that whores and courtesans were first and foremost women.

That was a reason why he did so well with his men. He was respectful and never took them for granted. Having gone through the ranks himself, he understood their plight, whereas few from his garrison had an idea of what he did as an officer.

“Then, why the theatrics?” Émilie asked.

Even as her tears subsided, she had to sniffle to keep from sounding congested. Those beautiful, blue eyes were red while her cheeks were puffy. Marc knew that he now walked on the knife’s edge.

“It’s never happened before,” Marc confessed. “I had no idea how to react and just…”

“Really? I’ve had fathers bring their sons here before… the boys were so hard, they nearly passed out.”

While he may not have reacted to her advances, that description warmed his ears. The smile she wore earlier returned, and she wiped her cheeks… We’re both red, but for entirely different reasons…

“So, why the surprise?” Marc asked to deflect from his own failings.

“Jean-Charles came to see me earlier in the day. He said that if you weren’t interested in Beatriz, then she was probably not your type.”

Émilie was using Adjudant Cornay’s Christian name. It certainly explained why he broached the subject on behalf of his men. Given the context, he saw why Émilie was chosen.

Cornay may have referred to Beatriz as exotic, with her sunburned skin, light curls in her black hair, dark brown eyes, and sharp facial features. Beatriz was, in fact exquisite, but she was not unique in that regard.

In contrast, Émilie stuck out as though she did not belong here. Her skin was pale, which meant she had to avoid long exposure to the sun. Her curly, blonde hair was nearly unheard of in these parts, and even those blue eyes were uncommon. The difference was that Cornay was from the Northern provinces, whereas Marc was practically a local.

Where Beatriz was thin, Émilie was plump and, in his opinion, better off for it. It gave her a regal look, and she could play the role far better than the Comtesse ever managed.

“I must say that he has excellent taste in women,” Marc said without realising how that might come across as flirting.

When her smile grew, his heart sank. He wondered if her game of cat and mouse was back on. Her gaze flowed down to his trousers, her dimpled smile faltered momentarily. At least her eyes were dry… for the moment…

“My apologies,” Marc said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“To what? You clearly aren’t interested…”

Is that true? Marc knew she was beautiful, and all those traits ought to make him rise to the occasion. Had they crossed paths on the street, Marc would have paid her no heed, just like Beatriz.

“First time?” Marc blurted out, genuinely curious if that excuse was valid.

His eyes widened upon realising how poorly he was handling this situation. Marc had to smooth this over with Émilie. Despite the awkward emotions brought on by this their interaction, he did wish to get to know her better.

“You really are a thick-headed—” Émilie snapped.

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine this happens often.”

“Well… there was that one guy who likes them young…”

Marc’s jaw muscles clenched while making a note to find out who. In times of war, such a man could be conscripted and sent to the front lines as cannon fodder. He would not stand idly by when those who could not defend themselves were robbed of their innocence.

“I’m sure this has nothing to do with you…”

He bit his cheek to keep from probing her for information. Even his reasoned mind agreed that he needed to address her feelings… I can’t discard them like the contents of a chamber pot…

“I suppose not…” Émilie admitted.

She moved in close and reached for his trousers. There was something in her eyes that was both playful and determined. While Marc was a tough nut to crack, the blonde was determined to have her way.

He pushed himself back and slammed into the backboard. His head hit hardest, leading them both to take a pause. While his head throbbed, the look on her face was purely emotive, as if she were experiencing the trauma herself.

That effectively ended her second attempt for tonight. She pouted and sat at a safe distance from him. Once the pain subsided, he realised that one of her breasts managed to escape the confines of her bodice. The way it hung there fascinated him.

“Can you even get aroused?”

“All the time,” Marc blurted, then cringed for speaking so freely. “Mornings usually, sometimes from a stiff breeze, but there’s no rhyme or reason to it.”

“But not for me?”

Marc let out the air from his lungs, unsure of how to answer. He supposed that this was a matter of pride for her… Leave it to me to find a way of soiling the reputation of a courtesan by not desecrating her…

“It’s not you,” Marc admitted.

While true, he struggled to define the cause. He knew for sure that men did nothing for him and was thankful that she did not broach the subject.

“I don’t know you… I’ve never been intimate with a woman before,” Marc began. “I’m shy, and must have had too much to drink…”

The latter appeared to have the most effect, even if it was unlikely. Marc never drank to excess, as a measure of self-control, but also as an example to others. Public intoxication and drunkenness were problems for the military and a threat to order and conduct.

“Really?”

“Certainly. I could easily see myself falling for you.”

“So, how am I going to get paid… if you can’t get it up?”

That was a good question, one easily solved by interpreting the conditions.

“They said that I had the room for the night.”

“So?”

“The bed is rather small… I guess we can just cuddle?”

Marc would have preferred to sleep on the floor, but wished to avoid further drama, especially if someone burst in… News of what didn’t happen would be worse than leaving…

“So, I get paid to do nothing?”

Those eyes opened wide, and her mouth gaped. If anything, this was turning out to be a memorable night.

“I’d like to get to know you better,” Marc admitted.

Marc got up, and removed his sword belt, followed by his coat. Every item was shed, piece by piece, in order, and neatly hung up or folded as required. The meticulous nature of his true self shone through.

“I think I can live with that.”

Once down to his linen shirt, he paused and smiled. This would be awkward for both of them. Still, he needed an outlet to let his thoughts flow. It was inappropriate to open up to his men, even Adjudant Cornay.

As he approached the bed, she moved over to the farthest edge and turned around to give him a view of her backside. It took them a while to get comfortable. Marc was unaccustomed to laying with a woman, especially with all that hair in his face.

They eventually found a comfortable position. Their bodies would keep them warm, even as the room cooled after sunset.

“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself, Émilie?”

CHAPTER 19

THE MORNING AFTER

Marc awoke with a start with no idea of where he was. That was unusual, because he normally greeted the day with a clear head, ready for a fight. However, his eyes were heavy, and his thoughts were muddled.

He forced his eyes open, revealing a head of curly, golden hair. When he tied in the sounds of deep breathing, and the warmth of her body, memories from last night flowed back to the forefront of his mind.

He remembered talking until the candle burned out. By then, the tavern had gone quiet. They didn’t realise they were being loud until someone pounded their fist against the wall. They carried on in whispers, like children keeping secrets from their parents.

It turned out that she, like Chabanel, was from Normandy. Land that France seceded to the conquering Norse… that goes a long way to explain her appearance…

It seemed that her life had taken an unexpected turn. She joined a travelling, theatre company, but was left behind when war broke out. Without family support, she had to sell the only thing she had of value… for food, shelter, and a pittance of pay…

He realised that he could not feel his left arm and attempted to extricate himself. That interrupted her breathing and soon, she rolled over to face him. Émilie smiled, and the dimples in her plump cheeks were positively radiant.

“Good morning,” Émilie said with a yawn. “Wait! Is it morning?”

That was a good question; fortunately, his mind had enough time to process his surroundings.

“Alas,” Marc began. “It is. The sun is shining through the east window, and I smell bread in the ovens.”

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Non… I’ll live. There are worse things in life than pushing through fatigue.”

The more memories that resurfaced from last night, the bigger his smile became. He rather enjoyed hearing about her life and family. It was the notion of growing up with a devoted mother and grandmother that intrigued him the most.

He also appreciated that she asked questions in turn and appeared to be interested in his responses. While uneducated, there was a thirst for knowledge… I’m sure her getting paid to sleep helped…

“I’m sure you have…” Émilie said.

Her eyes flowed down his bare chest and lingered between his legs. He guessed that given her vocation, the need for subtlety did not come up often. Her eyes widened, and she grinned. Her excitement was enough for Marc’s ears to burn.

“You scamp!” Émilie said. “All that talk about arousal last night and you’re stiff as a board.”

“Well… I need to pee…”

Marc got up, ignoring the cold from the boards radiating through his feet. He searched the room and found all he needed to relieve himself.

“Friendly advice… my Lord,” Émilie teased. “Erections are always attributed to the half-naked woman in the room.”

“Will…” – Marc stopped talking long enough to get a stream going – “…take that under advisement, mademoiselle.”

He was normally more discrete, but the push against his bladder would not tolerate a further delay… I hope she doesn’t mind…

When she said nothing in return, Marc added, “I should have said that my morning salute was solely for you.”

“Had you said that, you’d find out just how soft my lips are,” Émilie countered.

The image those words conjured caused Marc’s mind to wander, and he nearly missed the mark. Fortunately, he adjusted his aim in time, but not before she giggled. The light-hearted banter was reason enough for his cheeks to redden.

“I really enjoyed last night,” Marc said after failing to wipe the embarrassing grin from his face.

“So, did I.”

“Would you like to do this—”

“Absolutely.”

Marc wiggled himself dry and smiled shyly. She must have found his awkward mannerisms endearing, because she was out of bed and headed his way. Her hips swayed sensuously and even though her hair was matted, he saw only those blue eyes.

“I promise no pressure next time,” Émilie said. “What happens here will be our little secret.”

“I appreciate that.”

Before he could get dressed, she grabbed him by the hips and pulled him in. He looked down into her eyes. When it became obvious that he would not guess her intent, Émilie stood on the tips of her toes and pecked him on the lips.

She moved away, quick as a flash, intent on enjoying that warm bed for a while longer. He focused on the tingling sensation on his lips. This was the first time someone, other than a relative, kissed him… never on the lips…

CHAPTER 20

SOWING THE SEEDS

For the first few months, Marc saw Émilie a couple of times a week, unless the war got in the way. It was a new experience for him to have someone on his mind, and he rather enjoyed it. With every meeting, their conversations became more intimate.

None of his men would ever hear about his family life, and that was by necessity. Soldiers needed to focus on their duties, and lost faith once they realised their officer was damaged goods.

Due to skirmishes along the border, Marc was away for their third month. While they suffered losses, their successes in combat were noticed. As a result, they promoted him to the rank of capitaine, and they sent him a lieutenant to serve as his second.

The downtime associated with integrating fresh troops into their garrison gave him more time to be with Émilie. Given his rank and position, he also received a stipend for accommodations in town, which he used to secure her on a full-time basis.

Since he had all he needed from the service, Marc saw little value in money. Being with the woman he enjoyed spending time with, while freeing her from the horrors of prostitution, was seen as a win.

He supposed their arrangement suited her as well, because she remained true to her word. Émilie kept quiet about their secret and made no further attempt to force herself upon him. A part of him hoped that their friendship was built on more than the ability to make payments.

* * * *

Four months later, they celebrated his twenty-second birthday together. She wore her best dress, and the tavern brought up some of their best wine. It was fine, but he found it to be unusually sweet… What’s with the yellow dust?

Émilie was so beautiful that night as they dined with the men. He considered hinting that she take the lead tonight, but the war weighed heavily on his mind… It would ruin the mood…

Both sides were taking heavy losses, and there was talk of committing large numbers for a decisive battle. When they returned to her room, Marc confessed that he feared war might one day arrive at their doorstep.

“Why would it come here?”

“This strip of land has been a part of Spain longer than in our hands.”

“How do you know?”

She was busy making a flower arrangement at the table. Given the importance of the day, those blooming branches were a fitting addition.

“They use the Spanish pronunciation and spelling of the town’s name,” Marc replied. “That and the location of our garrison.”

“What do you mean?”

Marc was about to answer when he realised Émilie left little to the imagination tonight. While she wore only her bustier during their initial visits to keep up appearances of being sexually involved, they soon learned that no one cared what they did behind closed doors… When did she get out of that dress?

“It’s…” Marc began.

His eyes flowed over the alabaster skin of her legs, arms, and shoulders and marvelled at her beauty. There was a scent permeating the air, although he was not certain if she was the source, or the flowers… Is that lavender?

“…facing the wrong way. They built the fortification to prevent us taking this town,” Marc finished.

Émilie cocked her head to the side, pursed her lips, and looked up at the ceiling. He was not sure why, but there was something alluring about that pose.

“There’s nothing to stop the Spanish from raiding the town?”

“Other than my garrison?” Marc replied. “We’ve sentries posted on the outskirts for that reason… what’s that?”

“What? Oh. These? I found them blooming near the tavern.”

That came as a surprise since Marc had not come across those trees here. Back home, they grew on the grounds of the Keep.

“A tree associated with Aphrodite, goddess of love and fertility,” Marc said.

That tyd bit came courtesy of his mother. She loved to broaden his horizon, including going over the history of trees within the Keep.

“Really?” Émilie said. “Well, I wouldn’t know about such things…”

This was her way of downplaying her intellect. Marc liked to challenge her on occasion and found her to be quick witted and adept at absorbing new material… She also uses that line to change the subject…

By the time Émilie was done, she had woven the branches into a blossoming wreath. Pleased with her work, she put it on as though it was a crown. Despite her skilled hands, the process littered the tabletop with tiny, white petals.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Marc asked.

“My grandmother taught me… It only works with green wood.”

“It’s lovely,” Marc said, but before the glow in those blue eyes faded, he added, “It complements your beauty.”

“You’re getting better at extracting that foot from your mouth…”

“A blue-eyed angel showed me the way.”

For a moment, Émilie’s face went slack, but she recovered quickly. It happened so fast that Marc questioned if he imagined it.

“I have a surprise for you,” Émilie said. “Close your eyes…”

This was not the first time she had done something like this, so he complied without question. He closed his eyes and felt her warm lips against his. The tingling sensation that followed spread throughout his body.

“That’s for playing along,” Émilie said after taking a quick breath. “Now, stick out your tongue.”

She placed something sticky and sweet at the tip of his tongue. He guessed it was one of those flowers.

“Swallow,” Émilie commanded.

When Marc did as he was asked, she kissed him again, but with more vigour. She pressed against his lips, and he followed her lead. Being greeted by her tongue was something entirely new for him. He was tempted to back away, but she held firm until the awkward dance came to an end.

Émilie pulled back and reached for the open bottle of wine. He noticed how this bottle was also dusty like the ones below… I wonder why the dust is yellow…

The blonde filled the glass to the brim, revealing white flowers swirling within. It reminded him of being out at sunset during the tail end of a snowstorm. The fiery sky was superimposed with white specks falling from the heavens.

She took a sip and moaned as the rare vintage interacted with her tongue. Marc noted her subtle smile, one that urged him to surrender himself to her. While such overtures were common, the fact it influenced him was new.

“Is this part of the surp—” Marc asked.

She pressed her index finger against his lips. He would have normally challenged her, but that thought was quickly suppressed. Tonight, he imagined wrapping his lips around her finger while suckling on the tip.

“Drink,” Émilie repeated.

Without question, he did as asked, the flowers enhancing the flavour of this wine. It was a delightful change from the swill they normally indulged in.

“…all of it,” Émilie pressed as Marc was about to pull away.

Marc hesitated, long enough to catch his breath. He was hot, to the point of perspiration building along his brow. His breathing was rapid and shallow. Somehow, all of this led to a growing discomfort in his trousers, so Marc adjusted himself to permit his little soldier to come to attention.

The smile upon Émilie’s lips grew tenfold. A small voice in the back of his head picked up on the change and sought to raise the alarm, but his inhibitions were nowhere to be found.

This time, when she kissed him, he responded without hesitation. Their tongues met once more on the dance floor, even as his heart went at a gallop. The longer they kissed, the more he wanted her to take the lead, but when he reached for her waist, Émilie pushed his hands away.

Instead, the blonde reached between his legs and found her prize. She wrapped her hand around his iron rod and felt Marc moan through his lips. Émilie pulled back from their kiss, but Marc yearned for more.

She grabbed him by the shoulders, preventing him from tipping over entirely. By this point, his eyes were half-closed, and his shirt was drenched with sweat. She pushed him back on the chair and Marc remained like that without protest, as though caught between the dream realm and the waking world.

Émilie unbuttoned his shirt to expose his muscular chest with the sparse hair. She ran her tongue from between his pectorals down to his belly button. As expected, there was no response…

“Good boy,” Émilie said. “Why don’t we get you to bed…”

Like a good, little soldier, he complied, and would have no memory of doing so.

CHAPTER 21

COMFORTABLY NUMB

Marc found himself in a dark room. It was not like having the curtains drawn on a gloomy day; instead, the space was devoid of substance and stimuli.

He felt lightheaded and weightless as though floating on a pocket of air. Given the impossibility of his situation, this must have been a vivid dream… What else could it be?

He was comfortably numb and rather enjoyed it. His life revolved around the demands placed upon him. This opportunity to disconnect, even for a short while, was welcomed.

There came a moan from beyond the tenebrous depths of the room. The sound reverberated, making it seem like it came from every direction. That moan was guttural, primal even. That sound conveyed a sense of need, a burning desire that could not be quenched.

Another came, and this time, he found the source. Before his eyes appeared the outline of a woman. Both her hands were pressed firmly against his chest, a pair of generous breasts swaying rhythmically back and forth.

This was followed by her ample hips and bare shoulders. The longer he looked, the more detail appeared. First, came her milky-white skin covered in sweat, followed by the curly, blonde hair, swaying in unison with those generous mounds.

Émilie’s eyes were closed, and she was biting her lower lip as though relishing every movement. Those curvaceous hips moved back and forth, grinding over an area his muddled mind could not fathom.

As her pace quickened, those moans were joined by another set. These were delayed, muted, and lower in timber… How’s all of this so vivid?

As pressure built along his cock, he knew what to expect. Émilie continued to grind even as he came. Her nails dug into his chest, and the moan that escaped her lips was akin to a scream.

The fact that she would not stop made him aware of how sensitive his little soldier was. When masturbating, he always paused until that feeling of euphoric release faded away. Only then would he clean the mess or try for another.

Even as he felt himself deflate, Émilie continued to ride him. Before the stimulation became unbearable, her hips stopped in mid-motion, and she collapsed over top of him. By then, Marc’s mind was back in that dark room, comfortably numb.

CHAPTER 22

THE HANGOVER

Marc awoke to the pervasive scent of soap and lavender. He did not realise he was in Émilie’s room until he opened his eyes. The morning light filtering through the windows created halos in his vision… I must have…

“Overslept,” Marc whispered.

The sound of his voice made him wince. His forehead throbbed, and his jaw muscles bulged while working through the pain. Marc rarely drank to excess… I can’t even remember how I got here…

Asleep at his side, Émilie’s breathing was slow and deep. That was not unusual, since she loved to sleep until the sun was at its apex… There’s no such luxury for a soldier…

He looked down and realised that he was naked, which caused a fragment of a memory to resurface. It was a dreamlike view of her breasts swaying back and forth. While powerful, it proved to be fleeting.

He also spotted some bruising along his chest, eight evenly spaced points with two bigger bruises nearer to his belly. This confused Marc, leaving him to wonder if he ran into a deformed pitchfork… How else would I end up with marks like this?

He passed his hand through his hair, and the scent of lavender overpowered his senses. He sniffed his forearm and wrinkled his nose… I’m the source?

They were well into the forenoon, and that meant his absence was noticed. Out of time, Marc turned around and set eyes on her pale cheeks.

Another fleeting fragment surfaced, one of her biting her lower lip. While he had no idea how that image was conjured, Marc thoroughly enjoyed the imagery. Aroused, he kissed her cheek before rolling to the side of the bed.

His movements stirred her awake. She stretched her arms, which allowed the sheet covering her chest to roll off. Marc focused on those blue eyes fluttering open.

“Good morning,” Marc whispered.

“Morning? Already?”

Her voice drove a red-hot spike into his skull. He closed his eyes and reached for his temples while fighting through the throbbing pain.

“Pardonnez-moi,” Émilie whispered. “You passed out after the second bottle… I should’ve guessed from all that snoring that you’d have a hangover.”

“De rien. I’ve been through worse…”

While her statement tied up the loose ends, the fragments from earlier did not fit into the puzzle. Still, the angelic smile on those lips made him forget about the torment he was about to subject himself to.

“You’ll have to compliment the proprietor on his choice of vintage,” Marc added.

Her smile drooped for a fraction of a second but given the hangover, he missed it entirely. Instead, he went to kiss her soft lips.

“I’ll do that,” Émilie said.

“I should get dressed…”

Émilie surprised him by springing up from the bed.

“I’ll help.”

“I can manage?”

“Oh! I want to ease your troubles this morning.”

She went to the table that was covered in those little, sticky flowers and grabbed his shirt from the back of the chair. When she faced him, he noticed a crusty substance between her legs that matted the hairs on her patch.

She noticed where his eyes were focused and glanced down to see if he would rise to the occasion. When it became clear the gaze was genuine curiosity, her smile faded.

“We kissed last night…” Émilie said.

That explained the reason for his lips tingling.

“…I enjoyed it…” Émilie added.

While a compliment, that did not explain—

“…so, I played with myself…” Émilie explained.

The way her voice trailed, and the blood flushed through those pale cheeks was all he needed. The story accounted for the moaning in his dreams. Given the awkwardness of her confession, Marc had no desire to push the matter.

He turned around once Émilie neared, and she helped to put his shirt on. It smelled clean and was still damp as though it had been freshly laundered. He glanced around the room, but nothing else appeared affected by the morning dew.

Still, he dismissed his suspicions as the byproduct of a mind muddled by a hangover. If she truly enjoyed a kiss, as he had, then there was hope for more. He thought about confessing this to her, but reasoned otherwise… I’ll surprise her by taking her in my arms and kissing her…

“Thank you,” Marc said when she handed him his sword and belt.

He adorned them with a skilled hand and smiled warmly. There was something about her that left him free to open up, while yearning to taste those lips again.

When Marc saw dark patches under her eyes, her dimpled smile faded. He moved forward and kissed her cheeks. She smiled meekly. Marc figured that his snoring kept her up all night.

“Get some rest,” Marc said. “I’ll make sure they leave you alone.”

Émilie nodded, but remained where she was. Marc lingered for a fraction of a second, wishing to stay but he was already late. He turned around sharply and marched out, intent on fighting through this day with his head held high.

CHAPTER 23

CHANGE OF PLANS

It was said that plans do not survive first contact with the enemy. In truth, it applied just as well to life. When he claimed his birthright to ease the life of those toiling under the shadow of the Keep, war forced him to cede control to Bertrand… They’re probably better off with him…

His intent to move ahead with Émilie became an afterthought after arriving at the garrison. The place was a hive of activity, which only happened when preparing for something big.

He found Adjudant Cornay on the grounds and confirmed they received orders early in the morning. Cornay saw fit to begin preparations, even if details had to wait for Marc.

By the evening, three-quarters of the garrison were on the move, with Marc leading. What remained was headed by the Lieutenant, and Sergeant Séez who was one of the town’s favoured sons.

Those left behind were primarily green troops, save for the two fighting over the same woman. It appeared that she was pregnant, and neither knew for sure who the father was. The last thing Marc needed were soldiers distracted in the heat of battle… Besides, the locals won’t appreciate my sending a prospective father to war…

For the next three months, they were attached to a brigade. While he loathed to admit it, cavalry and artillery did have their uses. Hand-to-hand combat may have been the bread and butter of soldiers, but dealing with the enemy before they were a threat, saved their lives several times over.

Whenever he had a moment’s peace, normally an hour after sunset, thoughts swayed to Émilie. Elements of that dream lingered in his mind, and Marc enjoyed how it elicited a response. On rare occasions when he had a measure of privacy, Marc focused on that vision to find sweet relief.

War was not for the distracted, and doubly so on the front lines. So, he kept his thoughts to himself, while maintaining the air of a model officer. He was the man that knew not hunger, fatigue, or ennui, even if all three applied… The men need to see me as a source of strength, not as a liability…

After a difficult skirmish, they lost Sergeant Chabanel and half of his men. That night, they grieved in silence, breaking it only to toast with liberated wine to the fallen. True to form, les Moires had other plans for them.

They received orders that night. The main force of the French and Spanish armies would meet further north. Spies brought word that a large raid was planned on the town his garrison defended. Because of the planned offensive, they could not augment Marc’s forces. The most chilling detail was how the Major phrased the order.

“You’ll hold your position… down to the last man.”

Given that spies forecasted infantry, and heavy cavalry as the opposition, Marc knew what was expected of them. We must delay the Spanish long enough for our army to claim victory and sweep in from the north to deal with what’s left…

Without any time to waste, they broke away from the brigade under the cover of the night and marched until the sun set the following day. While the men were motivated to defend the town, they could only be pushed so far. Either way, he would rather march through town with rested troops in the late afternoon, than drag walking corpses along in the morning… For this to work, I’ll need everyone in top shape…

CHAPTER 24

WAR AT THEIR DOOR

Warning, oxygen levels at 10.6% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“Shortly after our arrival into town, I gave the men the rest of the day off.”

That permitted Marc and his senior personnel to run over their options to formulate a plan. By the late evening, they had something cobbled together, but they lacked the manpower to execute it. For this plan to work, I wanted townspeople to willingly assist…

Before dismissing his men, he urged them to grab a meal and rest. However, Sergeant Séez hung back…

* * * *

“Very well,” Marc said after confirming there were no further points to address. “Dismissed.”

The men stood up, came to attention, and looked straight at Marc. He stiffened in response and nodded. They stepped off into a march, grabbing their headgear on the way out; however, Séez lingered by the door.

“Is something wrong?” Marc asked.

“Émilie has been asking about you.”

Marc held his breath upon hearing the name. It took all he had to keep himself from smiling, but given the monumental task ahead, Marc had to remain focused.

“I think she’d appreciate it if you dropped by tonight,” Séez added when Marc did not register why her name came up.

“Oh…”

He wanted to see her again, but this plan had to be fleshed out by the morning. He owed it to his men and to the townspeople to take this matter seriously… If only I could stop time…

“I’d love to…” Marc replied. “But I don’t have a moment to spare. Can you convey my regrets?”

The Sergeant went to say something but thought better of it. Instead, he came to attention, and saluted.

“Oui, mon Capitaine.”

“Merci,” Marc said as his Sergeant closed the door behind him.

* * * *

Warning, oxygen levels at 10.7% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“To my surprise, the town was eager to help.”

He finished carving in the last letter dealing with the preparations made to defend the town.

“Before we finished saying, ‘Good morning,’ the town elders agreed to assist us,” Marc said. “They considered us to be a part of their community.”

The town was a whirlwind of activity for three days and nights. By the end, Frisian horses were built and placed at key locations. Their high frame and sharp edges ensured any cavalryman foolish enough to jump them would end up bloody… or worse…

Meanwhile, they dug into the hillside, concealing trenches and traps with deadfall and loose hay. The hill gave them high ground, which was a tactical advantage. The obstacles and traps they laid down would hopefully deter any attempt to flank them.

Marc and a small group of men would stand their ground near the crest of the hill. He made sure they had plenty on hand to give the Spanish a warm welcome.

Just past the hill there was the town, with four heavy mortar emplacements and their best marksmen. While the plan was sound, they were spread thin.

“We had to assume the Spanish outnumbered us. What we didn’t know was the ratio.”

Warning, oxygen levels at 10.7% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

Marc paused, memories of that battle further solidified in his mind. The imagery was so strong that he tasted brimstone in the air. While the memory reawakened his emotions, like a good soldier, Marc suppressed them.

“We found out that night…”

* * * *

“That doesn’t look promising,” Marc said.

They stood at the crest of the hill overlooking the fields outside of town. All along the treeline there were lights from dozens of campfires. Every so often, the glow was interrupted by soldiers passing ahead of the flames.

“I’d say anywhere from ninety and one-forty men,” Cornay said.

“At worst, there are five of them to one of us,” Marc began. “It’s not too late to back out now.”

“And miss out on all the fun, mon Capitaine?”

Against infantry with the high ground, they stood a chance to man-to-man. However, cavalry negated the advantage.

The horses neighing in the night were like hearing wolves howling during a full moon. Setting camp this close to the town served as a warning… Flee while you still can, or you’ll be dead by noon…

“When do you expect they’ll make their advance, Adjudant?” Marc asked.

“I’d say an hour after first light,” Cornay replied. “They’ll want their men well rested and won’t be in a rush as there is no expectation of reinforcements.”

“Plenty of time to win before their siesta.”

“Well, that’s their plan…”

They were alone, so his Adjutant was free to speak his mind. The fact he was hinting that the enemy would miss their deadline showed his faith in their course of action.

“I aim to teach them a lesson,” Marc quipped.

“One they’ll never forget.”

“Quite right. Have our Lieutenant arrange sentries for the night from those remaining at the garrison. As soon as they see activity, they raise the alarm and withdraw to the garrison.” Marc mulled over the details and added, “The Lieutenant shall let the townspeople in if they ask for shelter during the battle.”

Marc had no desire to throw the Lieutenant into the thick of things. He would have other opportunities to test his resolve… after this battle is won.

CHAPTER 25

OUT FROM THE WOODS

Marc sat upon his horse, Arès, as the Spaniards showed signs of life. They had been there since first light, in the morning drizzle. It was fortunate that patches of blue were appearing in the sky… It looks like the sun will claim its rightful place in the heavens…

As expected, no one opened fire. It was common for commanders to meet prior to a battle to give their foe a chance to withdraw, or to get under their skin. He knew the Spanish expected this to be an easy victory, and he might have felt the same had the tables been turned.

“From your left quarter, mon Capitaine,” Cornay said.

He spotted three silhouettes of horses breaking through the woods. Arès was an enormous horse, but nothing compared to what the Spanish heavy cavalry had… The bigger they are…

“Coronel,” Marc said to recognise the senior officer on the field.

The senior officer’s eyes flowed from top to bottom of the Frenchman. The Coronel with thin hair, sunburned skin, and a waxed moustache smirked. Rank often denoted the size of force they commanded… he has at least three equivalent to me serving under him…

“Capitàn,” the man said.

There was disappointment oozing from that word. As though facing a capitaine and his men was beneath him… I’ll see that you regret underestimating my men…

“Are you here to surrend—” the senior officer asked.

“You were right, Adjudant,” Marc said.

“How’s that, mon Capitaine?” Cornay asked.

“Almost exactly an hour after first light was when they showed signs of life. It seems you won the bet.” Marc focused directly on the senior officer and added, “I wagered that you’d be up after your afternoon nap.”

While the Coronel’s second nearly cracked a smile, his superior was not pleased. Worse still was the third officer…

“How dare you address Coronel Rafael Arnáiz Barón—” the third said.

Breaking with protocol was frowned upon, but Marc wanted to be in their thoughts as they charged up the hill towards them… Focus on me and ignore the men at my side…

“Funny man, Capitàn,” Barón said before spitting at the ground.

It would take a lot more than that to rile Marc. Unlike his counterpart, he came from the ranks. That insult barely qualified as a warmup.

“We could do this like men,” Marc said. “Draw swords, while the winner claims victory.”

The second betrayed his thoughts, namely by jerking his head back an inch, whereas the third reached for his sword. Marc wondered if that man had any grounding in reality… simply an eye to kiss his superior’s ass…

The Coronel raised his hand to stop his third. If not for the second’s hard stare, that welp might have disobeyed orders.

“Are you that desperate, Capitàn?” Barón asked.

“Are you afraid to face me, Coronel?” Marc countered. “I’m feeling generous; since not everyone is adept with a blade, I’m up for pistols at fifteen paces.”

“No,” the Coronel said.

There were better ways of refusing a challenge to his honour. The way his second’s eyes widened indicated the response was more surprising than the offer. Marc suspected that given enough drinks and an informal setting, he would speak ill of Barón… It paints him as a coward, unwilling to fight without an army…

“Very good, Coronel,” Marc said. “We’ll wait for you at the top of the hill. Assuming you don’t need a siesta at the half-way mark.”

They casually turned their horses and trotted away. Once they were out of musket range, they sent their horses into a gallop.

In the background, he heard bickering in Spanish. While he could not discern all that was said, two words registered well enough.

“They sounded pissed…” Cornay said.

“I think the Coronel wanted to shoot us in the back.”

“Really?”

“Do you know of any other reasons why the words ‘cold’ and ‘blood’ are used in that order?” Marc asked.

He kept his eyes focused on the way ahead. Their men placed broken sticks along the safe path leading to the crest. As long as they kept to the left of them, they were fine.

“That’ll work to our advantage,” Marc added.

“How so?”

“Talking about shooting us in the back before the battle paints him as a coward…”

“Do you think they’ll fight for him?”

“A soldier must, but they won’t die for him.”

CHAPTER 26

CONTACT

Marc figured Barón was not known for being a creative strategist. Such a mind would not have announced his presence the night prior… I’d light decoy fires using a handful of men…

The first to exit the treeline were the soldiers, with muskets in hand, and bayonets affixed. They marched out neatly in line, remaining in step until the soft ground from the morning rain bogged them down.

Marc admired the determination of both the soldiers and those who kept them in line. Even when one stumbled, others pulled him up to remain in formation. Their drummer boy was something else… That terrain has no effect on him…

From his vantage point Marc caught movement from within the woods. The large outline of horses indicated the calvary was moving into position. That meant the Coronel’s soldiers were a diversion until the cavalry swept in to wreak havoc… We’re nothing more than a speck of dirt in the eyes of a cavalryman…

When the soldiers were about a third of the way up the hill, Marc nodded to his Adjudant. After counting down from three, they raised their swords in the air.

Seconds after the signal was made, there came a muffled blast. As the heavy mortar flew up high in the sky, eight Frenchmen popped out from out of their trenches and fired their muskets.

Several distinctive cracks reached him after three Spaniards fell. Before the enemy could respond, the mortar making a dull drumming sound combined with the whistling fuse buried itself. Three seconds later, the steel casing packed with black powder blew, sending dirt, rock, and shrapnel everywhere.

Had this been a direct hit, or even an air bust, the mortar would have decimated the ranks. At his count, an additional three fell, two of whom managed to get back on their feet.

“The fuse was too long,” Marc said.

The Adjutant broke rank and relayed the message to a volunteer on horseback. When the man rode off to relay the message, another swept in from town to relay an order if needed.

By the time smoke and dust cleared from the mortar, the men who fired were already higher up the hill. Their orders were simple: strike, run, and find cover within the next trench… A tactic that won’t work for long…

In accordance with his orders, a second mortar was launched almost exactly two minutes after the first exploded. Both teams were provided with hourglasses. They would alternate firing their mortars until Marc ordered otherwise.

While mortars were invaluable as weapons of terror, they had a finite amount of powder and shells. Given a protracted battle, they would use them sparingly, but Marc had no intention of leaving anything behind for the Spanish to use against a French counterattack… I’m not the one that has to pay to replenish the stocks…

As the infantry broke into a run, the heavy cavalry popped out of the treeline and split into two groups. Doctrine called for them to circle around Marc’s position and attack his flanks. If they timed it right, the infantry and cavalry would strike at the same time, forcing Marc to defend himself from three sides. It’s a good thing the hill is littered with traps…

There came the sounds of musket fire from town. Marc guessed that a smaller team composed primarily of cavalry circled around with plans to attack his position from the rear. Fortunately, Marc planned for this eventuality and his men were putting up a heavy resistance.

Since horses would not risk jumping over the wooden barriers, they had to advance on foot. Sėez will see that they are torn to shreds if they try…

Before the cavalry reached the mid-way point, a mortar struck. This time, it rained fire and metal fragments over the battlefield. Several soldiers were left behind, soaking the soil in blood.

As the wind swept over the fields, he picked up the acrid scent of brimstone. Despite the smoke burning his nostrils, sulphur was an old friend. Neither he nor his men outwardly reacted to it. They stood there stoically, as smoke rolled over them, taunting their opponent.

The group of horsemen on his right shot past the Spanish infantry, racing up the hill. Without being prompted, eight Frenchmen popped out of their trenches and fired another volley. Four horses crashed to the ground, with three riders sent over top. Another rider was pinned beneath the dead weight of his mount.

As the left wing broke up to deal with the threat, another volley came, much quicker than the enemy expected. Marc made sure excess muskets were left loaded in the trenches. When another mortar crashed to the ground, the men left their trenches with both muskets in hand.

Marc’s heart raced, because there was nothing he could do to aid his men. Even with a mortar going off, two were cut down before reaching cover.

The contents of his stomach sank at the sight of his men sacrificing their lives to save this town. He wanted very much to send everything he had at them, but had to wait… They’ll live to rue this day…

Four made it up to the crest and reinforced the positions at the edge of town. The cavalry gave up their chase when two horses, replete with riders, fell into a concealed pit. Marc knew that neither the men nor their horses would make it out alive.

Another two of his men found refuge within the trenches. While not ideal, they would strike given the opportunity, or pay with their lives.

Given their heavy losses, the advanced wing of cavalry rejoined those moving up on his left. Even combined, they were less than half their original number. Marc noticed a few stallions retreating into the woods, riderless, brought on by a vain attempt to jump over the Frisian horses.

His men already exceeded all expectations, but they were still heavily outnumbered. Heading the combined wave was the Coronel himself. The man didn’t dare to lead the main charge…

Marc watched as the horses gained ground. Once the riders were two-thirds up the hill, the remaining sharpshooters fired from the rear. One was struck by musket fire from the Spanish infantry, while the other got away by using the terrain. The soldier would circle back and rejoin those defending the town.

Behind him, the sounds of musket fire subsided. A messenger might have some news, but they were out of time.

Cornay motioned to the rider to head back. He turned around and rode hard towards the city, stopping only to warn his replacement. Within a couple of minutes, this would be the front line.

The mortars went quiet, permitting the men a brief respite from the barrage… Let them taste victory on the tips of their tongues…

The remaining Spanish soldiers sped up, rallying behind the Coronel and the sight of their heavy cavalry nearing the crest. Marc raised his sword into the air, and his men did the same. The steel from their sabres shone in the diffused sunlight.

Just as suddenly, he sheathed his blade and reached for a large, iron ball and a stick near his feet. Every soldier repeated his motions, doing so without verbal commands to prevent the enemy discerning what was going on.

He raised the stick up high, sending wisps of smoke from the fusing sailing through the air. He lit the mortar’s fuse and lobbed it down the hill. Ten iron shells filled with black powder were sent rolling down the slope.

Without waiting for the blast, he grabbed another mortar with a shorter fuse. By the time he gripped it in his hands, two blasts registered. Fuses were notoriously inaccurate, but they might have picked the wrong one by mistake.

Five seconds later, the rest went off in rapid succession, creating a wall of shrapnel that caught horses in their blast… I hear the screams…

The barrage of lobbed mortar rounds served as a signal to resume the heavy mortar strikes. This time, both launchers were fired in near synchronicity. The risk was high; if they failed to dampen the barrel well enough, the powder might ignite as they loaded the weapon. If that happened, so be it… They’ll hold their heads up high when they meet Saint Peter…

They lobbed another ten iron balls down the hill. While not intentional, their detonation coincided with the mortars. The impact at this range sent a blast wave washing over him… even the earth trembles…

There were another two rounds at his feet, but he had no time to deploy them. He picked up both, judged the distances, and dropped the one with the longest fuse. There were risks, but they would not win this day without putting his life on the line.

The thunderous sound of horses at full gallop reminded him of heavy hail against a clay roof. He knew his men, and they trusted him, so they stood fast as the enemy barrelled down on them.

He took a knee, and they did the same, lighting their fuses without being prompted. Marc saw the fog exhaled by the horses. After holding his charge for a second, he threw the mortar. Marc drew his sabre, his gaze fixed on the approaching cavalry.

A man he knew as Thiron turned into a pink mist. Marc clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look ahead… We’ll mourn him and the others after this battle is done!

Two mortar rounds buried themselves into the ground twenty-paces ahead of the Spanish infantry. Several were cut down in the ensuing blasts, bathing the grass in blood. Their throws caused several cavalrymen to be greeted by a face full of shrapnel. At worst, the Spanish forces were below half their original number… That bastard still hasn’t been knocked off his mount!

The Coronel must have realised who was holding the line. Barón buried his spurs into the horse’s side. The animal bolted towards them with the second and third following close behind. As Marc hoped, the officers leading this charge were focused on him.

Ten…

When Marc yelled and ran into the fray, so did his men. The bizarre sight of infantry rushing cavalry defied reason. Two riders even slowed down, unsure of what was going on. By then, the Coronel was beyond rational thought.

Nine…

Marc pulled out his double-barrelled pistol.

Eight…

He aimed at that snotty, third officer’s horse and fired.

Seven…

The shot left behind a puff of smoke while the lead ball struck the horse dead in the chest… Still about an inch too high…

Six…

He spun the barrel to line up a fresh shot and holstered the pistol.

Five…

With the horses nearly upon them, Marc stopped cold with knees bent.

Four…

He launched himself sideways to get out of the way.

Three…

Marc dropped to his knees.

Two…

He adjusted his pose until the sabre protruded out his side while using his opposing arm to brace his blade. Every man had a patch of rawhide sewn into their uniforms to make this possible.

One…

It was too late for them to back out. As the rider swung down with their sword, Marc bowed. The end effect was as surprising for the soldiers as it was for the riders, because neither knew how this would end.

When the horse’s legs met the curved blade, it sliced through fur, skin, muscle, and sinew to strike bone. While most swords could do this, the curved blade did not embed itself in the bone.

The horse dropped, sending the Coronel over top. Still holding the reins, the man landed on his back on the muddy soil. All told, Marc managed to dismount two cavalry officers in less than a minute.

Several had done the same, although Brébeuf lost his head during the attempt. They were down to eight men holding the line.

Marc regained his footing, taking in a measure of where he stood. Smoke saturated the air; it was so thick that he could barely see past fifty paces. The sound of galloping horses surrounded him, but their numbers were lost in the chaos.

After the initial encounter, the cavalry had been cut in half, pushing left and right of his men over the crest. The heavy smoke worked in their favour, sending several riders and horses hurtling into Frisian horses, followed by a ditch reinforced with wooden spikes.

It took everything he had to maintain composure as horse and rider were impaled. The sickening sounds even led his stomach to do somersaults. He swallowed down the bile, as the Coronel got back on his feet.

Such an impact would have taken the wind out of anyone, but fury fueled Barón’s miraculous recovery. Marc’s arm was sore from the impact of his blade with the horse, and there was a visible gouge in the steel, but he was in good form… I’m still more than a match for him…

They stared each other down, circling as they approached. Before Marc could engage, another wave of horsemen broke through the smoke. The second officer was headed right for him, whereas another went straight for Cornay.

Marc took aim and fired his last round. The crack caused his Adjutant to turn back as the horse dropped dead, inches away from him.

Out of time, Marc dropped to his knees, as something knocked his hat off and ruffled his hair… A bit more and I’d have gotten a shave!

He swung his blade, but it was too late. Even through all that chaos, there came screaming from behind. With a practised pose, he blocked the attack using his sabre, an impact that would surely leave a red welt running down his back.

Marc rolled out of the way for a second attack, and quickly found his footing. There was a distorted smile upon that face, red with anger… not to mention those dead eyes…

By his count, Marc saw Barón not once but thrice, with all three incantations charging him with a sword drawn.

Their blades sparked on contact. Marc easily evaded the next attack, focusing on the image at the centre. While Barón made a powerful swing, Marc parried to distance himself. Once more, they circled one another, searching for a weakness.

Marc was not about to leave an opening, but les Moires had a way of intervening. A powerful drumming approached from the town, loud enough to tempt Marc in covering his ears. He watched as his opponent’s face paled upon realising what was going on.

A mortar fell from out of the heavens and buried itself deep into the ground about thirty paces away. Both were transfixed on this unwelcome guest. This weapon of terror went off, sending both men hurtling through the air. Marc was unconscious before he slammed into the ground.

CHAPTER 27

CONSCIOUSNESS

Marc?” Émilie asked.

Marc was dreaming of walking through a mountain pass near the Keep. Émilie’s voice tore through the landscape, like a stone falling into a still pond.

His mind transitioned from a serene landscape from his childhood, to Émilie straddling him, those breasts swaying back and forth. Once she came into focus, Marc decided that he rather enjoyed the change.

“I’m here for you,” Émilie added.

The disjointed dialogue perplexed him. Doubly so when he realised those words did not originate from ahead… How can she be in two places at once?

Then came a warm, soft, and gentle caress of her hand… How’s that possible if they’re both on my chest?

However, as Émilie hummed a sweet lullaby, the world before him was flooded in white light.

* * * *

“Marc?” Émilie repeated.

He opened his eyes cautiously and was met with a blinding light. Shortly thereafter, he noticed there was a persistent ringing in his ears. It was as though an opera singer was holding a high note for too long… I really wish she’d take a bow…

A sharp pain along his forehead was next. Those symptoms ought to worry him, but this was not the first time he was knocked unconscious… Am I out of danger?

“There you are,” Émilie said.

While those words were whispered, the oscillation in her voice coincided with spikes of pain. He imagined someone was hammering his skull into a log.

“Where—” Marc asked.

The tearing in his throat stopped him cold, like calling out drill commands for too long. The taste of iron in his mouth hinted there was more to it.

“Oh, you must want some water.”

He shut his eyes tightly and clenched his jaw when her hand reached the back of his head. The pain lingered, even after a few soothing sips of water and his head was back on the pillow. Unlike his headache, this pain had a memory, and heat radiated from that area… That must have been a nasty hit…

“Merci,” Marc whispered.

The pain in his throat persisted; it was bearable, but he needed answers. With some effort, he turned towards her voice to find a blonde and porcelain skinned blur.

He was disappointed for not seeing those deep blue eyes but managed a meek smile. Marc’s body was not entirely his own, and it had nothing to do with her.

“I was worried,” Emilie said. “Your men said it was quite the battle. Many of us were afraid to leave our homes until they said it was over.”

“Win?”

Marc preferred not to make assumptions. How devastating it would be to find out days later than he was in a cell… They did outnumber us…

“Jean-Charles (Cornay) said their commander was killed when that mortar went off,” Émilie said. “Apparently, your men rallied to you, while the Spaniards sounded a general retreat.”

That was good news. While they were vulnerable, his Adjudant would make sure they shored up their defences… assuming we have enough men to go around…

“How did—” Marc asked.

He narrowed his gaze on Émilie’s dimples, her rosy cheeks, those blue eyes, and her welcoming lips. Had his head not weighed a ton, he might have leaned forward for a kiss.

“He also said that several townspeople helped get you to safety,” Émilie added.

That was good news. While commendable, he would have been disappointed to hear that his men left their posts to help him. He was just one man, and battles were a question of numbers.

“Head… hurts,” Marc whispered.

“Oh! I…let me get you another pillow.”

Judging by the sound of wood sliding over the floor, Émilie must have gotten up from a chair. Where she normally wore a bustier, this morning it was just a slip. As she headed towards the doors, she walked into the sunlight.

As the light shone through the sheer material, it showed him the outline of her exaggerated hourglass figure. He smiled at the sight of her, but his smile faded when she turned. Her normally flat tummy was rounder and enlarged.

It had been three months since he last saw Émilie. She had no other clients, nor had they ever been intimate. So, reason took the path of least resistance… A bit of weight looks good on her…

CHAPTER 28

REAP WHAT YOU SOW

Cornay came to visit him on the second day. The man had dark bags under his eyes and his face was gaunt. The strain of stitching together an effective defence was taking its toll.

They lost thirteen men in a single battle. Séez was shot in the chest when they tried to take the city from the east. Without any sergeants, Cornay was effectively alone to manage all planning and coordination.

They did have promising soldiers in their ranks; however, men were like wine: they needed time to age to mature into the roles… I would have made a terrible officer had I joined as a vicomte…

The Lieutenant was also wounded, although they appeared to be self-inflicted. Marc made a note to address the matter as soon as he could.

What was suspiciously missing from the report were signs of the French counterattack. That could be interpreted in many ways. The most likely was that the battle was lost, or their forces suffered heavy losses in securing a victory… Either way, that leaves us exposed and vulnerable…

“I hear that congratulations are in order, mon Capitaine,” Cornay said.

That statement came out of the blue. They had been focused on garrison business and logistics. Despite his headaches subsiding, he still felt weak, especially after hearing the names of all those who lost their lives to defend this town… Their faces will forever be burned in my mind…

“Adjudant?” Marc asked.

In the background, Émilie stiffened noticeably. Ever since he woke up, she had been at his side. Admittedly, Marc often kept an eye on her, and loved how Émilie hummed a sweet lullaby when she thought he was asleep. The way her hips swayed when she walked never failed to get his little soldier to stand at attention, which was a positive development… for the both of us…

There was a glow to her, one that drew him to her like a moth to a flame. However, Émilie did not talk about what she did during his absence. Instead, she focused on his childhood, and growing up in the shadow of the Keep.

“Sergeant Séez told me on the eve of our battle that you’re to be a father, mon Capitaine,” Cornay replied.

As Marc’s eyes widened and his face went slack, Émilie’s shoulders drooped, her gaze fixed on the floor. Upon seeing their reactions, Cornay took several steps back and gulped.

“I’m sorry…” Cornay said, “I thought you knew…”

That explained why Séez urged him to see Émilie that night. She was with child, but because of their arrangement, Marc had concluded that it was due to weight gain—

“I was waiting for the right time to tell him that I’m…” Émilie said.

The world before him slowed down, his heart sounding like a bass drum during a slow march. His eyes darted from Cornay to Émilie, everyone caught in a moment they could not escape.

“…P…”

The pieces of the puzzle fell neatly into place.

“…R…”

Flowers that were tied to the Greek goddess of fertility, referenced in texts from the Antiquities for inducing amorous behaviour.

“…E…”

Her insistence that she ingest them, and the yellow dust on the bottle. It was pollen from the flower.

“…G…”

How his desire for her grew with every sip.

“…N…”

How that dream was so vivid and real… including the scent of her arousal…

“…A…”

The terrible hangover despite having no memory of drinking to excess.

“…N…”

The residue between her legs. The same mess he found after waking up from a particularly vivid dream.

“…T—”

How his clothes and body had been washed to hide what she did to him that night.

“Her strange behaviour…” Marc said absentmindedly.

“Mon Capitaine?” Cornay asked.

His mind realised his Adjudant had said something, and he returned in sync with time. Still, his eyes focused on those blonde curls as he could no longer see her face. Given enough time, he imagined that horns and a tail would be all he saw. His jaw tensed and he might have bitten off his tongue had it been caught in between.

All that time, he had spent time with her, believing that he loved her… For that she drugs me for my seed?

The question was why, but he could think of a good reason. Giving birth to his heir would push him to do the honourable thing. She would become a comtesse and live a life of relative luxury.

Even if he died in battle before the child was born, Émilie could claim Marc was the father. Cornay and Séez would speak for her, and Bertrand would make sure she and the child were taken care of.

“Adjudant,” Marc snapped, his voice cold as the steel of his blade.

The fires of l’Enfer were burning within. It was discipline that kept him together, instead of snapping her neck. It was duty that kept him calm, cool and collected as he issued his orders.

It was determination that kept him focused, even as his heart threatened to break through his ribcage. He dared not betray his thoughts, lest the maelstrom of emotions consume him.

“I want you to escort Émilie out of this room. After which, you’ll have someone bring me a clean uniform.”

“But—” Cornay said.

“It’s time I return to the garrison, Adjudant.”

There came a long pause. Cornay was clearly hesitant to comply; after all, he was the one who got them together. This dramatic change in demeanour was entirely unexpected, but he realised that Marc would not back down or explain himself.

“You have your orders, Adjudant.”

Marc was about to add, ‘do not make me repeat them,’ but Cornay acted. He did an about face and spotted Émilie sobbing in silence. She could not look either of them in the eyes and made her own way to the door.

“Mon Capitaine,” Cornay said before closing the door.

That left Marc alone with his thoughts, which was the last thing he needed. He wanted to tear the room apart, and yell loudly enough so God would take notice. But that behaviour would lead to questions that he did not wish to answer.

Instead, he remained stoic, as his mind waged war with itself. He could not afford to show emotions… weakness… It’s high time I got back to work…

CHAPTER 29

DISBANDED

Warning, oxygen levels at 11.2% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

Marc’s writing filled two-fifths of the bulkhead. Even after centuries, it surprised him how much emotion a single moment in time could elicit. His jaw muscles tensed until his teeth were on the verge of shattering… all because of her…

Had she shown patience, Marc would have made her his bride. While her family tree was free from blue blood, that did not prevent him from forging her legitimacy. They could have said she was the cousin of a distant baron, and no one would dare confirm the details… It would take no more than a couple of carefully placed bribes to make it happen…

“Evelyn would kill me if she found out about Émilie…” Marc said. “I’ll save that for later…”

Émilie betrayed him in the worst possible way. By taking what she wanted, she violated what mattered most: his trust. However, Marc decided the child should not suffer for the actions of its mother.

While honourable, he realised that setting eyes on that porcelain skin, golden locks of hair, and blue eyes again would be problematic. Émilie would forever remind him of her betrayal… I once believed that my father had the worst possible relationship with the Comtesse…

In the end, he would bear the penance for her actions. He dispatched the garrison’s only literate soldier, Charles Garnier, to escort Émilie back to the Keep. On his orders, they issued him a horse, supplies, and enough sols and deniers to make the journey in comfort.

Once there, Charles would relay a letter to Bertrand. Marc’s wishes were that the child be raised by their mother, educated, and treated as a proper heir. The only difference was that Émilie would never be his wife or be formally acknowledged. Other than a small, monthly stipend, a staff of four, and quarters within the Keep, she was to be left to her devices.

Marc shook his head, causing some dry ice to break free from his neck. The cold challenged him to function, but he was not about to give up on telling his story, even if no one ever saw it… The world was a mess before we were cut off…

“Shortly after my return to the garrison, we received orders from the Maréchal to surrender the town to the Spanish and disband.”

He remembered the bitter taste in his mouth as he acknowledged their orders. Marc wanted to cut the man down for betraying this town and those who died defending it… Killing the messenger would’ve accomplished nothing…

“They expected us to die, so the King of Spain could claim victory before signing a peace accord.”

If not for the intense cold, Marc would have spit on the floor, just like he wanted to do back then. However, the harsh environment of space was as effective as duty and honour was for him at the time… I had to maintain decorum…

In the end, Marc reversed the sequence of the orders. He threw open the gates of the garrison to the townspeople. They cleaned their stores of provisions within an hour, as compensation for the land and crops destroyed by the battle… Without our supplies, they may not have made it through the winter months…

Next, they set up charges throughout the garrison. At sunset, they lit the fuses, turning what was once their home into a fireworks display.

“After the garrison was turned to rubble, I disbanded the men. By the time the Spanish arrived, there was nothing left to claim. Lastly, I invited my men to celebrate our time together.”

He remembered the evening at the tavern as bittersweet. They had taken heavy casualties and were victorious despite the odds. That was, in no small part, due to the townspeople… Betrayed by both sides of the conflict…

Warning, oxygen levels at 11.2% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“We drank the tavern dry,” Marc finished.

Tired, dehydrated, and suffering from a nasty headache, he said goodbye to Cornay and even hugged him in front of his men… No one dared say anything…

Marc and his Adjudant were the first to arrive in town. It was their time and effort that turned a dilapidated fortification filled with green troops into a fighting force that beat the odds.

“Once again, I was faced with a journey into the unknown… towards Susanna…”

PART III

SUSANNA

CHAPTER 30

DIRECTION IN EXILE

It was an understatement to describe Marc as ‘disillusioned’ after he left the military behind. He had been betrayed by le Roi and taken advantage of by the woman he loved… In the end, my father’s opinion of his liege proved to be correct…

Émilie’s betrayal forced him to wonder what he had done to deserve the women in his life. The Comtesse was perfectly cast in the role of the evil stepmother. Émilie played the long con, and led him to believe it was possible to be happy with someone of the fairer sex… Not only did I take two steps back, I fell off the face of the earth…

So, where should he go? Marc had his fill of France, and he could not imagine running towards his enemy… My opinion of them won’t change anytime soon…

Earlier in life, Marc would have loved to visit the great French cities like Paris, Marseille, and Lyon, but these were under the shadow of the king who signed away his life. While he had to transit through France, Arès would hasten his journey.

He was happy to take one of the horses left behind by the Spanish, but Adjudant Cornay insisted he take Arès… We were following orders to the letter, which gave us a lot of latitude on interpreting things that were not mentioned…

What Marc needed was a change of scenery. He used to find the hills and mountains in this region of France to be immensely beautiful. Now, the sight of them dredged up imagery of landscapes littered with dead men and horses. The soil was either polluted by blood or scorched by fire.

Given time, these memories would fade, but it heightened his desire for a change. Perhaps, it was time to seek something more exotic… that gives me an idea…

Either way, they had a long journey ahead of them.

* * * *

It took three months for Marc to reach his notional destination. Given the gear and provisions he took with him, Marc often camped at night. Even with brigands about, few dared to challenge an armed man riding a warhorse.

When the voices of the dead were too much for him to bear, Marc tried to drown them out. Wine did numb the intensity, but also had the unpleasant side effect of enhancing his distrust of women. After a violent outburst involving a flirty barmaid, he dropped a couple of livres on the bar to pay for the damages and forfeited his room for the night.

The problem was that Marc no longer saw women as they were. In his mind, they always walked onto the scene as blonde, blue-eyed beauties, doppelgängers of the one who cut his heart out. When sober, he just gave his head a shake to cast away the spell, but that only worked for those who looked nothing like Émilie. That one at the auberge could have been her twin…

Marc was anything but fine, and yet aware that no one cared about his demons. While there was always confession, uttering dozens of prayers did nothing for him… God may forgive all sins, but that did not absolve me of guilt…

CHAPTER 31

TEN PACES AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

In the distance, there was a great city, one that went by many names, such as La Dominante, the Queen of the Adriatic, the City of Masks, or the Floating City. With names like these, Marc expected the crowning jewel of the Republic of Venice to be beyond compare.

“There’s certainly a… distinctive smell to this place.”

Marc never had the pleasure of taking in the scent of the sea at low tide, let alone in a city with an extensive network of rivers and canals doubling as a sewer. This heady bouquet of decaying sea life, piss, and excrement shattered his childhood ideals of Venice.

When Arès neighed, he took his eyes off the city to pet his mane. While certain his horse was not attempting to communicate with him, the timing had a prophetic quality to it.

“You’re right, Arès,” Marc said. “One should never turn down an opportunity to learn something new.”

Hidden behind all the pungent odours, there was the scent of brine. Marc had never been to the ocean but would soon appreciate breathing salty, fresh air. Having breakfast served outside during high tide was a rare treat for him.

The first things that came to mind were logistical in nature. He had to secure stables for his horse and find a place to stay. After making inquiries, he found both, and wound up at a working-class hotel. The rooms were spartan, but there was plenty of traffic to get lost in.

After that, Marc did his best to avoid the fairer sex. It helped that most women here were dark-haired and bronze-skinned beauties. No matter, he frequented game rooms or gentlemen’s clubs. Even then, he liked to find himself a quiet spot to read.

While Marc did his best to remain anonymous, it proved challenging to avoid duels. A man’s inhibitions invariably waned with drink, forcing him to deal with some drunk who hated the way he looked or claimed Marc was too high and mighty for their liking.

It turned out that his appearance often worked in his favour. If the aggressor had any survival instincts, they left the moment they caught sight of those dead eyes. On some occasions, they added fuel to the fire.

His first challenger went so far as to call him a coward. Marc wanted to walk away, but gentlemen often took ‘turning the other cheek’ as a metaphor for cowardice. Marc was forged in combat, facing insurmountable odds. He would not willingly suffer that label.

The drunken welp chose pistols at ten paces. Marc proved to be the better shot, piercing the young man’s heart. His lifeline was cut before he could pull the trigger. Without so much as a glance, Marc tossed the smoking pistol to one of the servants and walked away… Another voice to torment me in my dreams…

“That weapon’s filthy,” Marc said.

He returned to his chair and picked up his book. For the rest of the evening, the patrons gave him a wide berth, and spoke in hushed tones… Hopefully, they’ll leave me be…

Alas, his decisive victory encouraged potential challengers. Tales of the duel and his cavalier attitude meant he was the man to beat to make a name for themselves.

After a year in Venice, at twenty-three years of age, Marc added another thirteen ghosts to his torment. Most challenged him to a swordfight, but a few still believed they had a chance with a pistol… Every single challenger was dead wrong…

CHAPTER 32

A CHANGE OF PACE

At twenty-four, Émilie no longer haunted the face of every woman he crossed. While that was a blessing, the ghosts of those he killed were not so easily satiated. This forced Marc to retreat to his room early in the evening. Despite having a book or quill to keep him occupied, his mind was under constant assault by their voices.

He no longer attended his old haunts, since doing so invited duels… The last thing I need is another ghost to torment me…

One evening, he indulged in a memorable meal of Risi e Bisi. The hotel ran out of ham and used lardons instead. The combination reminded him of a Tartiflette, a dish they made back home. A smile slipped through his neutral features for the first time in a long time, until he remembered who would be waiting for him if he ever found his way back… My homeland shall evermore be a memory…

He received regular updates on what happened at the Keep. Bertrand proved to be an effective administrator and the town prospered. With more trade came greater tax revenue, something his father never grasped… Instead, he bled his subjects dry…

It turned out that Émilie gave birth to a healthy boy. Fathers were normally elated at hearing that news, but that bound him forevermore to her.

Truth be told, he prayed for Émilie to have a miscarriage, so he could be freed of her. After all, God specialised in spreading misery and despair… and I’ve had my fill…

While Bertrand urged him to return home, Marc could not bring himself to do so. Given how he reacted around women who looked like her, being physically near the root cause would not end well.

The best he could do was ask for Bertrand to take an active role in the child’s life. After all, that man had done more to raise Marc than the Comte and Comtesse ever did… It’s a shame that Jeanne’s no longer with us…

He pushed his plate away and emptied the contents of his cup. Since he already paid for his meal, it was a matter of—

“You look like a man who needs a change of pace,” a man said.

“Scusi?” Marc replied.

His Italian was not great, but it was improving by the day. His knowledge of French, Latin, and Spanish certainly helped him grasp the mechanics, but it was the nuances and slang that took the longest to master.

“I can tell you’re bored,” the man said. “I’m Giovanni.”

“Marc.”

He pronounced his name the way he would in France. He hated it when the locals used Marco instead. He was not Italian, even if he was often mistaken for one given his dark hair and skin.

“Am I that easy to read?” Marc asked.

“I’ve seen it before,” Giovanni began. “You need to be challenged, to face your intellectual equal.”

“Are you offering?”

Giovanni’s lips curled upwards before he guffawed. As he laughed, the man slapped the bar’s surface, which caught the attention of several patrons. Marc had to admire this man’s joie de vivre, that lust for life that encouraged the afflicted to live life to its fullest… I just wish he wouldn’t draw so much attention to us…

“No!” Giovanni managed to say after wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “For that, you’d need a courtesan.”

Marc cocked his brow. Courtesans were known to entertain men in France, but that typically meant art, song, dance, or prowess in the boudoir.

“While they say men have two heads, I doubt stimulating the second will arouse my intellect.”

Giovanni smiled, curling one side of his lips. Marc questioned if his attempt at humour landed at all. He then wondered if the expression was used here… That’ll teach me to show some wit…

“The courtesans here are literate and versed in several topics men are known to engage in,” Giovanni answered.

“How’s that any better than talking to you for the rest of the night?”

Marc was not flirting with the man; however, he wanted to know how a courtesan could challenge him anymore than an educated man could.

“Men are simple creatures,” Giovanni replied. “We are often governed by reason and logic, even if we don’t realise it.”

“What—”

“Signore, where you see a straight line, they see a journey.”

Marc opened his mouth, paused, furrowed his brow, and slowly pursed his lips. The concept was new to him, but the visual left him intrigued.

Of course, he asked himself if it was wise to seek out a courtesan. Émilie had been one, after all, but Marc did hear some gentlemen comment that those in Venice were in a league of their own.

If anything, this might give him a well-needed reprieve from the voices in his head… Perhaps, music, quality drink, and good conversation would do me a world of good…

“Where?”

Giovanni slipped a sealed letter out of his pocket and slid it across the bar. Atop, there was an address written in fine lettering… They sent him out to drum in fresh clients…

“Go to that address and show them this letter. If they ask, tell them Giovanni Sorrento sent you.”

Marc’s eyes focused on the letter, then looked up at his room door. The latter was dark, cold, and thoroughly uninviting… as though La Mort awaits me…

He grabbed the envelope and smiled. Giovanni was correct. Marc desperately needed to shake the cobwebs loose from his mind…

CHAPTER 33

A LONG WAY FOR A CLUB

Venice itself was a collection of islands. While some were connected by bridges, others were accessible exclusively by boat. Marc preferred the former, but this club was isolated from the network of bridges linking the major areas.

Because of the time and distance, most boatmen refused to make the trip. Eventually, he found a man who knew of the club and after buying several rounds of liquid courage, agreed to take him.

Given the ordeal to reach this place, Marc expected to find something akin to a foreboding crypt carved from obsidian. A place perpetually covered in dark clouds, where the occasional lightning bolt struck a random passerby to keep things interesting.

Alternatively, he could end up in a rundown part of the city, where the criminal element ruled over its frightened citizenry with an iron fist. That would spice things up for a soldier searching for a purpose… Alas…

Instead, the club, like the area, was decidedly nondescript. The most notable aspect of the canal they used to reach the club was the lack of direct sunlight. The channel was narrow, and perpetually bathed in shadow.

The club itself was a repurposed manor and blended in with its neighbours. If not for the two men in fine livery waiting at the dock, he would have assumed this was a bad joke.

“Giovanni Sorrento sent me,” Marc said as the boatsman buttoned onto the dock.

“Did he give you something, Signore?” the nearest man asked.

Marc brought the letter, despite questioning the need for it. Other than the address on one side, the oddest detail was the smooth and consistent finish of the parchment… Even letters from le Roi are no match in quality…

“Oui,” Marc answered in French before presenting the letter. “Here you go…”

The man who challenged him took the envelope and smiled, while the other helped Marc onto the dock. Without being prompted, the boatsman pushed off.

“I haven’t paid you,” Marc protested.

“The drinks were enough,” the boatman said as he centred the craft into the canal and made headway.

The man placed the letter over the open flame of a lantern. It caught fire and was consumed within seconds, leaving behind a blackened page. Wait! Is that lettering in the ash?

“You shall have an audience with the Contessa, Susanna Gaius,” the man said.

The other chuckled, and judging by the smile that followed, this was a joke that lived between them… Clearly, I’m missing something…

“She—he’ll have a great time,” the man said after wiping the smirk off his face.

“Go on in, Signore,” the other said. “Straight past the doors to the parlour. It’s early, so have a drink while you wait.”

“How am I early?”

“The drinks are on the house tonight.”

Marc smiled at the thought of drowning out the voices for free and went through the main doors. From behind, he caught the sound of someone being slapped upside the head.

While Marc was getting more comfortable with Italian, he could not keep up with their rapid volley of swears and insults. By the sounds of it, the one who smirked broke some sort of rule… in exchange, I’m getting free drinks for the night…

“Enjoy the little victories in life,” Marc whispered.

CHAPTER 34

LAVISH SURROUNDINGS

While the outside blended in with the surroundings, the interior was something else altogether. It was decidedly sombre. The choice of dark woods and stains were out of place for this part of the world.

Given the materials used, lanterns provided little ambient light. Still, he discerned the intricate moulding, brass fittings, and vaulted, plaster ceiling. The latter was stained from years of smoke, which left overlapping shadows resembling an overcast sky.

Beyond the open oak doors, reinforced with iron rivets, there was a large, stone hearth with a raging fire. As he crossed the threshold to the parlour, Marc was hit by a wall of dry heat. He momentarily stopped to bask in the warmth. Living so close to the sea did have disadvantages, and humidity clinging to his skin was one of them.

The parlour was similar in style to the hallway, although airier and more expansive. There were tables, chairs, and benches throughout, but the area around the fire open. The hardwood floors were worn… space for dances and performances…

This room stretched out on both sides, for what appeared to be the entire width of the home. On either side of the doorway, there were heavy, white curtains blocking the way, like something found at a theatre… I wonder if that means the parlour opens up?

The wall he faced had several large windows cut into it. The view, distorted by the lead crystal, revealed a garden contained within a courtyard. Had the windows and doors been open, the scent of lilac would have filled the room.

To the right of the hearth, Marc spotted a bar, with a brass rail and highlights. Behind the counter, there was a lone man wearing the same uniform as the men at the dock.

To the left of the hearth, there were large, black doors that led to the courtyard. Marc focused on the local trees growing at its centre. The longer he stared, the darker it became. The sun would soon retreat from these lands… At least the fire and some fine cognac will keep me warm…

“Can I get you something to drink, monsieur?” the bartender asked.

The accent was Parisian, which, by itself, was impressive. However, Marc was curious how he knew that he was French? Unless the invitation was not purely by chance…

“Cognac, s’il vous plaît,” Marc asked. “How did you know?”

The man smiled, and for a fraction of second, it appeared as though there were two of him. Once the barman and his echo merged, he reached behind him for a bottle.

“You said something in French when you docked,” the bartender replied while pouring the contents into a glass. “They also noticed your accent and let me know.”

While plausible, it was also highly improbable. Those two started fighting the moment he was out of sight. Still, when he wet his lips with the cognac, the smooth liquor brought back fond memories of sneaking into the cellar to partake in his father’s finest stock.

“That’s impressive,” Marc admitted.

“We aim to please.”

CHAPTER 35

SIREN’S SONG

After an hour of waiting, it was pitch black outside. There were no lights in the courtyard, which effectively turned the windows into mirrors. The reflection from the myriad of candles and lanterns within breathed life into this room… It’s like looking at a fiery, night sky…

“Does it ever get busy here?” Marc asked.

“It does around midnight,” the bartender replied without any hint of humour. “Would you like another?”

He was nursing his drinks, permitting the flavours to interact with the tip of his tongue. Marc was tempted to indulge in a third, but also wished to keep his mind sharp… and avoid trouble…

“They said that I’m early,” Marc said. “Had I known, I might’ve come by later…”

“And miss out on all the fun?”

The bartender winked, just as the soft musical notes of a woman’s voice reached him. The woeful tones resonated with him, sending a shiver down his spine. It was as though the song was meant for him alone.

The curtains opened slowly. He turned around to have a better look and confirmed his hunch. Facing the bar, there was a smoking room befitting any gentleman’s club in the city. Along the hallway, a staircase led to the floor above.

The other side had all the furnishings of a study, including bookshelves that nearly reached the ceiling, and another staircase.

However, what mattered was the floating stage that separated the study from the parlour. Atop, there was an ivory and brass clavichord. Seated at the instrument was a woman in a gown. He had never seen one with such an ornate design or intricate lacing. Marc imagined that similar fashions could be found at any royal court.

The woman was the source of the siren’s song. It was intoxicating, and he had to remind himself to remain a proper gentleman. It would have been rude to ruin her grand entrance. To appear detached, Marc looked over his shoulder at the bartender.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s the Contessa.”

Marc imagined it would be a great deal of fun getting to know her better.

This one was the dark reflection of Émilie. Her olive skin was consistent and smooth, and she had wavy, black hair that fell past her shoulders. Her eyes were a lighter shade than his.

The Contessa was not thin, filling in her bustier beautifully. However, the curves of her body were more subtle, alluring, and exotic. The fact they were so different, ensured Émilie’s curse never materialised…

She had the voice of an angel and Marc could scarcely take his eyes off her. The bartender never said another word, letting their only guest memorise every detail of her… I wonder if she does—

“Good evening, Monsieur,” Susanna said.

Marc blinked several times, before realising that the music had stopped, and this beauty stood before him. After several breaths, filling his lungs with the essence of lilac, he realised his jaw was hanging loosely.

He gave his head a shake before snapping his mouth shut. Marc adopted a smile while his eyes flowed over the Venetian belle. The curl around his lips was natural, which was rare.

“G-g-good evening,” Marc stuttered.

He clenched his jaw as blood flushed through his cheeks. Flubbing such a simple line would not inspire confidence… unlike her voice…

Susanna did not appear to mind; those hazelnut eyes flowed from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes. He wore the clothes more appropriate to his position, but he had no desire to announce his origins.

“What brings you here this evening?”

“Curiosity,” Marc answered truthfully to avoid another screw up.

“What are you curious about?”

“The man who goes by Giovanni, said that I’d end up being challenged here.”

He was tempted to mention courtesans; however, they referred to her by the royal rank of Contessa, and that dress was not something found in a shop. Venice was a trade city, so that explained the silk and lace. Still, it fit her perfectly, as though hand sewn to adorn her every curve… I’ve never met a courtesan who could afford anything of that quality…

His eyes drifted to the two bare mounds of flesh on her chest held in by her bustier. As she breathed in and out, he noted the buttons faced him.

Royalty never dressed themselves. This gown was designed to be put on and removed by the wearer… or by the nervous hand of a suitor…

“Oh, I’m sure we can find ways to stimulate your mind and body,” Susanna said.

The emphasis on the word ‘stimulate’ had an immediate effect on Marc. While Émilie resorted to drugs to get what she wanted, this one did the same with a single word. He forced himself to focus on her eyes.

The bartender chuckled, and Marc realised her eyes were pointing in two directions at once. This was the second time this happened tonight, but he dismissed it as a trick of the eye… The poor lighting in here is deceiving me…

“You look like you can handle yourself,” the Contessa said.

This was not a question, but a statement. Susanna turned her back to him and headed for the games room. From there, she selected two foils, and casually tossed one to him. The smooth flight of the blade hinted it was balanced… She’s had a lot of practice with a sword…

Marc preferred something more substantive as a weapon, something that could free a foe of their limbs. He grabbed it by the hilt, and naturally adopted a fighting stance. They were expertly forged, and the design on the hilt was exquisite.

Susanna did the same. Still, he had to wonder what she was up to… That gown will only slow her down…

The Contessa moved towards the open area by the fire but kept her back towards the entryway. Marc strutted onto the scene, somewhat surprised this was happening. He tried his best to contain his excitement, but the edges of his lips curled upwards nonetheless…

“A challenge,” Susanna began. “The first to draw blood wins.”

“Contessa, I feel that I should warn—”

“Of your streak?”

Susanna’s smile grew beyond what he believed to be possible. His eyes narrowed by a nail’s width, but he regained his composure. Marc found their interaction to be equal parts thrilling, and chilling. A combination for which he was ill equipped to handle.

“Wins what?” Marc asked to avoid asking how she knew.

“A kiss.”

The idea of a kiss forced him to turn away from her to adjust his trousers. It also conjured up memories of Émilie and how she manipulated him for her benefit… Was that why they offered me free drinks?

“What do you get if you win?”

Susanna’s face was neutral, and Marc could not peer through her mask. It was both impressive and thoroughly unnerving to see someone so skilled at concealing their thoughts.

“I get to choose,” Susanna said.

“Choose what?” Marc asked with a raised brow. “Lips? Cheeks—”

“Lower.”

“Lower?”

“Low-er…”

When that failed to elicit a reaction, the Contessa shattered her mask and giggled. When further laughter was heard from the bar, Marc knew that he had missed something… or is this at my expense?

“It appears you’re not yet an expert in all forms of conquest…” Susanna said.

“It appears so…”

Marc raised his sword in a salute, as did the Contessa. It was clear that he could not land a verbal blow on his stunning foe… I guess the man was right about being challenged…

Normally, opponents approached with swords at the ready, while sussing out potential weaknesses. However, the Contessa was anchored in place. That forced Marc to move in, which left him exposed… How dangerous can she be?

He had never crossed swords with a woman before. Part of him expected it to be easy, presumably because of his combined strength and experience; yet, his instincts warned him to be cautious… Would she challenge me if she had no chance?

He had a longer reach with this blade, affording him an advantage. He took a half a step forward and opened with a basic thrust, which was deflected with ease.

He began to circle her, just beyond reach. Every so often, he tested her defences with a jab or a quick slash, all of which were easily countered. He noticed that Contessa’s breathing did not change. A feat considering the sweltering heat of the fire… not to mention that gown of hers…

Marc normally paid attention to his opponent’s footwork. However, her feet were entirely concealed by that gown, which impressed him. With every counter, the hem of the dress barely moved, implying a great deal of dexterity.

To prove his theory, he slipped into her inner-circle and performed a downward strike, using his strength and mass to drive the blade down. Once more, she deflected without incident. The Contessa only needed to pivot in place to achieve this feat… A grown man would need to bend his knees to absorb the impact…

Tired of these games, Marc committed himself fully. Every attack was followed by another, and yet, Susanna continued to fight defensively, without yielding him an inch.

After a solid minute of strikes and blocks, he took a powerful swipe at her neck. The blade sliced through thin air without making contact, and just like that, she was gone.

He felt something slap against his backside and realised it was the flat edge of her blade. While not powerful enough to tear the fabric, there would be a nasty bruise in the morning.

With the Contessa at his back, Marc launched himself forward, curled into a roll, and popped up to face the direction of the strike. He caught sight of the hearth and nothing else, just in time to feel another well-placed tap to his ass.

Marc spun to the same effect. Whenever he manoeuvred himself to face her, the Contessa was already gone. He even attempted to block the inevitable strike, but he failed every time.

He had no idea on how she managed, and he did not have the luxury of considering the impossibility of it. That dress was not designed to give her a full range of movement… let alone being able to run…

Since staying out in the open did him no favours, Marc had to restrict her avenues of advance. The next time she tapped him, he ran towards the corner. Seconds before slamming into the corner, he pivoted in the air and landed two paces away from the walls. To his left and right, there were no signs of her, but when he took a half-step back, there came the sound of crinkling fabric…

If not for the sound, he would have assumed that an amorous cat had run up against his leg. The Contessa was nowhere in sight, but something was missing from the equation… I can’t hear her breathing…

In fact, the only clear sound in his mind was the crackling fire. As the hairs rose along the back of his neck, there came a sharp sting at the tip of his right ear.

He winced and reached for the wound, feeling the all too familiar viscous liquid flowing… How’s that even—

“I believe that’s first blood, Monsieur.”

He took a step forward, did an about face, and found her in the corner. That impenetrable mask she wore during the fight was replaced by a warm smile, which left his jaw hanging loosely. Despite holding him at bay for the duration of the match, she was no worse for wear… not a single hair is out of place…

“That… was… impressive,” Marc said in between breaths.

“For a woman?”

“For any swordsman.”

Her smile grew, as though the response surprised her. However, her eyes were not focused on him, but the wound that ceased bleeding.

“How did you—” Marc said.

“I believe you owe me a kiss, Monsieur.”

Marc went to close the distance between them, but her outstretched arm kept him at bay.

“Not here,” Susana said. “For that, we’ll need to retire to my quarters.”

“I’m not sure—”

She grabbed his sword quicker than a hungry seagull could swallow fish and headed towards the stairs. Confusion fogged his mind, leaving him baffled…

“Don’t worry, Monsieur,” the Contessa said. “We can rejoin the party later.”

There was no one else and if the bartender was right, the regulars would arrive around the witching hour… That gives us plenty of time…

He gulped and kicked off towards her. He had to admit, this certainly qualified as a change of pace… I’d love to know how she moves so fast…

CHAPTER 36

AN INVITATION TO DIE FOR

The upstairs area turned out to be more expansive than Marc initially believed. By his estimate, it spread into the neighbouring homes, including those surrounding the courtyard behind the bar.

They made several twists and turns before reaching her quarters. It was bigger than the space used to bunk his soldiers at the garrison. The architecture and style were similar to the rest of the club, including windows that looked over the courtyard. While open, there were thick, red, velvet drapes secured to the sides.

Overall, this appeared to be a smaller version of the parlour. There was a fire crackling happily within a stone fireplace, comfortable chairs, settees, and shelves filled with books.

The Contessa did not appear to mind that Marc was more interested in the décore than the bet he lost. Without overt pressure, he decided to peruse her collection of books, noting that many were in Latin, Italian, and French…

“Where did you learn French?” Marc asked.

“I spent a lifetime in France, primarily around Paris.”

“I believe it,” Marc said while considering her words. “You sound like a Parisian native.”

“I was born here, but I wanted to explore the world. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to travel in my youth…”

Marc glanced at her and chuckled. So far, she used the words ‘lifetime’ and ‘youth’ as though the words had meaning for someone so young. Considering she looked to be in her early twenties, he found the disconnect humorous.

“What’s so funny?” the Contessa said before adopting a pout.

“I find it amusing that you talk like the stately matron of a family looking back on her life,” Marc said. “You’re the embodiment of youth and vigour.”

“Oh?”

Marc nodded. Given the situation, he saw no need to conceal his thoughts… She already took my pride…

“That display downstairs left me feeling like an old man, and I’m not even twenty-five,” Marc said.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, more like you’re exaggerating about the passage of time. Either way, you’ve acquired a great deal of life experience. No one fights like that without having fought with a blade. You also can’t master a dialect without first walking amongst its people.”

Susanna’s eyes twinkled, but Marc had no idea why. He occasionally observed his men flirt with women in the tavern, and truth was rarely part of the equation.

She approached him slowly, took him by the hands, and led him to a settee. The back was to one side, which she left to him… That gown forces her to keep a rigid posture anyways…

The settee was covered in silk and pillows, and was surprisingly comfortable. When he sat down, a decidedly exotic scent wafted from the pillows. Since the spice trade did not often reach his home, Marc could not recognise the musky scent of nutmeg, or the sweet heat of cinnamon.

“Have you solved my riddle?” Susanna asked.

To give himself more time, Marc leaned against the back to further align himself with the Contessa. Unlike Émilie, there was something of substance behind those beautiful, brown eyes.

“Your feet?” Marc guessed.

The Contessa giggled. Even seated, he could not see her feet or legs. Only the very tips of her slippers.

“Higher,” Susanna said.

Again, his face went blank, and her smile changed to one of genuine curiosity. Those irises were piercing, as though focusing on his soul. The thought of it was enough to make him momentarily uncomfortable.

“How many duels have you fought?” the Contessa asked to change the subject.

“Thirteen wins… and one loss,” Marc said before taking a hard swallow during the pause.

“Your victories must include more than duels?”

“I was a Capitaine in the French army, and I fought against Spain on numerous occasions.”

“A war hero?” the Contessa confirmed while raising a single brow.

“I did my duty, followed orders, just like those who served under me.”

She focused entirely on his eyes while he spoke… What’s she looking at?

“There’s more to that story…” the Contessa said.

“You don’t say?”

“You do have the bearing of a soldier. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone sit so rigidly and believe themselves to be at ease.”

“I am relax—”

Susanna tutted before rising from the settee. When she slid behind him, Marc remained in place; to do otherwise would prove her right.

The moment she placed her hands upon his shoulders, Marc crumpled up and leaned forward. The motion was purely instinctual… What just happened?

If that caught her by surprise, the Contessa showed no sign of it. Instead, she held her hands together over her waist.

“I apologise—” Marc said.

“For what?”

“It didn’t feel natural.”

“Human touch? Pleasure feels unnatural?”

Susanna raised a brow, but remained where she was. Marc felt as though he was under a magnifying glass, while those big, beautiful, hazelnut eyes were set upon him… How’s she pushing my buttons so easily?

“Quit it!” Marc snapped.

“What?” Susanna asked softly. “What am I doing?”

Whatever this was, mind games were a big part of it. That meant the duel was an aperitif… To what end? To see if I’ll lose my temper?

“You know what you’re doing,” Marc said sternly.

“Monsieur, while commendable, that line only works on men.”

Such a statement might have been taken as a slight. He had met several men who fell prey to similar lines. Susanna was merely commenting that it could not be thrown back in her face.

“I don’t like this game,” Marc said. “I think it’s for the best if I—”

“Stay…”

There was something to that voice, similar to what he felt when she sang earlier. His strength of will melted away, and he found her to be more beautiful than ever before.

This situation did have parallels with his relationship with Émilie. The images of those blue eyes poisoned his mind, and he curled his fingers inwards into fists. To further calm himself down, he tightened and relaxed them numerous times until his heart steadied.

“Please…” the Contessa said.

Again, there was something else in that voice that robbed him of his will. Marc remained where he was, even if he had no idea what was going on.

“You’ve yet to settle your debt,” Susanna reminded him.

“You don’t care about a kiss,” Marc stated as he began to stand. “Whatever you have in mind, it has nothing to do—”

“I’m sorry, Monsieur,” Susanna pleaded. “Please, sit down.”

The more she spoke, the more radiant she became. While at first glance, she could bring about severe neck injury to any man who crossed her path, Susanna now rivalled the beauty of Hélèn de Troie.

He sat back down, and she placed her hands gently upon his shoulders. All the while, she hummed a song that was entirely unfamiliar to him. The sound of her voice further disarmed him, enabling her to massage the knots out of his shoulders without protest.

“Would you like to help me out of this dress?” the Contessa whispered in his ear.

Her cool breath covered his neck in gooseflesh, and aroused him. A reaction that he may have found disconcerting had he not been under her spell.

“I’d love to.”

The Contessa sat at his side, and aligned herself to face him. Her smile appeared to be warm and genuine.

“Have you done this before?” Susanna asked.

“Non,” Marc admitted.

“A handsome man like you?” the Contessa teased. “Have you been hiding under a rock?”

“I wasn’t interested.”

“In women?”

“In sex,” Marc confessed.

He had no idea why he surrendered such a secret so easily. He would rather die on the battlefield than confess that to any living being… Keeping that secret is how I ended up in this mess…

His confession to an Italian courtesan, one who rivalled him in many ways, left him exposed… and yet…

The more she spoke, the more he wanted her, springing forth urges from the depths of his mind that he believed to be non-existent. For the first time, his arousal was organic, and not the result of a dream or fantasy… What a relief…

“How about—” the Contessa asked.

He leapt forward and pressed his lips against hers. She pushed him away with ease, leaving him, once more, humbled.

“Sloppy…” Susanna said before wiping his spit from her lips.

“I’m sorry.”

Susanna recovered quickly, because that smile was once again upon her lips. One that hinted of the passion to come.

“Kissing is sensual,” Susanna began. “You need to start soft and tender. You must read your partner like you would for a dance. Let her welcome you in.”

Marc’s eyes rolled up towards the ceiling as though committing her words to memory. The Contessa giggled and snapped her fingers to steal his focus.

“Kissing is an art, not a subject for academics,” Susanna said. “Close your eyes and let me lead; let your emotions sway your actions.”

He did as she asked and caught the sound of fabric crinkling. At first, there was the coolness of her breath against his lips, followed by a few, teasing pecks.

Marc imagined her giggling in silence, relishing in the sweet torment. His jaw muscles tensed, just as her lips pressed firmly against his.

A current flowed from his lips, more potent than anything he had previously experienced. His entire body relaxed, and he melted into her as his lips parted.

She echoed him and followed through with her tongue. Upon contact, his tongue retreated, so she teased him to coax it back out. As the fires of their passions flared, so did his need for air.

When he broke contact, the world before him appeared to be dull and bleak, all except for Susanna and her suggestive smile.

“Much better,” the Contessa said. “More practice wouldn’t hurt…”

Before he could act on the advice, she pressed a finger against his lips. The Contessa might appear receptive, but she was clearly in control.

“This dress isn’t going to unbutton itself…” Susanna reminded him.

She took his hands, and brought them to the topmost button. Susanna loosened the first and had Marc do the rest, revealing her bustier, along with her slip and skirt.

While still relatively modest, Marc could now see her legs amongst all those ruffles. This was not the first time he had seen a woman in this state, but the experience of undressing a woman was entirely new.

With a tug on her sleeves, the silk and lace gown slipped off her bare shoulders. She was not as busty as Émilie, but Marc found it difficult to break eye contact.

“You like?” the Contessa asked.

“I want…”

“That’s better,” she said in a voice that further focused him. “You’ll need to loosen the laces…”

The knot was tight, and his heart raced in anticipation, making his hands unsteady. He fought with the bow as though it was the Gordian knot, his tongue sticking out until the two ends were apart.

From there, he pulled where the silk ribbon crossed to let out her bustier. Those breasts spread apart with every tug, gaining further definition. When the last of the thread was loose, she took a deep breath, and a breast popped out from the bustier’s grip.

He froze at the sight of the bare breast with a soft nipple. Susanna giggled, and leaned in while pulling on the material to free the other. They swayed in unison with her breathing.

“Go ahead, but gently…” Susanna said. “Unless I tell you otherwise.”

Marc was practically salivating at the idea of touching them. He approached cautiously, as though afraid they would bite… why would they do that?

Instead of grabbing both, he focused on her right breast. When the tip of his index met her nipple, he assumed it would be warm and welcoming, but instead, it was cool.

Susanna closed her eyes on contact and shivered. The reaction was almost immediate: her nipples swelled and hardened.

“Closer,” Susanna whispered.

Marc did as she asked, his hands framing her breast, before running his palm over the soft and supple skin. That gave way to his gentle touch, and found they returned to the same spot unless she moved. He was surprised by the weight of them, but sensed her growing impatience… She’s not an experiment…

Now, he was close enough, he blew air over her nipple. The shiver was sensual and emboldened him further. He began by kissing the tip, before pressing his lips around the nipple and sucking it into his mouth.

While her skin was cold, her reactions were deeply rewarding. She arched her back as he applied pressure and she moaned. When he went too far, she winced before pulling away.

“Sorr—” Marc said.

She cut him off with her lips, a kiss which brought forth a level of passion that he never believed possible. Marc surrendered to her, and their tongues danced until Susanna pulled back.

Her smile had changed; it was curved to one side, as though she was mischievous. Her lips were also vivid, which disappeared with a flick of her tongue.

It took several breaths for him to register the throbbing in his tongue. When he tasted iron, he guessed that he had managed to cut himself.

“Sometimes, you need to be gentle; other times, a bit of pain enhances the experience,” Susanna said.

His eyes went from those sweet lips and worked his way down to her legs. There was a long way to go before he explored all of her.

“I want you,” Marc said.

Tired of waiting, he grabbed two sides of the slip. Susanna smiled, knowing full well what he intended to do.

With one vicious tear, the fabric was torn clean in half, exposing her belly, thighs and everything in between. She giggled, enjoying how he was showing interest. As she leaned back, he followed her, his hands running down her sides from just below her breasts, to her tummy.

His lips followed the path, tenderly kissing her soft skin. When he reached her belly button, he licked around it before blowing cool air into it. She shivered, a reaction that he enjoyed immensely.

“Lower,” Susanna said.

“Low—”

It was time to be blunt about what she meant. The Contessa slid closer to the edge of the settee, until her head hung off, but enough for her to hold onto.

Susanna let her legs hang over the side. To further get his attention, she ran a lone finger between those dark lips, a thick and clear liquid stretching out as she moved her finger away.

Susanna brought her fingers to her month and licked the tips. She closed her eyes and moaned, as though it was ambrosia.

“That?” Marc asked, and nearly gulped.

In his mind, that needed a lot more than a kiss.

“You don’t want a taste?” the Contessa teased.

“What do I do?”

“Why don’t you strip down to your shirt,” Susanna suggested.

He did as she asked, although it never occurred to him to make a show of it. Each layer was shed in order, and he even draped or folded the items as required.

While decidedly not sensual, she kept busy by exploring her flower, the back and forth of her fingers making a faint squish. While that had no effect on him, her moans certainly encouraged him to hasten his efforts.

“Now, straddle the settee and lean in,” Susanna began. “To kiss, you’ll need to get in close.”

She never stopped playing with herself, running a finger over the outer edges, before gliding between those lips. The movements were light and practised, and Marc could not help but stare.

“What now?”

“I’m glad you asked…”

Susanna’s finger flowed over her outer labia, first one side and then, the other. This time, it was slow and deliberate.

“Do that…” the Contessa directed. “…but use your tongue.”

His first attempt was slow and awkward. However, her arousal had the hint of sweetness with a subtle taste of copper. While unfamiliar, her reactions made the effort worthwhile.

Her body relaxed, and she let out a long, satisfied sigh. When he looked up, he saw her breasts neatly parted… I love this view…

He repeated what she did a couple of times, before Susanna opened her lips. More of her arousal was visible, and it was thicker.

Her fingers ran up both lips but avoided the tip. Without being prompted, he worked his way from the bottom and licked upwards. This time, he got the tip of his nose wet. It made him squirm, and she giggled, but he recovered quickly and applied firm pressure with his tongue.

She threw her head back, further outlining her breasts. Distracted by the sight of her reactions, he buried his tongue into her slit. While worried, she grabbed his thick, black hair and forced him in deeper.

Marc was thankful for taking a breath before diving in. While he had no idea what to do, he experimented to see how she reacted. It was licking nearer to the bottom where her arousal was plentiful that caused her to press his head firmly against her.

She was surprisingly strong, but Marc was not about to panic. Instead, he probed, testing her reactions until her moans became guttural. As his lungs began to burn, he tried to come up for air, but Susanna stiffened. Her body went taut, as though turned to stone. After several loud thumps from his heart, she relaxed entirely and freed him.

He gasped for air, and she almost slipped off the settee, but Marc took a hold of her by the thighs. When her eyes fluttered open, a large smile filled her face. She blew air over her forehead to clear any stray hair to get a better view of him.

“That was… surprising,” Susanna said between breaths.

“I wasn’t sure—” Marc said.

“Hush,” the Contessa said. “Oddio! You have absolutely nothing to apologise for.”

“So, that was good?”

Susanna laughed before kissing him on the lips. Before they danced, she licked her arousal from his lips and moaned.

“Men and their need for praise,” Susanna said. “You helped me find release, but don’t let it get to your head. You still have a lot to learn.”

It was not praise Marc sought. He learned people often showered praise on others for a reason. It disarmed the recipient and left them open to manipulation.

What Marc wanted was confirmation. How her body reacted to his experimentation meant a lot to him. He would have loved to hear her point of view… All to help me understand how to make it more pleasurable for her…

“You’ve been curious and attentive,” Susanna said. “Excellent traits for a lover. Now, I believe it’s time for your reward…”

Those last few words were faint, but with a deep timber. He had no idea what she was planning, but at this juncture, he would have followed her on all fours to l’Enfer and back… The view alone would be worth it…

“Take off your trousers and lean back.” Once he complied, the Contessa added, “Close your eyes.”

He did as she asked, and heard her get onto her knees before approaching. Her fingers traced a path over his bare legs, making his hairs stand up straight.

While his face oscillated between a subtle smile and a frown, he refused to open his eyes. He took in a sharp breath as those cool hands transitioned to his inner thighs, towards the source of his discomfort.

“My, my,” Susanna teased. “You’re excited.”

The hairs in that region were stuck together, covered in a thick layer of ejaculate. His body involuntarily flinched at her words, leading the shaft to leap off his defined stomach.

Just like it had done when she explored her depths, there was clear liquid stretching from his stomach to the top of his member. The idea of her being there made him blush. Before he could stop her, a hand grabbed his penis with an all-around firm grip.

“You like it held like a pistol?” Susanna confirmed, as her fist transitioned from the top of the shaft to the base.

The lack of verbal response was all she needed. She stroked him several times, and moved closer. In return, Marc opened up to her.

“You were hiding him all this time?”

There came the sound of her taking a deep breath, as though she were taking in the scent of a freshly cut rose.

“That musk…” the Contessa said, “…intoxicating.”

She shifted, and he felt those cold lips press against his inner thigh. She kissed him slowly, five times, approaching the base with every kiss. Before she reached his goal, Susanna switched sides and began anew.

One.

The kiss was deep, tasting the salt from his skin.

Two.

This kiss was followed by the flick of her tongue, pointing in the direction of the third spot.

Three.

There came a pause, longer than the last time. He waited in anticipation, his heart a gallop.

This time, two sharp pricks pierced his skin. In that moment, a wave of ecstasy washed over him, and his pupils dilated completely.

Content with her evening meal, the Contessa moaned…

CHAPTER 37

INDIGESTION

Before meeting with the Contessa, there were few instances of Marc’s life where he was genuinely happy. On the other hand, he could rhyme off several notable examples of anguish, anger, and rage.

While generally content, his ship rarely sailed into the light. Instead, he maintained a steady course under a perpetually grey sky. An occasion a gale would veer him off course, into the waters harbouring his darker side.

When she bit him, the sharp pain he experienced was immediately overridden by unbridled ecstasy. His entire body reacted positively, his penis throbbed, and his heart tried to leap from his chest… This isn’t right…

Before Émilie’s betrayal, their relationship elicited an occasional break in the cloud cover. However, that was after months of concerted effort to alter course; even then, the rudder barely moved… This makes no sense…

Somehow, the Contessa managed to send him into the light with nothing more than a kiss? This is all a lie!

Marc gazed at his lightly haired chest and saw Susanna’s lips pressed firmly against his thigh. It appeared to be little more than a kiss, although with more suction.

The effect of this kiss was starling; the colouring of her lips grew deeper, an effect that propagated all the way to her toes. If not for a thin rivulet of blood, originating from out of the corner of her lips, there was nothing to arouse suspicion… Is that my blood?

Without thought of consequence, Marc bent back his free leg and kicked her forehead. That wave of ecstasy ceased entirely. It was replaced by overwhelming pain that caused him to fall off the settee while holding onto his thigh. Before his body settled, her foot pushed his chest flat against the floor.

That was followed by the sound of her spitting, accompanied by a wet plop. It looked like a piece of uncooked meat, with two neat, puncture marks at the centre… She tore a chunk out of me?

“I was enjoying my meal,” Susanna said.

“What are you?” Marc managed to ask as it took all he had to fill his lungs again.

He hoped the question would momentarily distract her. However, the placement of her foot against his spine was precise and purposeful. Any movement filled his vision with crackling bolts of lightning.

“Not so easy, is it?” Susanna taunted.

“What did I do to you?”

His invitation here was what threw him off. It was the dock attendant’s slip of that tongue that should have warned him it was purposeful… all of it planned to get me to this point…

“Personally?” Susanna replied. “Nothing, but you’ve made powerful enemies while making a name for yourself. Some of which angered my client…”

That confirmed his suspicions, which ought to make his heart sink. However, that did not account for him bleeding out, forcing his heart to beat harder to compensate.

“They… pushed me… into a duel… Barón… pushed me…” Marc said, his thoughts disjointed and incoherent.

“Wait? Coronel Rafael Arnáiz Barón?”

Marc did not realise he uttered that name. The one who expected him to roll over and die… He finally got his wish…

“Got what…(he)…deserved…” Marc whispered.

His voice was almost indistinguishable from background noise by the time that last syllable was uttered. His eyes remained open, while his lungs were depleted of air, and his heart faltered.

Right before his failing eyes, there was a woman with raven black hair, and sunburnt skin. She wore a long, flowing, white dress, which remained immaculate even as she knelt onto a puddle of blood.

“In a few more heartbeats, you’ll be—” the angel of death said.

CHAPTER 38

OUT FROM THE ETHER

Upon regaining consciousness, Marc noticed a red glow filtering through his eyelids. As he opened his eyes, his vision was assaulted by the light of the sun. It took a moment to realise the flapping sound was from the curtains moving in the morning breeze.

The scent of brine air filled his lungs and focused his mind. This awakened his other senses, revealing a lack of energy, a rumbling stomach, and a splitting headache focused on his forehead… normally, that means I’m famished…

His lack of energy meant there was no desire to remedy his situation. Marc must have remained in that state for an hour. His mind focused on the sun, moving through the sky, and pigeons cooing just outside his room… Complacency won’t fill my belly…

There came a knock at the door. Marc took a quick look to confirm he was dressed before responding.

“Yes?” Marc croaked.

He reached for his throat… What did I do to deserve this?

“I brought up breakfast,” the muffled voice of a young woman said.

The sound of that voice was all he needed. This was Lucia who worked at the hotel, although he never knew her to bring food up to the guests… I can’t complain about my good fortune…

Lucia was a tall, fair skinned woman, with brown hair and eyes. Her most distinguished feature was her smile, which never faltered, even when harassed by patrons.

Upon confirming the door was not latched, he closed his eyes, mentally preparing for the searing pain.

“Come… in…” Marc said, feeling as though every syllable tore at his larynx.

The door opened, and Lucia’s slight profile appeared with a wooden tray. Upon setting eyes on him, her smile faded, and her mouth went agape… I must look a great deal worse than I feel…

“I was worried,” Lucia said. “Two men carried you in at the crack of dawn. They said you passed out after a hard night of drinking.”

Her statement only partially lined up with the symptoms. When hungover, his tongue was furry and he was acutely aware of how vile his breath was. Whatever happened last night, getting drunk was not a part of it.

As soon as she placed the tray at his side, Marc picked it up with both hands. They trembled as he greedily gulped down the contents. While the drink was lukewarm, it soothed his throat… It’s watered down beer…

“Thank you,” Marc whispered.

Lucia’s smile returned to her long face. He also noticed that her cheeks were flush, as though embarrassed… Why would that be?

“You should thank those who brought you in. They left some coins behind and requested we bring up a plate of food…”

The rest of the tray was regular fare for the inn. There was some bread, and a big bowl of what appeared to be broth, but when she moved, a piece of meat floated to the surface… This used to be soup…

“No one wanted to come up,” Lucia said shyly. “They were afraid that you passed away.”

Lucia helped him to sit up properly and placed the tray on his thighs. Marc winced in pain, and had no idea why… Why’s my ass sore?

He did his best to ignore the stars travelling through his vision and grabbed the spoon. The broth was cool, but given his current state, Marc was thankful they brought up anything.

“Did they leave a message for me?” Marc whispered.

“I wasn’t here,” Lucia said. “There was no mention of a note…”

“That’s fine… Thank you.”

It did not take much coaxing for Lucia to leave. She nodded, backed away, and closed the door gently behind her. All of that happened before he managed to swallow a mouthful of soup.

When staring into his reflection in the broth, he realised that he was white as a sheet… She probably wasn’t sure if I was alive, or a ghost…

CHAPTER 39

REMEMBER, REMEMBER

In a few heartbeats, you’ll be…” the woman in white said.

Those black eyes reflected his ashen skin and vacant stare. Those words chilled the blood in his veins… Why am I remembering this now?

“It’s just a dream…” Marc said.

This scene had all the hallmarks of a dream; the room beyond eight paces was blurred and incomplete. However, the details of the woman in white were vivid.

He pinched himself to confirm this was a fantasy. Without any accompanying twinge of pain, he nearly sighed in relief, until something changed his mind.

Pressure built up over his mouth and nose, much more than sleeping face down on the pillow would cause. Worse, there was nothing in sight to account for it… You’d think something reached out from the ether…

The grip was strong, steady, and effectively starved him of air. His lungs began to burn, and the world before him caught fire, like an old portrait exposed to an open flame.

Before the fire consumed him, he tried to scream, but that grip ensured he remained silent.

* * * *

Marc’s eyes opened wide and was greeted by darkness. He tried to roll away, but he could not fight against the force that held him down.

“Don’t scream…” a ghostly voice said.

Without waiting for acknowledgement, the ethereal force released him from its demonic grip. Marc gasped. The cool evening air tasted like heaven even at low tide. Given enough time for him to catch his breath, his opinion was sure to change.

“You’re recovering nicely,” Susanna said.

It took a while for his eyes to adjust. In the pale light of the moon, he realised this was not the woman in white.

Whoever this was, she was beautiful, but Marc had no way to know if this was reality… This goes well beyond my regular fare of nightmares…

“Who are you?” Marc asked.

The Contessa smiled and ran a cool, open hand against the side of his face. It might have been a caress, but the dominion she held over him fuelled his distrust.

“It’s okay,” Susanna replied. “Remember.”

As soon as the word ‘remember’ was uttered, imagery from last night flashed before his eyes. The invitation, the club, and every intimate detail about the Contessa.

“Didn’t I kick you?”

He had no way of knowing how he was alive, and doubted that kick helped, but he could not help himself… I may as well end life on my terms…

“Brave man,” Susanna said. “I could pick up where I left off…”

“Go ahead…”

In his mind, he deserved no better fate. Any good Catholic recited a prayer upon hearing of his many violations of the Ten Commandments… I’m sure God is pleased that I’ve sent so many souls into his loving arms…

She surprised him by softly kissing his lips. Hopeful that this would distract her, Marc tried to use his legs to buck her off, but he may as well have been tied to the rack.

“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of healing your wound…”

“Why waste your time?”

“You might still end up being dessert… However, I need answers.”

“Then, why—”

“Because you needed to be free of my influence,” Susanna said, even though her lips remained still. “You would have died, which forced me to use my blood to heal that wound.”

“How—”

“While you’re free of my influence, even a small amount of blood opens your mind to me,” the Contessa replied.

Marc realised that Susanna was letting him know that she could access his thoughts. Did that extend to his memories? The idea bothered him, but what could he do about it? She can dominate me in both mind and body…

“Ready?” Susanna asked.

Marc’s jaw muscles bulged while his eyes burned with fury. She appeared to be indifferent, her smile growing the more he tried to free himself.

“Get off me,” Marc demanded.

“No. You’ll either play nice, or this ends now.”

He noticed two of her teeth lengthening into fangs. After remembering that chunk of raw meat on the floor, he understood the source of those puncture wounds.

“I wish I never met you,” Marc said.

“Understandable… ready?”

Marc tried one last time to break free, but she held on tightly. If her grip was a bit stronger, she would break his bones.

He let out all the air from his lungs and said, “Ready…”

“Did you face Coronel Barón in battle?”

He nodded in confirmation. Without thinking, the image of that pompous ass on horseback and their brief introduction surfaced.

“Were you the one that ended his life?”

Marc shrugged as best he could. The only clear memory he had of that moment was facing Barón with swords drawn before the mortar blew in their faces… They said there was not much left of him…

“Most would choose to lie,” Contessa said.

“Why?”

“Fear of dying, or having a woman end their life,” Susanna said while studying the details of his face. “You don’t fear death? Do you?”

Marc nodded, because to his knowledge, that was true. La Mort was never far when men went to war… It’s best to assume that you’ll never make it back…

“You were supposed to die last night,” Susanna confessed. “However, it turns out that we need men who understand the intricacies of war in our ranks.”

“Us?”

Instead of a reply, she parted her lips, to give him a view of her fangs. Meanwhile, the tips of her fingers lengthened, blackened and hardened, until they resembled talons. He missed that development until they pierced his skin.

“You’re just revealing to me the true face of a woman…” Marc retorted.

Upon dwelling on those words, he realised this was how he saw the Comtesse as a child… That certainly set the tone for our relationship…

Susanna giggled and ran a hand full of talons along his chest. Initially, there was nothing, but after several heartbeats the wounds burned as blood welled up. Marc clenched his jaw, but he made no sound.

“We have many names, although vampire is the most common.”

“Why would anyone so powerful need me?” Marc began. “It’s clear you can operate with impunity.”

“Against you? Absolutely,” Susanna replied. “Against others of my kind?”

She leaned forward until her lips brushed against his earlobe.

“Many of whom would never think to show you mercy,” Susanna whispered.

There it was: the grain of truth that would form the foundation for his decision. If their society was as dysfunctional as European royalty, then soldiers were needed to make peace.

“What are my choices?” Marc asked.

“Die tonight by my hand or live on as one of us.”

Outwardly, it was not much of a choice. However, it was often better to die with dignity than live on as a shadow of oneself.

“This is my choice?”

“It is.”

“You have no influence?” Marc confirmed.

There was a pause, as though Susanna was considering how to respond.

“While I could, I choose not to…”

“Why?”

“You’d resent me later… A grudge festering for centuries.”

That made sense, and a part of him admired her for the modicum of honesty… she could always make me forget…

“What do I get?” Marc asked to see how serious this offer was.

“What is your wish?”

This was his opportunity to bargain for his life. How much was he worth to creatures that were presumably immortal, ambitious, and powerful? Have I ever really cared about ambition or power?

Marc had no interest in going back home, especially as the image of a pregnant Émilie took centre stage in his mind. Both women used their skills to get him exactly where they wanted him… there’s a difference…

“You,” Marc replied.

“Me? Why would you want—”

He assumed that this woman had seen the image of the mother of his child. Perhaps, she lacked context to follow his thoughts.

“Only as much as you’re willing to offer.”

Marc adopted a wide grin. He enjoyed cutting her off for a change.

“Sex?” Susanna guessed.

“I want to feel normal,” Marc confessed.

Instead of explaining what he meant, Marc brought up several awkward scenes involving Émilie. Most of it was centred on their first meeting and his lack of appetite for women.

He then focused on what was done to him under the influence of those white flowers. Only then, was Marc certain that Susanna had the complete picture.

“It wouldn’t be real,” Susanna replied. “I would have to elicit desire in you using my voice or nudge you through our link.”

“I don’t care,” Marc said. “I’ve looked over your collection of books and tasted but a fraction of your intellect. You intrigue me, but despite your obvious beauty, I’d never be able to experience what it is to truly desire you… if you so choose.”

Susanna’s features softened, and her lower lip trembled.

“It wouldn’t be real…” Susanna repeated.

Before she could shed a tear, her mask fell back into place, bringing about that haunting smile.

“Have you ever been in a relationship that was real?” Marc said.

“That’s rather cynical, and surprisingly wise…”

“I want to experience the passion and intimacy of being with a woman. Something that’s eluded me all my life,” Marc said. “Who knows? Given time, you may find that my appetite for you is genuine… in addition to my desire to please you.”

The Contessa slid off Marc, and the wounds on his chest healed, leaving no traces behind. This was a powerful display of the control she had over him. He imagined that Susanna could force him to accept whatever reward she wished… I wouldn’t even be aware of it…

She walked towards the window to stare at the moon. Susanna glowed in the silver light, lending this monster an angelic aura.

He gasped at the sight of her beauty, and his heart even skipped a beat, yet he found his growing excitement to be exhausting… Does that make sense?

“My control is reasserting itself,” Susanna said. “I could make you as hard as an anvil…”

“I’d welcome it.”

Susanna cocked her head to one side. She proved to be an expert at reading his mind, but it left her confused… she can’t grasp why someone would choose her…

“It would be a pleasant way to die,” Susanna confessed. “However, you’ll need at least a week to recover…”

“Is that a—”

“What if you change your mind?”

“I won’t.”

“You say that now—”

“Then, kill me now or make me forget,” Marc countered. “At least, I’ll experience what it’s like to truly desire a woman.”

“Death is always a possibility.”

“I know. That’s why you asked me if I feared walking in the shadow of la Mort.”

“I’ll have to confer with the council,” Susanna replied. “During the day, you’ll have no memory of our time together. However, if you wish, I’ll come to you at night as though in a dream.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Actually… you won’t…”

CHAPTER 40

THE PERFECT DRUG

Warning, oxygen levels at 12.3% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

Had Marc been able to experience genuine emotion, he would have smiled. He remembered his time with Susanna fondly. She was true to her word, appearing as though from a dream before freeing his memories.

Marc remembered how Susanna always smelled of lilac, since she collected the flowers as they bloomed at her club and dried them out. She would blend them with oils to fashion a fragrance of her own design… she always smelled of spring…

After he fully recovered, Marc would occasionally offer a vein to further boost the effect. The early stages of their relationship were almost purely sexual. Most evenings, he ended up a puddle of sweat, nearly comatose, caught up in the arms of this Venetian beauty.

“Every night, we broke new ground, finding creative ways to help her find release…”

All that remained of those precious moments was the imagery. Gone was the emotional component of their time together. Marc supposed that made sense; initially, Susanna was integral for lighting the fires of his desire. Through her guidance, he finally understood the sonnets and poetry written on the topic.

“Every night she sought my consent.”

He left out his reasons for becoming a vampire, even if the chances of a human finding these words was near zero. The only ones who might find this were descended from Émilie. The one who helped to make this station viable.

Marc suspected most would not understand why he chose to become a vampire. However, he likened being with her to an addiction, like those who returned to an opium den to escape life.

“With Susanna, I could finally experience passions that were absent my entire life.”

Ultimately, his decision was selfish. He could have died that night with dignity; instead, he lived on and witnessed humanity moving forward in ways he never imagined.

“Besides, I choose to believe that Susanna benefited from our arrangement.”

While Marc could never know for sure, he was certain that his singular focus on her needs explained the delay for his transition. He doubted the council needed that much time to deliberate on his fate. By the end of that summer, Susanna lost count of how many times she came.

Susanna’s link also permitted her to experience what he did. She once confessed that male pleasure was simpler, but the orgasms more distilled and focused.

“She once said that wars would disappear overnight if men were capable of having multiple orgasms.”

Warning, oxygen levels at 12.4% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

To celebrate their second month together, Susanna brought him back to the club. They spent the day in her quarters, enjoying each other like a young couple in love. This worked well for him, as he was now twenty-five years old… I still felt very much like a young man, despite what I’d seen…

“She was the perfect drug,” Marc said before taking a deep breath. “This is going to be tough…”

CHAPTER 41

WOMAN IN WHITE

An hour after sunset, servants entered the Contessa’s quarters, bringing in several trunks. Upon closer inspection, Marc realised these were wardrobes, and while one contained men’s clothing, the rest were clearly hers.

While the servants were unbothered by his presence, or the fact they were both nude, Marc suspected this was all a show. Men and women of their station would normally live in different rooms… or wings. Servants also assisted them with all aspects of the preparation.

“What are these for?” Marc asked as he opened a trunk full of masks and wigs.

“A party,” Susanna said dryly.

There was something lacking in her voice, which left a chill in the air. Since the fires of his desire for her also cooled, Marc assumed that Susanna was too busy to influence his thoughts… This must be serious…

He turned to gaze upon her. She was still in bed, with her bare legs spread apart. Her flower must have been sensitive after their vigorous session.

Marc was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his hair was dripping wet. Even the hairs on his chest were matted against his skin. While the Contessa was full of sweat, it was not hers… Whatever vampires are, they clearly don’t sweat…

Even without her voice to drive his thoughts, he found the sight of her alluring. When he made his request to Susanna, he hoped that his nature would adjust to the new norm… It might just be working…

When Susanna caught sight of his little soldier rising to the occasion, she smiled and her eyes moistened. However, that was soon replaced by an impish grin. She grabbed a pillow and tossed it at him.

“We have no time for fun,” Susanna said. “We need to wash up and get dressed.”

There was something peculiar about her behaviour. For the first time, Susanna did not breathe unless she had to speak. The break from her humanity was disconcerting… this is but a taste of her natural state…

“Shall I help you up?”

“Get washed up first,” Susanna said. “I suspect some cold water will do you a world of good… If that doesn’t work, you can take a dip in the canal.”

There it was: the element in her voice that relayed a command. Faster than it took for him to become erect, Marc deflated and complied without resistance. This time, he was aware of her influence.

“I’m sorry,” Susanna said from the depths of his mind. “I’ll explain later.”

Marc poured water from a pitcher into a basin. He used a towel to wipe himself dry, before splashing his face, and shaving. It was purely mechanical; he could have done it with his eyes closed.

When he finished, Marc noticed that an outfit was laid out for him. The clothes were ornate, more pomp and circumstance than he was accustomed to… When was the last time I wore something like this?

Using the silver mirror, he quickly got dressed. Without any servants present, Marc knew he would assist Susanna with her gown.

“You look handsome,” the Contessa said.

Marc made out her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was tied back with silver pins to accommodate a wig. Susanna was already clean, wearing nothing but her slip… She probably didn’t want me to get excited about washing her body with soap and water…

He averted her gaze, his palms sweaty from anxiety. However, Marc wanted to avoid getting lectured about the fact they ‘had no time for that.’

A moment later, he looked over his shoulder towards the mirror. Marc saw a pair of black eyes staring back at him.

“The woman in white…”

CHAPTER 42

THE FACE OF A PREDATOR

Marc?” Susanna said.

He blinked repeatedly before his vision was restored. A moment later, Marc gave his head a shake to clear the remaining cobwebs.

“Sorry? What happened?”

“You said something about a woman in white…and froze.”

This woman in white had been haunting his dreams ever since his near-death experience, but this was the first time he had seen her while awake. Is Susanna the reason I see her? No. That doesn’t make sense…

“Just a trick of the brain,” Marc said. “I dreamed of a woman with raven black hair and eyes the day we met…”

“Should I be jealous?”

He took her in his arms, kissed her tenderly, and hugged her. She was cool to the touch, which was surprisingly comforting. He peered straight into those hazelnut eyes.

“I only have eyes for you.”

She put on a weak smile before nibbling on her lower lip. Marc guessed this was all part of the act. On the surface, the Contessa wore an impenetrable mask, sharing only what was necessary to play her role. On the other hand, Susanna was emotive, sensual, and vulnerable… Since they are one in the same, it’s not always obvious who I’m dealing with…

“You’ve been working on that charm of yours,” Susanna said.

“I have you to thank for that.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, as though there was more to this party than she was prepared to confess. Marc knew better than to ask, so he deflected.

“Are you fine with me helping you—”

“Of course; you’ve been doing it for almost eight weeks now.”

Marc offered to help her early on, as a way to stretch out their time together. Once, he managed to get her out of her clothes instead of in. The next day, Susanna returned and slapped him. His distraction nearly left her stranded away from the club after sunrise.

Of course, that was followed by a kiss. She had every right to be mad, but only had herself to blame. Because of her control, he could do nothing to stop her from leaving… That was one hell of a slap!

Marc mastered the art of getting her in and out of her dress. Although, these gowns were far more involved than her norm.

“You’ll have to really tighten the corset this time,” Susanna added. “Show no mercy… Don’t forget… I don’t need to breathe.”

He found the corset earlier; it was fashioned from whale bone and silk. A step above anything he ever laid eyes upon. This model was also tied at the back…

“I’ll do my best,” Marc joked.

“More like your life depends on it…” the Contessa replied. Funny, that doesn’t sound like a joke…

Marc did not protest and helped her into that corset. As requested, he pulled until his fingers went white. By the time he was done with the knot, his fingers were numb, and throbbed with pain.

He helped her into her verdingal, along with the bum roll and forepart skirt, but the formality of this event called for more… I can’t imagine walking around with that much material…

Lastly, there was the gown, which matched the style of the bum roll and forepart. This was by far the most ornate layer, made of silk and lace. This gown alone must have been worth a fortune.

After getting her dressed, it was time to help Susanna with the wig, which was easier than expected. Susanna did most of the work herself, but she needed him to ensure there were no stray hairs visible.

Marc guessed she would need to cover her face. He made his way to the trunk that contained an assortment of masks, each one featuring a specific predator with decidedly feline elements. These would conceal her full face,

“Why a Lynx?” Marc asked.

“The third one on the second row.”

The lack of an answer was telling. The fact there were no masks that would fit him was also a clue.

Without protest, he delivered the mask to her, and tied the bow neatly at the back of her head. The end effect was chilling. These masks differed from those typically used for Venetian balls. Those were normally quarter masks, which were held in place by the wearer.

For a moment, Marc believed he was peering at the real her… She really is a predator…

“Thank you for reminding me,” the Contessa said. “I’m taking you to something that is more of an initiation than a party. You’ll be drugged to answer questions without your mind filtering the responses.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

That mask made it impossible for him to read her, but there was a quiver in her voice that was barely noticeable, unless someone was intimately familiar with her… I have a feeling I’m dealing more with Susanna tonight…

“I can’t do this to you…” Susanna whispered. “…you need to go…”

“Why would I—”

“It’s still daylight. I could claim you stabbed me right here with this silver pin.”

She pointed at the deep recess of her left ear. Given the length of the pin, her death would be quick and painless.

“It won’t kill me,” Susanna reassured him, while offering him the pin, “but it’ll create a plausible story.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“It’s a chance for you to be free of me… and my kind.”

“Susanna,” Marc began. “For you, I’d swim through molten brimstone.”

Susanna took in a sharp breath. Without any visual cues, he assumed his response must have moved her.

“Are you certain that you wish to proceed?”

“To be with you?” Marc confirmed. “Absolutely.”

She let out the air from her lungs, her lips trembling as she did.

“This affair is long, arduous, and humiliating,” Susanna pressed.

“I don’t care about that… Just you.”

“You’ll forget everything about my true nature, and the purpose of this party. However, you’ll retain the memories of us as a… couple.”

The change in him was immediate. Marc quirked a brow at the sight of her mask, while placing his hands lovingly on her shoulders.

“A beautiful choice,” Marc said before smiling.

“Thank you,” the Contessa said. “Remember, what lies beneath is, by far, more frightening…”

CHAPTER 43

WHAT LIES BENEATH

Warning, oxygen levels at 12.5% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

Marc paused when that familiar line came to mind. It was the same line he used on Evelyn, and the one she used for her candidates… A shame that Evelyn was never successful with her progeny…

This rite of initiation had been going on for millennia, a relatively recent addition to vampiric society. The definition of new differed greatly between immortals and the living.

True to her word, this event was an initiation disguised as a party. Susanna did him a favour by forcing him to forget what she was… Knowing there were monsters in my midst would alter the way I interacted…

On the surface, this was a straightforward affair. The sponsor, sometimes known as sire, brought in their candidate. Citizens of the city’s vampire population would ask questions over a wide range of topics. While there was no formal title for the initiate, fresh meat often came up in conversation.

Their sire was required to leave the scene, forcing this newborn babe to bear the brunt of their interrogators… That’s not even accounting for them being drugged…

To further disorient the initiate, they were always brought to an unfamiliar locale. Since Marc had been to the club before, they opened the Grand Hall, on the other side of the courtyard.

The hall’s ceiling was easily three stories high and differed in style from the rest of the club. The hall was predominantly fashioned from white marble. There were so many lanterns billowing smoke that he had trouble breathing.

“I remembered wondering why no one else was coughing…”

The masks helped protect a select few. Some members of their society were comparatively famous. For example, Cleopatra, in her traditional garb, certainly turned heads. Also, it would not take much for a sharp mind to make the connection.

The same could be said for the Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed, colloquially known as the Blood Countess. She was a legend in vampiric circles for purportedly bathing in the blood of virgins. Despite the best efforts of those who imprisoned her, they were never able to erase her likeness from history.

“Think the masks were primarily used to set the tone.”

The candidate was surrounded by predators, with each mask reflecting the creatures hiding within. Evelyn played on the theme, creating a lifelike representation of her own face to wear as a mask.

There was an expectation the fresh meat would integrate and mingle. The difference was that Marc assumed they were men, and that his reputation preceded him. His demeanour implied he stood on equal footing with those around him. That lack of respect did catch the ire of powerful vampires… My lineage helped smooth out further interactions…

“Evelyn was a different matter…” Marc said absentmindedly. “However, that’s for another time.”

* * * *

Marc did not remember his drink would be laced. The compound used made him susceptible to suggestions while permitting interrogators to give Marc commands. This happened several times during the four-hour ordeal, of which he remembered little more than an hour.

Some questions were mundane and often repetitive, but each was designed to measure his worth.

“Would you kill if ordered to do so?” a man they referred to as Aelred asked.

Aelred was an Englishman in his twenties with auburn hair. Those piercing blue eyes were his most striking trait. Whereas that crooked nose and cleft in his chin gave him a rugged appearance.

Had Marc been aware, he might have had something to say about his motherland. What the English did to the Maiden of Orléans was still fresh in the minds of the French.

“I’ve done so many times,” Marc replied.

“How many?” a man with an Austrian accent that went by Florian asked.

This was a blond man in his forties with a peculiar set of eyes that shone like steel. He was notably tall and built, which left Marc with the distinct impression this was a barbarian in a nobleman’s attire.

Marc noticed they sometimes referred to him as Graf. Marc was familiar with the term, since it was the equivalent of his rank within Germanic nobility.

“Sixty-seven,” Marc answered.

“Why else would you kill?” Aelred asked.

“Duty, honour, and love.”

They assumed he had broken out of the trance and was kissing up to his sponsor. Such a feat, even as a temporary slip, worked in his favour.

After a batch of questions, they took him out of his suggestive state. Marc went on with whatever he was talking about before the pause. It could have been mundane as the weather, French politics, or details of his time as a soldier.

Sometimes, the conversations were one-sided. They made him promise to uphold the tenets of the masquerade, and feed responsibility to ensure the herd remained unaware of his presence. Most importantly, he was never to act in a way that would reveal the existence of the world hidden in the shadows.

While he was made to forget his promises, the ideas were left to simmer in his subconscious. It was said that once an idea took root, it was nearly impossible to be rid of it.

* * * *

Warning, oxygen levels at 12.6% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“Fortunately, Susanna freed my mind after the masquerade,” Marc said. “I didn’t initially understand why, but later deduced it left me better equipped to face our foes…”

There was one answer that was not well-received. If not for a woman taking an interest in the conversation, that might have been his last night on earth…

* * * *

“What would you do for your King?” a boy asked.

That boy was dressed to the latest fashions and was a head shorter than Marc. However, the tone in that voice came to those accustomed to commanding their lessers. Marc disliked the boy for that reason alone.

There was something off about those eyes. They were devoid of the signs of innocence expected for someone so young, as though a witness to too much death. Marc later learned that the boy had been De Prins Lutgarde de Tongres, a Belgian prince.

De Prins was decidedly ugly, with a distorted face that his blond hair and blue eyes could never compensate for. Namely, big teeth, and an unusually developed jaw and nose… Probably, trying to keep it in the family…

“I have no king,” Marc replied.

“What about your lands? Your responsibilities to the king and your people,” Lutgarde asked.

“A steward handles my affairs.”

“Would you die for your king?”

“I’d gladly watch the traitor die,” Marc said without any hint of emotion.

Several choked on whatever they were drinking. While it appeared to be wine, the vintage was thicker and of a deeper shade of red than Marc was accustomed to.

Clearly, the boy was not pleased by his response. While Marc stared off into the distance, this spoiled child turned beat red. Elder vampires did not often lose control to the point of activating their long dormant metabolic functions.

Before the bulging vein in the boy’s forehead burst, a woman ventured into the fray. Marc had not noticed her before, because she wished to remain hidden from his gaze.

Had Marc been awake, he would have done a double take. Standing before him was Beatriz Silva, the server who Cornay pointed out in the tavern. Had he recognised her, there would have been many uncomfortable questions for both of them.

For some reason, she chose not to wear a mask. It made those dark brown eyes, sunburned skin, and curly, dark hair that much more alluring.

Gone was the plain dress of a peasant. Instead, she wore a fashionable gown for Madrid, and like all the other gowns on display tonight, no expense was spared in its tailoring.

“His king betrayed him,” Beatriz said in flawless Italian.

Gone was the butchered French she used in town. In fact, French was her seventh language and Italian her ninth.

“He should show more—” Lutgarde said.

“Why? He wouldn’t be here without his strength of will.”

“The king—”

“Is a weak-willed child,” Marc said without realising that was not meant as a question.

Everyone in the circle laughed save for Marc and the boy.

“A man who sold out his loyal soldier to placate my distant cousin’s ego,” Beatriz said. “Isn’t that how you fell out of favour with your father? De Prins?”

The room went silent, which was a feat in itself. Now, only one heart was beating strong and true. Given Marc’s state, that singular sound became his world.

Once De Prins’ lower jaw rejoined its opposite, the boy cleared his throat and excused himself. With the doors closed behind him, conversations were given a new life.

However, fortune smiled on Marc. Selections were done on a majority vote and the boy was but one voice amongst many. By leaving the masquerade, he had no ability to influence the others.

“Well played,” the Austrian Florian said.

“It had to be said,” Beatriz countered. “He’s always had a rather big chip on his shoulder.”

The group chuckled but went no further. Beatriz was connected, as were many here. However, younger vampires could ill afford to make an enemy.

“If he showed such promise back then,” Aelred began, “why is Susanna the one to sponsor him?”

The immediate group went quiet, which further bent the ears of those nearby. Meanwhile, Marc stared out into nothing, his jaw partially open as though he had been stopped mid-sentence. That last part was true, since Aelred loved to catch them in odd poses, solely for comedic value.

“My mission was to ascertain the town’s defences. My report clearly stated there were better targets,” Beatriz said. “Since we only crossed paths at the tavern, I could not apply my full powers of persuasion.”

“You mean to say—” Aelred asked.

“He never noticed me.”

“Really?” the men asked in unison.

“He’s the only one in the bar who didn’t…”

That answer revealed more than intended. Her attempts to flirt managed to catch the attention of every man at the tavern, save for one. Applying more persuasion would have risked a riot…

“Does he prefer men?” Aelred asked.

“He’s never shown interest in anyone,” Beatriz said. “I would describe him as bored with life, hiding behind a poorly fitted mask.”

“I caught you saying that he frequented a whore… Émilie was it?” Florian asked.

Vampires had excellent hearing, which made them formidable predators. Their ability to overhear distant conversations while participating in another was a skill they coveted.

“She tried, and tried,” Beatriz said with a smirk. “I heard her sobbing in her room, bemoaning her inability to reach him, but she eventually got what she wanted.”

“You have to admire the girl for being so determined,” Aelred said.

“When fighting a defensive war, one must win every encounter,” Florian mused.

“You Austrians are always going on about war,” Aelred countered.

There came an uncomfortable pause; however, someone decided to broach the subject.

“I heard the Contessa broke him in a single night,” Florian stated.

It was a less than subtle jab at Beatriz for being so brazen with the boy. Verbal jabs were common in vampire society, because they had too much time on their hands. Anything that alleviated the boredom was welcome.

“She was well rewarded for it as well…” Beatriz countered without missing a beat.

“Meaning?” Florian asked, now committed to this line of questioning.

“He listens to her, focuses on her, pays attention, and is dutiful…”

There was a blank look shared amongst the men. None could connect these were the traits expected of a good lover.

“Really? Nothing from the intellectuals?” Beatriz teased. “She came… a lot.”

“Women can do that?” Aelred asked.

Her initial response, while non-verbal, came across loud and clear. Beatriz stifled a laugh and rolled her eyes.

“It’s been known to happen, especially if the man lasts longer than a minute…”

Aelred swirled the contents of his drink before swallowing what remained. Without asking, a servant brought him a fresh glass. After another sip, he snapped his fingers.

“…that’s why I prefer to use a sabre,” Marc answered a question from ten minutes ago.

He observed someone from out of the corner of his eye. At first, he believed it was a dream, a memory of the days when it was just him with his men. However, when he turned to confirm it was Beatriz, she was gone.

“Clearly, your choice of blade has worked well for you,” Aelred said.

“Quite.”

CHAPTER 44

THE ONLY WAY TO TRAVEL

A week after Marc turned twenty-six, the Contessa led him through the backrooms of the club to become a vampire. These areas saw little traffic, which was precisely why they were there.

Marc felt naked without a weapon, and constantly sought out the hilt of his sword. While he knew that vampires were superior to him in both strength, speed and dexterity, he did not like the idea of proverbially standing outside naked during a gale.

Susanna wore a formal gown which rivalled the one she wore for the masquerade. No matter, I’ve mastered taking them off…

It surprised him that such a thought came to mind. Susanna had a positive influence on his psyche. While he could not be sure, he assumed that she required less persuasion to keep him feeling normal.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Susana asked.

She opened the door, revealing a large, oval room. Like most of the club, the wood panelling and brass fittings set the tone for this room. However, there were no paintings, or decorations to be found… It looks more like an empty coat room…

At the centre, there was something akin to a mirror. While the surface was silver, it did not reflect light, nor their likenesses. To further confuse him, it emitted an eerie, silver glow, which served as the room’s sole source of light… I wonder what—

“Patience—” Susanna said.

He was accustomed to her literally reading his thoughts. Admittedly, he often missed the opportunity to finish a sentence without being interrupted… I didn’t even get the chance to make a sound…

The silver mirror shimmered, and the ambient light grew in intensity until he was left momentarily blinded. After several blinks, and rubbing his watery eyes, Marc found out what changed.

The mirror showed a scene that aligned perfectly with his view of l’Enfer. It was a rocky cave, bathed in the eerie glow of molten rock emanating from below his field of vision. There were ancient carvings, pools of blood, and bones littering the ground.

“I can’t make out the writing,” Marc said.

“I’m not surprised,” Susanna replied. “It’s before my time… or that of Christianity…”

“Care to visit?”

“We can book a room there for our honeymoon…”

“That’s a—”

“Joke?” Susanna confirmed. “Very much so, I doubt we’d be welcome there.”

They continued to stare into Dante’s vision of hell. While Marc had no idea what the mirror actually did, the Contessa appeared unconcerned.

“Ours should be the following destination,” Susanna said.

The language confused him. In his mind, this was a demonic mirror that projected an image of what awaited him after death… If she’s right about what she promised, I’ll evade la Mort…

“La Mort will come for you tonight,” Susanna said.

“And yet, I’ll live to see another day,” Marc countered. “Sounds biblical.”

“Be careful with that language; there are some in attendance who remember a time before Christ.”

“Are they the type to hold a grudge?”

“That’s putting it mildly…”

A minute after the mirror returned to a neutral state, there came another surge. This time, Marc closed his eyes, saving himself the trouble of waiting for his vision to clear. This destination turned into a large, enclosed space fashioned from sandstone.

The carvings on the walls differed from those earlier and were also indecipherable. Before he could take in the scene, Susanna grabbed him by the hand and pulled him towards the mirror.

He knew that she was strong, but it would not have taken much more for her to dislocate his shoulder. When Susanna connected with the surface, she slipped into the image. Marc expected there to be some sort of sound, like being submerged in water, but there was nothing.

While hesitant to follow her, Susanna maintained a firm grip. First, his hand was consumed, followed by his arm, chest, and lastly, his head that was snapped back from being pulled in so fast…

CHAPTER 45

INTO THE DEPTHS

Marc was immediately assaulted by the oppressive heat. He may have grown up near the border with Spain, but he never experienced a desertic heat… It’s like walking into the kitchen on a hot, summer day…

The air here was stale. Wherever they were, there was little interaction with the outside world… like a tomb…

They eventually came to a stop, and the Contessa released her grip. Before he could open his eyes, she pressed her lips against his. Given the heat, her cool touch comforted him.

He glanced behind him to find a version of the mirror. The difference was that the coatroom was visible on the other side… So, that wasn’t just an image…

“No,” Susanna answered. “We travelled nearly two-thousand miles.”

“Saving us months of travel.”

“There are risks with its use,” Susanna said. “That’s why I pulled you through without going over the mechanics of the gateways.”

His eyes remained fixed on her, but she avoided making eye contact. Susanna could have planted the answer in his mind, so he assumed that she would rather not dwell on it… I can’t imagine what would happen if I ended up caught between a transition—Oh…

The Contessa ran her hand down his arm and squeezed his hand. Since she read his thoughts, she must appreciate that he did not push the matter.

“Come,” Susanna said. “We have a good hour on foot before we reach the chamber…”

He nodded and let her take the lead. Insisting on going first ignored the fact that she knew where they were headed… Besides, age, grace, and beauty take precedence…

* * * *

The tunnel connecting the chamber to wherever they were going had no end in sight. After three-thousand-one-hundred-and-thirty-two steps, they reached a set of stairs.

At this point, the sandstone was replaced by bedrock. The walls were slimy with humidity. If not for the scent of lilac following Susanna, Marc would have been overwhelmed by the smell of death and decay.

The stairs were treacherous, at least for those with poor night vision. While there were pitch torches throughout, few were lit. The light was barely enough for his eyes to discern each step. However, Susanna clearly had no trouble finding her way.

Every so often, she warned him of a loose step, or of an obstacle that he could not yet see. He had no trouble with these orders, since soldiers did the same on long marches… We normally slow down as we approach a dead end though…

“Just follow me,” Susanna said.

She walked straight through the wall at the bottom of the stairwell. Marc took a half-step before doubt filled his mind. However, he tensed his jaw, swallowed hard, and followed her scent through to the other side.

They entered an expansive chamber. It was so large that light did not reach the other side. He paused long enough to take in the view, in awe that places like this existed deep underground.

“You don’t want to wander,” Susanna said. “There’s a trap at the centre.”

“Why haven’t we encountered traps before?”

“We did,” Susanna said bluntly. “You could say that I’m your lucky charm.”

What she meant was that the presence of a vampire negated some traps. Hence, any human who happened upon this place, would face a growing assortment of threats.

“That, and so much more…”

“Stop it,” Susanna said before giggling. “We’re running late.”

“How can you tell?”

“I always know where the sun is… Soon, so will you…”

The ability to track the passage of the sun without sighting it sounded helpful. Still, he figured that such accuracy might be problematic for someone, so…

“Unnaturally stiff and formal?” Susanna teased.

“Well, I have been watching you from behind ever since we arrived…”

“Touché,” Susanna said before chuckling.

At twenty-seven paces from where they breached the wall, they pushed through solid rock. There were steps that led down a level, which gave him a view of a large ring around the centre with spikes waiting for unsuspecting visitors… Judging by that rusty Roman armour, those spikes have been here a while…

At the far end of the chamber, they reached another downward stairwell. The deeper they went, the cooler it became, with droplets running down exposed surfaces. Marc realised that his skin was clammy, and his clothes were damp.

The whore returns…

Susanna hesitated, her steps unsteady. She leaned against the wall, and Marc winced as it might soil her gown. This was the woman who travelled through Venice without getting her dress wet; such a misstep was decidedly out of character.

“Is everything—” Marc asked.

“I’m fine… I just got an icy chill.”

“Do you want a sip to warm you up?”

Marc saw no concern in offering up a vein. Given their pace, he was uncomfortably warm… I blame the outfit…

Your blood is too good for her…

She turned back to catch his genuine smile. Susanna’s face was blank, betraying no emotion at all. Her mask existed to hide her feelings, but created the illusion of normalcy… A complete and total lack of emotion is chilling…

“While tempting, it won’t help,” Susanna said. “It’s all in my head. Besides, I don’t feel the cold…”

“A memory?”

“A dark truth.”

She fears me…

Whatever Susanna was hiding, she must have pushed through it. The smile she normally wore returned as she approached. She pecked him on the cheek before looking into his dark brown eyes.

“You’re sweet for thinking of me,” Susanna said before pinching his lips together to prevent a quip.

She poisons your mind…

He pouted when she snapped back her fingers. There was a voice, one he initially dismissed as being a figment of his imagination. However, those statements lined up with what was going on… My imagination’s never been that potent…

They reached the source of the water, which appeared to be an underground river. There were no lit torches here, and the Contessa instructed him to bring one with him. He could barely see, and was thankful that he blackened his boots last night… I hate wet feet…

In the distance, there came the sound of a mechanism being disengaged. Just ahead, two large, iron plates slammed into place. They somehow diverted the river, because the water level subsided to reveal more steps.

“Someone else is here?” Marc asked.

“There are always sentries,” Susanna said. “They have been here so long, they became shadows, and cannot be reasoned with.”

You will be mine…

With every step, dread crept over him. His heart sank, leaving him with a sense of falling. Marc might have dismissed it as nothing more than fear of the unknown, but Susanna held her head as though suffering from a migraine… I can’t remember the last time I experienced genuine fear…

You cannot ignore me forever!

The voice was much clearer here. What began as a whisper carried by the wind now drowned out his internal voice. The experience was disturbing, because it played out exclusively in his head.

Eventually, a headache took root along his forehead. After rubbing his temples, he noticed that Susanna was hunched over, with her hand pressed against the damp wall… That headache must really be getting to her…

Marc clenched his jaw and focused on the strain to steel his resolve. When that failed, he bit the inside of his cheek until blood welled within. The sharp pain and taste of iron focused his mind.

LEAVE THE WHORE TO ME…

The effects might as well have been physical. He stepped back, and bit down harder, until he wanted to vomit. While the nausea challenged him to breathe, he nevertheless managed to lift her onto his shoulder while carrying the torch.

YOU WILL FEEL MY WRATH…

She was light, which surprised him. For someone who could easily overpower him, his mind could not consolidate the disconnect. With his urging, they reached a point where the voice ebbed.

“Thank you,” Susanna said. “I’m fine now.”

He placed her down gently and waited as she steadied herself.

“What was—” Marc asked.

“You heard that?”

Her voice was shaky, as though on the edge of panic. In hindsight, it was obvious that the voice was the cause of her erratic behaviour.

“It was like another voice inside my head?” Marc confirmed.

“You…could ignore him?”

“Pain is a powerful ally.”

“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

Two-hundred paces ahead, there came a glow from an opening. He assumed they were headed there, as the space was elevated to prevent flooding.

“He’s one of our kind,” Susanna said. “So old that no one has ever seen him outside of his crypt.”

“Crypt?”

A crypt was for the dead, and whoever this was, they clearly were not content with eternal rest. Marc was surprised that the voice influenced her; the Contessa was not some fledgling vampire.

“He reaches out with his mind over vast distances to influence his pawns on the world stage,” Susanna said.

Marc later learned that they buried him deep underground and later built the ziggurat overtop to worship him as a god. For centuries, that city served as the centre of a massive empire… all controlled from his crypt…

“What happened?” Marc asked.

“The surface water dried up,” Susanna said. “The lands became inhospitable, and his followers scattered like sand in a desert storm.”

My empire will rise again!

He knew nothing of this city, or the ziggurat she mentioned. However, the effect that this god had on them left him humbled… I know nothing of this world…

They turned around the corner and were met with fifty-two steps. With every step, the ambient light increased. By the time they reached the top, Marc had a view of a cavernous chamber. At its heart, there was an altar and a large pool of red liquid behind it.

There was a woman near the altar dressed entirely in white. Marc noticed there was a harsh beauty to her, and a symmetry that bordered on perfection. He imagined her likeness being immortalised in stone as a goddess or an angel…

“Susanna, pleasure as always,” the woman said.

While the words were polite, they were very much said like the Comtesse would. It was a compliment that made you feel as if you were a failure and would be one forevermore.

“Drusilla,” Susanna said. “The pleasure is all mine.”

CHAPTER 46

THE OPPOSITION

Warning, oxygen levels at 12.9% and steady. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

The life of a soldier was straightforward. The enemy was clearly identifiable, and gunfire was a definite sign of aggression. Along the same lines, allies were easily recognised by their uniforms.

“Vampires may have a society, but it's anything but civil.”

Immortals tended to get bored and had excess time to plan out elaborate plans for revenge. As a human, if Marc had a problem with someone, they would exchange words. If all else failed, there were duels that resolved any disagreement… permanently…

It was said that vampires were above all of that. Instead of being overt, they plotted and schemed, which was something a man of war, such as himself, abhorred.

“I preferred to see an enemy coming,” Marc said as the image of that encounter between Susanna and Drusilla crystalised in his mind.

“Drusilla’s plans could play out over millennia,” Marc said. “God help those who got in the way…”

* * * *

Marc had to admit that reading people was never one of his strengths. Anyone could figure out that someone was mad when they flew off the handle. However, it proved challenging when they teetered on the edge of insanity.

Still, there were clues, such as erratic movements, a predatory stare, clenched jaw and fists. One simply had to observe their breathing, perspiration, and heart rate.

The last three were key, because these were predominantly autonomous responses. Few were able to prevent the veins on their forehead from bulging. Hunters were amongst the few who could consciously control their autonomous functions, and that was why they were dangerous.

These key points for observation did not apply to Susanna or Drusilla. Marc guessed that both of them were alive today because they mastered hiding their thoughts and emotions behind an impenetrable mask. However, it was chilling to observe these two women, who would gladly flail the skin off the other’s bones, and act as though this was a Sunday social engagement.

They stood a dozen paces from each other, as though frozen in time, while they stared the other down. Susanna wore a smile, and outwardly it appeared to be warm and bubbly. However, Marc had seen her truly smile and it looked nothing like the one she wore.

For Marc, it was like staring at a portrait done by a master painter. The level of skill and detail was beyond comparison. Yet, there was something unnatural, even if he could not articulate what it was… like neither breathing…

There was tension in the room, so thick that he would need his sabre to hack through it. At her request, he came unarmed, and in hindsight it was an odd way for a soldier to meet his maker.

“So, this is the soldier?” Drusilla asked, in a voice that was purposefully formal. “The one who’ll help us wage war against The Tower?”

He had no idea what The Tower was, let alone why they were at war with it. In truth, only being told what he needed to know certainly suited his role as a soldier though… That explains why they were interested in me after they learned of my victory against Barón…

“That’s not what I have in mind for you,” Susanna said from the inside of his head.

“At least he’s pretty…” Susanna said to throw off her opponent.

The woman wearing the white robe approached him, and Susanna backed away instinctively. There was raw, animal magnetism to this creature, the veritable embodiment of a Roman goddess.

He sensed that Drusilla was humming for more than entertainment. The longer he faced this Roman beauty, the more she became the focus of his world. That remained true until an opposing force lifted the veil over his head.

“I’m here for you,” Susanna said.

At that moment, he spotted the predator lurking behind Drusilla’s eyes. He had seen it before in soldiers who were too eager to fight. Those who thirsted for blood and carnage because it made them feel something… She loves to play with her food…

“You don’t know the half of it…” Susanna said. “You need to play her game and appear enraptured by her beauty.”

Marc saw himself making love to Susanna, but the imagery was shown from her point of view. The sight of those breasts moving in unison to his trusts had the desired effect.

A rush of blood made his little soldier throb. Drusilla responded in kind, approaching him slowly, as a wolf stalks its prey. She grabbed him by the crotch and fondled him until he was as hard as an anvil.

“He’s not very loyal,” Drusilla huffed. “Shall I take him now?”

“If that is your wish,” Susanna said before bobbing a rigid curtsey.

This show of force for Drusilla, was to humiliate Susanna. It dawned on him that there must have been other sites where this ritual could be held. It was only logical, given humanity’s penchant for war, and mother nature’s proclivity for destruction.

This location was chosen specifically to torment Susanna. Drusilla must have been the one who gave the Contessa the task of ending his life. However, she swayed the council to spare him… she must pay the price for failure and insubordination…

“I’d do it again,” Susanna confessed to him.

That’s why they were made to walk by that creature, and it further explained why Drusilla was here to perform the ritual.

He doubted Susanna was an angel… who is? However, there was a dark past between the two women, as well as a power imbalance… like a jester taunting the king…

“A shame that a common whore like you polluted his blood,” Drusilla taunted.

No matter how tempted he was to speak up, Marc kept his mouth shut. He had to maintain the illusion of being under her spell. Besides, the imagery Susanna fed him made it easier for him to ignore her.

This imagery grew more vivid and intense. The end effect made his entire body feel warm and relaxed. I’ve been missing out!

“That was a small one!” Susanna exclaimed, her voice echoing throughout his skull.

While he could not be sure, Marc assumed that Drusilla was goading them both. What she needed was a reason to end their lives… If we ruin her fun, she’ll cut me—

Quick as a viper, Drusilla elongated her fangs and buried them into his neck to pierce the artery. Because of Susanna’s link, the euphoric pleasure he normally experienced did not materialise.

“You were always going to die,” Susanna said.

Still, his eyes dilated, and he sighed contentedly. At first, he felt fine, but a general sense of unease crept in from the back of his mind… Like being offered another piece of chocolate cake after growing sick of it…

“You must be near death,” Susanna continued. “She wants me to think that she’ll drain you dry… but she has her orders…”

His strength left him, causing his legs to wobble… I feel like I’m dying…

“Hold on!” Susanna urged.

His breathing grew shallow and raspy. Drusilla withdrew her fangs and visually let him drop to the ground… Barón had a similar face… that smug, self-satisfied look.

“An empty victory,” Susanna said. “You’re almost there.”

Drusilla grabbed one of his boots and dragged him, chest facing the floor, towards the pool. Marc took in a lungful of dust, but he was too weak to cough. At the edge of the blood pool, she left him there like discarded trash.

Drusilla sauntered casually to the altar, with a chalice and old codex atop. From Susanna’s vantage point, Marc realised the pages were made from animal skin—

“Only if you consider humans to be animals…” Susanna said.

After slipping to the right page, Drusilla recited something in an archaic form of Latin. The words had a poetic quality to them, but this creature was purposefully breaking the cadence… to make it more horrific?

Someone stepped out from the shadows. The woman with bare feet, raven black hair, sunburnt skin, and… black eyes…

“What?” Susanna asked.

Once under the harsh light of a torch, he made out her noiseless pleas. The same words repeated over and over: Dites… non?

“Why would you refuse?” Susanna replied.

Until now, it never occurred to him that he could choose. Drusilla was too busy making a mockery of things to even ask for consent… I’m not, that’s what the woman in white is saying over and over…

“Drusilla is the only other person here…” Susanna said.

In the background, tendrils came out from the mirror surface of the well. They appeared to be fashioned from blood, albeit congealed or, more appropriately, coagulated. They grew longer and thinner before wrapping themselves into a bundle approximating the human form.

To distract him, Drusilla grabbed the chalice and greedily drank the contents within. To further make a spectacle of it, the excess blood ran down her chin onto the fabric, staining it red.

“Wait… she hasn’t asked you!” Susanna said.

Her voice was fast, and higher pitched than normal. A clue to the naked emotions surrounding this revelation. Drusilla found her loophole and would exploit it wholeheartedly… She would claim that she missed that part…

“Say yes,” Susanna pleaded.

The woman in white shook her head while uttering the same two words… Is she crying?

“Dites non,” the woman in white mouthed.

“Yes!” Susanna exclaimed.

“Dites non!” the woman in white repeated.

“Please,” Susanna pleaded.

“Non. Non! NON!” the woman in white pleaded.

“Do this for me!”

“Yes,” Marc whispered.

The creature latched onto him and dragged him into the pool. His vision went red and sent him on the precipice of panic. However, Susanna’s siren song echoed through his mind. He focused on her voice and steered away from the maelstrom.

The creature dragged him deeper until his ears popped. Soon after, he noticed a new presence, something that could only be described as cold and dark. Upon contact, the creature fashioned from blood let him go as a shadowy presence enveloped him.

For several heartbeats, the only thing he saw was a dwindling red light as he sank. The black membrane that enveloped him faded away, as though absorbed through the skin.

He descended for what appeared to be hours, but his eyes opened in a flash upon reaching the bottom. Despite there being no light, he made out the outlines of the stone and mortar in the well’s wall… Contour without detail…

It felt like a dream; for one thing, his heart was no longer beating. His lungs should have also been begging for air… something’s amiss…

There was something else wrong, but he could not reason it out. Not knowing what it was, would annoy him… like standing at attention with an itch…

Marc looked straight up and used his knees to launch himself off the bottom. He needed seven-hundred-and-ninety-two kicks to break the surface… That’s a long way down!

When he broke through the surface, his eyes adjusted instantly to the change in ambient light. Even in the dim torchlight, the scene was clear as walking through a town square on a sunny afternoon. Marc saw the stone walls and their inscriptions in full detail. He was even able to peer through the depths of the shadows where the woman in white once stood… She’s gone…

The next detail he caught sight of was Drusilla’s face transitioning from that smug grin to a scowl. The change had taken a fraction of a second, but his eyes perceived the changes as though she was a mime, her movements exaggerated in slow motion.

Next, he laid eyes on Susanna, who broke all decorum by clapping her hands. Those eyes, that hair, her smooth skin, and her visible cleavage had no immediate effect. It took a while for his emotions to work their way out of the recesses of his mind… I feel…

CHAPTER 47

UNDER STRAIN

Warning, oxygen levels at 13.1% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“I never saw the lady in white again…”

He pulled away from the wall engraved with roughly half of his story… or the entirety of my mortal existence…

He was a child born in the light that lived under the heavenly glow of the sun. He ultimately died by turning away from it. When he awoke after death, he lost more than his soul in the exchange.

“In hindsight,” Marc mused as the ice in his joints crinkled, “I should have said no.”

It was not the woman in white he desired. In fact, if any woman had his heart, at least in the Shakespearean sense, it was Susanna.

“I lost my ability to love her…”

In the English playwright’s tales, such a statement would be delivered with a monologue bursting with emotion. That was the problem.

People liked to say that it was better to have loved and lost, then to never have loved at all. They never considered how detrimental to a person’s state of being it was to lose the ability to experience love entirely.

“The transition was not immediate.”

There was much to learn under the tutelage of the Contessa, so they stayed in her chambers back at the club. He awoke when the sun set without fail, and always opened his eyes to find her waiting for him.

By the witching hour, they went downstairs to meet the regulars. He remembered showing little interest in this part of his training, but vampires needed allies…

Nearer to the morning, a mortal woman was brought to them. They were typically young, and beautiful. While they were initially uncomfortable with the situation, the Contessa had no problem soothing their minds.

This was how many vampires hunted. They used their voice to disarm their victims. Susanna was an expert, and while Marc showed promise initially, his ability to channel the voice withered away.

Once under the Contessa’s spell, they were taken up to her quarters, to enjoy their company. Marc was fiercely loyal, refusing to play with his food; however, his sire was not burdened by human morality.

At the edge of ecstasy, Susanna took the first bite. At first, it was little more than a few sips, but that increased over time. When she was done, Marc could drink until his hunger was satiated.

He killed the first two women outright. As a newly turned vampire, the fire in his belly proved difficult to quench.

“I should have figured something was wrong when their death did not add to my building debt of guilt.”

The third woman was sent home with a smile. After four months into their honeymoon, the women were being sent home unconscious. The last few were pale as ghosts, leaving Marc to wonder if they would ever see the light of day again.

Susanna’s growing appetite coincided with a change in her appearance. It was not what mortal men often complained of: gaining weight due to their wife being happily married. His sire was timeless, neither capable of gaining or losing weight.

However, her eyes were sunken and pale, and without makeup, there were dark patches visible under the eyes. Her face was gaunt with a nearly imperceptible smile. He had seen that look before in men who spent their leave drinking hard and rutting with whores instead of resting.

“I had no idea why she looked that way,” Marc recited while committing this part of the story to the bulkhead.

CHAPTER 48

WAKE UP CALL

Why are you so tired?” Marc asked.

A moment ago, two servants had entered the room. While one collected the poor woman’s clothes, the other was helping her to stand. The woman’s head swayed with gravity, like a rag doll carried around roughly. All the while, Marc wondered how those lips were so blue… like Jeanne…

Susanna’s eyes shot towards him and grew wide. He surmised that she was surprised he was up after sunrise.

The Contessa recovered her mask and adopted the smile she used on Drusilla. By now, he recognised how practised that pose was, and it was the perfection of it that once unnerved him.

When the servants left and closed the door, Susanna laughed. While that might have disarmed him in the past, it had no effect on him.

“You’re still awake?”

There was that additional element to those words. It transcended language, and should have appealed to his baser instincts… Why didn’t I notice that before?

“It appears so,” Marc said.

“That normally takes years—”

“You’re avoiding my question…”

Marc was lethargic, but his mind was sharp enough to remember how human contact helped in such situations. He sat up, wearing nothing more than his shirt, and set his feet on the floor.

The cool tiles motivated him, making his steps quick and precise. She appeared to be leery, but the only clue he had to work with was her quivering, lower lip. The movement was so slight that even as a vampire, he nearly missed it. When he sat on her side of the settee, and placed an arm around her shoulder, she broke down.

“I can’t!” Susanna lamented through a stream of tears.

He remembered how such a scene used to evoke something from the depths of his being. Women sobbing uncontrollably; men writhing in pain as their leg was sawn off during amputation. These evoked a physical response that ranged from agitation to feeling sick to his stomach.

Marc focused on her, those contorted features, and reddening skin. He observed how those tears rolled down her jaw before falling to the floor… Why’s this a purely analytical experience…

“Because I’m not augmenting your emotions with mine,” Susanna said flatly.

Her face transitioned from the tear-streaked mess to a tightened jaw. Just as quickly, flames erupted in those eyes, showing vigour he had not seen in days.

She slapped him hard across the face. Had he been mortal, that would have meant trouble. A slap from a motivated vampire could tear a man’s head clean off.

As it was, the impact reverberated throughout the room. She slammed her fists into his chest, repeating the motions several times until her fists became a blur.

He intervened once her fingertips transitioned into talons. Had his sire been in top form, she would have flayed him alive. As it stood, he grabbed her arm in mid-attack to stop her.

Susanna struggled for four minutes before relenting and sending those talons back from whence they came.

“I… hate… you…” Susanna said between sobs.

“I know,” Marc said bluntly, unable to summon an ounce of empathy.

She paused, her face contorting into what could be best described as a tableaux mort. Her mouth was open wide, jaw misaligned, eyes large and round. Her face glistened from all those tears.

How could he reason otherwise? Those tears, and lashing out as she did, were obvious signs. Susanna did her best to prop up his humanity, but at the expense of her health… My inability to feel sapped life from her…

“You-you know?”

“It’s obvious, now.”

While he once described his life as sailing perpetually under cloud cover, with sunny skies to one side, and storm clouds on the other, that changed when she released him.

Marc was on the periphery, sailing an invisible line between the void and the storm. The void was nothing, an absence of everything that once made him human.

Susanna took him closer to the sun than he ever thought possible. But there was no sun left; in its place was a black hole. The maelstrom had grown, a vortex of biblical proportions where his rage resided… That can’t be good…

Some elements of his personality were intact, mainly those not grounded in emotion. Loyalty and duty stood out as two aspects of his persona.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Marc said bluntly.

Susanna’s lower lip quivered. Dealing with this version of him must have been harder than burning herself out.

“I love you,” Susanna whispered.

Those three words should have hit him like a ton of bricks. He remembered sharing that feeling and understanding it beyond the dictionary definition. Alas, the void sucked up all that was good from his world.

“He’s gone,” Marc said. “My memories make it clear that I once felt the same, genuinely. However, he never left that pool.”

“You can’t mean that…”

That voice was so faint that he barely caught it. With his enhanced hearing, Marc could pick up the heartbeat of a rat crawling through the walls… I prefer not knowing how many things live around us…

“I can’t feel,” Marc said. “You know this, and that’s why you intervened.”

Susanna melted into his shoulder and wept. While he remained stiff and formal, it did not matter. He mechanically wrapped an arm around her. It seemed like the right thing to do.

They remained like that for forty-three minutes. He should have been tired, but the instinct that sent him for cover when the sun rose over the horizon, no longer held sway.

She broke free and looked into his eyes. Hers were puffy and red, and in another life, this would have broken his heart. Marc would have waged war to never again see those tear-filled eyes… She’s never looked so vulnerable, so human…

“Had I known…” Susanna said.

“You would’ve killed me.”

Given the penance she endured for defying orders, Marc could scarcely imagine a worse punishment for her.

“Are you always going to be so painfully logical?” Susanna pressed.

That was a great question, one that was easily answered.

“I’d need emotions to offset the logic.”

Those eyes welled up, but she turned away and wiped them dry. Had she been breathing, Susanna would have been forced to sniffle to clear her airways.

“I can leave,” Marc said.

“What?” Susanna asked. “Why?”

“We know why.”

“You’d do that?”

Another great question, one with a grim answer. Making an overland trip back to the Keep would be suicide. He assumed that living on his own would prove to be a challenge.

“I’m not sure the world needs a monster like me.”

“You’re not a—”

“Have you ever met a well-rounded person without emotions?”

“…no…”

He leaned in closer until their eyes were two inches apart.

“I can see my rage floating just over the horizon. If I walk into the sun now, I can save—” Marc began.

“You can’t!”

Marc cocked a brow.

“Why?”

“For one, they’d blame me for destroying their shiny, new weapon.”

That certainly altered the equation. Falling on his sword was out of the question if it put her in danger.

“I suppose that running away is not an option?”

“I poured years of my life into this place,” Susanna said. “We are cruel, patient, and eternal.”

Running would be like waging a defensive war. The only way to succeed would be to win every single encounter. Whereas the enemy simply needed to win once… Fortuna would eventually be on their side…

In his mind, her priorities were logical. Had he been able to feel, Marc might have found offence in the fact that he was not on her list.

“I need to keep you safe,” Marc said.

“Then, we need to find a way through this… together.”

She took his hand and squeezed. When he failed to respond, she pouted and pulled away.

“I need to think,” Susanna said.

“I can leave.”

“No! I don’t want you around the guests…”

“Okay,” Marc said, finding her reasoning entirely appropriate. “What should I do?”

“Get some sleep. I’ll be back when the sun sets…”

Marc stared at her, confused, as she was readying herself for a night out. Marc was normally part of the ritual, but he decided that he would not take the initiative in this case. What had once been a woman, battered and broken by being drained of emotion, gave way to the Contessa… A femme fatale who owns the night…

“You are beautiful,” Marc said.

“Logic can define beauty?”

“Evidently. You’re the picture of perfection.”

She smiled meekly, those eyes watering, but she forced the mask back into place. When done, Susanna went for the door. Hearing those words said with such a neutral tone, had the opposite effect he wished.

“Get some rest,” Susanna ordered.

She opened the door and walked out. Marc stayed where he was until she stepped onto the floor below.

Around this time of day, natural light would seep through the windows. However, the older vampires could ignore it… Newly turned vampires tend to panic…

With nothing to do, he blew out the lanterns, and went back to bed… Will I dream?

CHAPTER 49

A KINGDOM FOR A DREAM

Marc got his answer in the evening. He awoke with the setting sun as though he just shut his eyes.

His inability to dream was a mixed blessing. Gone was his ability to revisit places from memory, or speak to old friends and acquaintances… I don’t miss being haunted by the dead…

It did not surprise him that Susanna was not back when he awoke. However, he was aware of her presence. Either she was consciously sharing her emotional state, or did so due to being stressed… All of it just goes into the void…

On the thirteenth day of her absence, he awoke to find her home. She was seated on the settee, looking very much like the woman he remembered.

The smile upon those lips was very much the Contessa’s best, but faltered when he did not reciprocate. Between the both of them, Marc was handling the change in dynamic with more ease… A lack of emotions makes change a purely cognitive affair…

“We have a problem…” Susanna said.

“I agree.”

Without her to stabilise his psyche, the way he spoke devolved. There was no variation in the voice, no emotion, and he spoke as though his words were in sync with a clock.

To centre herself, Susanna closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. After a moment to collect her thoughts, she opened those eyes while her nostrils flared… I don’t need a soothsayer to tell me that she’s displeased…

“We can add your voice to the top of the list,” Susanna attempted to mimic.

While not entirely accurate, it highlighted the inhuman nature to his manner of speech. While the Contessa wore a practised mask, she could not sever the ties to her emotions entirely.

“I see your point,” Marc said. “How?”

“I think it’s best to keep you away from others for now. It won’t take long for someone to figure out something’s wrong.”

“Why?”

“W-why?” Susanna tossed back.

“Why do this?” Marc pressed. “Clearly, this isn’t normal.”

That question of his must have hit her like a mule kick to the chest. He got up from bed, wearing nothing more than a shirt, and ventured towards the fireplace. Marc focused on preparing the seat of the fire, using a combination of kindling, and dried seaweed.

The latter carried the strong scent of low tide, but the flames would remedy that. With a practised strike of steel against flint, sparks flew out and set the seaweed aflame.

Susanna focused on what he was doing. Once the flames took a life of their own, she gasped.

“How can you do that?” Susanna asked.

“I asked you something first. However, it appears I don’t experience fear in the same way…”

“It takes most of us years to manage our fear of fire.”

“Because fire makes us vulnerable?”

“How did—”

“Logical.”

There came a pause, brought on by the apprehension of dealing with a stranger. Most relationships changed after they were past the honeymoon phase. Lust faded and those annoying ticks and habits gained prominence. This was a different matter; she was interacting with half the man… raw intellect without any emotional counterweight…

“I miss what we had,” Susanna began. “You stole my heart when you chose me over wealth and power.”

Without any emotion to help him frame her statement, the first thing that came to mind was: How badly was she treated for thinking that?

“I wish you wouldn’t put yourself down…” Susanna snapped.

“More like shifting the beads on an abacus.”

“Love is not an equation!”

“I can’t feel lo—”

“I can!” Susanna snapped, her own emotional mask fraying at the edges. “I can’t stop how I feel.”

“I apologise. I hadn’t—”

“Not helping!”

She rubbed her temples, while Marc focused on the fire. By now, there were red-hot embers, so he added a couple of logs to retain heat.

Susanna let out all the air from her lungs and remained like that. It reminded him how naturally breathing once came to him. Without humanity to cling to, the act of doing so was tedious.

After taking in a deep breath, she opened her eyes and focused on him.

“The nature of us has changed dramatically,” Susanna said. “At least, it’s not infidelity…”

Marc said nothing. If Susanna wanted his input, she would ask for it.

“As you are, you risk exposing us all,” Susanna added. “Still, this is not your fault.”

All of this was obvious, but Susanna was trying to lead him through to her conclusion. He had no emotions to dampen the impact of the bad news… I suspect it’s something that’s out of character for me…

“Susanna,” Marc said. “Please, don’t spare my emotions. I promise, I’ll do as you ask.”

Susanna bit her lower lip. She took several breaths to find her courage.

“You have no ability to feel,” Susanna said. “However, like any good vampire, you must hide amongst the flock…”

Those words trailed off for a reason. He made a note to press her later for details when the opportunity arose.

“We need to work on your speech, and your ability to act normal,” Susanna said. “So, I’ve put together a theatre troupe…”

While nearly imperceptible, Marc’s brow shot up a fraction of an inch. With the keen eye of a vampire, Susanna smirked.

CHAPTER 50

A NEW COURSE

Warning, oxygen levels at 13.4% and steady. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“I’d never think of that,” Marc admitted.

Susanna chose a troupe composed of Venetian courtesans. It was clear from her selection that she had something else in mind. However, Marc trusted her to let him know when appropriate.

“Women in theatre was a foreign concept back then. The norm was to have men play every part.”

True to form, Susanna eventually confided that these plays had a sensual component. Her intent was to play for a small audience of wealthy men. Since their lineup featured scantily clad women, she hoped it would loosen their coin purses to be entertained.

Men were part of the group, such as Marc, serving as chaperones and security. The Contessa would let him know through their link if they had to intervene.

“After months of preparations, we were ready,” Marc said. “She even gave me a part, playing a highwayman who accosts a pair of nuns travelling to the next town.”

It was a good choice for him, as the role permitted him to play on his inhumane nature. With a lot of patience, Susanna taught him how to speak naturally again, using her link to hear back his words.

While his acting was stiff, his deadpan delivery worked in his favour… for comedic effect. Susanna lent a measure of her emotions during the show to help him appear more human… Fortunately, her need to supplement my persona waned over time…

To keep the clients coming back, they made sure to vary their skits. Marc was given progressively bigger roles, many of which decidedly out of character. While he would never be perfect, the more he performed, the better he became at passing off as a human.

“Susanna’s mask existed to hide her emotions, whereas mine created the illusion of having them.”

Marc was a force to be reckoned with at games of chance. He was easily able to create a false set of tells to throw off his opponents… Let them think they won before revealing my winning hand…

“Evelyn would be furious if she found out what I did ‘til I was thirty-five.”

The Contessa was renowned within the vampiric community, but obscure to the public. After the humiliation they put her through, she sought to alter the balance… Save the two of us, our staff was human…

Venice was soon abuzz with news of these exclusive, closed-door events. She used the profits to open another club that was just off the beaten path.

By that time, Marc had grown into his role as a performer. They wowed them with music, theatre, and dance, all featuring Venetian courtesans. Marc, who they knew as le Marquis, often appeared alongside the Contessa.

“Evelyn would sooner believe that I donned wings made from feathers and wax to fly towards the sun.”

If not for Susanna’s emotional support, Marc would not have adapted. While feeding him emotions day after day left her drained, it turned out that an hour of emotional support was tolerable.

In a faceless and inebriated crowd of people laughing, those without emotion risked losing their anchor to reality. It was the intellectual equivalent of paranoia, and it threatened to send him straight into the maelstrom.

While being engulfed by the tempest was not a new experience for him, Susanna was there to pull him from the brink. She could also physically restrain him… older vampires can more easily ignore their mortal constraints…

The trick was to provide an emotional counterbalance. All the while, she would talk to him in a calm and measured voice. Like a summer storm, these episodes often rolled over them in a flash… Anyone caught outside, ended up soaked to the bone…

“She wasn’t always successful…”

CHAPTER 51

THE SHOW MUST GO ON

Bonsoir,” Marc said.

He was outside the door to his quarters, which was little more than a broom closet with a bed. Marc did not need to surround himself in lavish surroundings… Keeping things simple worked well for me in the army…

The Contessa turned to face him and smiled. There was blush in her cheeks, a sign that she fed recently. Just behind her door, there was a heart beating, strong and true, although a bit faster on account of the blood loss.

That was not Susanna’s scent wafting through the door. This perfume was spicy and sweet with a woodsy foundation. With his analytical mind, he concluded it was made up primarily of cloves… Catherina has been spending a lot of time there…

Susanna was his perfect drug, and he could not blame Catherina for becoming addicted to such a passionate woman. Despite the inability to experience jealousy, or the fear of loss, a part of him yearned for what they once had.

However, their physical connection ended when Susanna revealed the truth about her emotional supplement… Without the emotional connection, she likened it to playing with herself…

Out of a misplaced sense of loyalty, Susanna only lured beautiful women into her quarters. For him, it made no difference who she took to bed… What we had is gone…

To hunt, Marc found his way to one of this city’s many bordellos. Money gave him access, and his bite left his meal feeling as though they had the time of their lives… I pay them well enough not to ask questions…

“Are you ready for the show tonight?” Susanna asked.

Just like that, her emotions washed over him. He breathed normally and after a soft sigh, he smiled warmly. That smile was reflected in his sire’s face, a sign that their link was effective.

“Of course,” Marc said as though singing out the syllables.

“Excellent! I’m told there’s a lineup outside.”

CHAPTER 52

INTO THE EYE

After the opening act, Marc was seated at the end of the bar, looking over the audience. A duet of courtesans was playing the harp and clavichord. They may have the voice of angels, but they did not hold a candle to Susanna. Since the night was young, most of the patrons were enthralled by their performance.

For those who had too much to drink, that was where he came in. If they became disruptive, Marc would ask them to leave using his natural temperament. The chilling effect his speech and mannerisms had on the living tended to persuade them to leave.

If that failed, the guards near the entrance would escort them out the back. Given that the back entrance opened directly onto the canal, several wound up swimming in raw sewage and flotsam…

The Contessa made her rounds when not otherwise engaged. This gave the patrons the opportunity to communicate their wishes for a private show. Susanna always had the final say, and kept Marc informed of any changes.

He would watch one of the courtesans, and in rare situations, the Contessa would personally escort the gentleman upstairs. Marc kept an ear open for any signs of distress. It happened once, and the man never walked again… Had the shot been an inch lower…

To embody these roles, Susanna focused her efforts on training him to blend in, which included how he spoke. It was impossible to hide amongst the sheep if they sensed that something was off about him…

Back at the club, the patrons were predominantly vampires. That allowed Marc to observe the wolves in their natural elements. Lack of breathing, a missing heartbeat, unnatural movements, and their ability to modulate sounds over their spoken voice… There’s nothing more dangerous than a room full of predators…

That night, they had a predator in their midst whose breathing was timed like his. It never occurred to him that someone else would stumble upon the same algorithm to mimic normality.

The difference was that Marc purposefully broke the cycle. He used external cues like the bartender pouring a drink, or a patron yawning to break up the pattern… It creates the illusion of randomness…

The vampire turned his head to face him, and for a fraction of a second, their eyes connected. To anyone else in the room, it would have been a blur, dismissed as a trick of the eye. However, this one was acknowledging the other predator in their midst.

The exchange caught the eye of his sire. She cut a conversation short with a regular, and wound her way back through the tables towards the new arrival. While she did, Marc made eye contact with the bartender, who reached for something under the counter.

It appeared to be nothing more than an object wrapped in waxed leather and bound by twine… It pays to be prepared…

Susanna maintained her practised smile as she approached the vampire’s table. There was a brief exchange, before her smile vanished. In the background, Marc sensed a wave of nausea wash over her. She was disgusted by this new arrival… or of something he said…

She tried to step back, but he grabbed her forearm. Marc was about to stand, but her voice rang out in his mind.

“I’m fine. Let me deal with this.”

While her mask was flawless, the emotions bleeding through the link said otherwise. Besides the nausea, there was a wave of emotion that caused her chest to tighten… if pushed much farther, she’ll panic…

Susanna pulled away, leaving a visible, red mark on her arm. There was a further exchange, which made her frown. While he picked up on the patrons’ whispers, vampires could further lower their voices… a mouse farts louder…

A statement that did slip through the cracks was, “…dare threaten us.”

The exchange continued until the vampire dropped a large coin purse on the table. She eyed it warily and lost that blush she gained from feeding. As she was about to turn away, the patron said something to change her mind.

“…last chance.”

That altered the Contessa’s decorum entirely. Marc observed her head lower into a submissive bow. After a nod, she walked away, towards her room.

“Don’t interfere,” Susanna passed along their link.

Marc knew to follow orders and remained where he was. However, he eyed the package on the bar, debating if it was time.

While not tracking her visually, he counted every step she took to reach the stairs. Each was followed by one of his – deeper, deliberate, and far more ominous.

What surprised him was that Susanna severed the link entirely. Gone was the tightness around his own chest, as was the nausea. A part of him was grateful for returning to normal, but even the analytical part of his mind agreed that something was wrong.

He focused on the door at the expense of anything else. The singing courtesans became a distant whisper as did the whistles and howls that came from the crowd when Maria hiked her skirt to show more of her bare legs.

Just beyond, there were sounds his mind had to decipher. Marc knew how Susanna romanced her clients and lovers; it was soft, and tender. The Contessa was a mistress of the erotic arts, and they all left the room looking as though they had been touched by God.

The first sound that Marc registered beyond that door was Susanna being pushed to her knees, followed by an order to undo his belt. It was as though he was there, watching this vile man forcing himself into her mouth. She did not need to breathe, so gagging must have been the result of an attempt to object…

Despite being a predator, Susanna was one of the kindest souls he ever met. To rob her of her voice, and subject her to this abuse was a bridge too far.

“Stand down,” Susanna had said.

Those words went against his desire to act. His jaw tightened to the point of his teeth straining. While disconnected, what went on in there brought him closer to the maelstrom. It caused the dark emotions to wash over him like cold rain in a storm.

After forcing her to swallow whatever passed for vampire semen… the sounds were clear enough. There came the sound of the materials in her gown straining. A second later, came a heavy thud against the back wall.

There were several steps taken towards the site of impact. They reminded him of a man marching into combat. Around the midway point, a lighter set of footsteps were heard moving away from the wall to avoid the encroaching vampire.

However, the speed inherent to their kind made escape impossible. There came a slap, followed by the mattress straining.

“This wasn’t—” Susanna said.

He visualised perfectly this combination of sounds. That man must have hit her; the sound was like a dull thud against brick… she stopped struggling…

If that was not serious enough, tearing fabric reached his ears as though it were thunder in the night sky…

Marc sailed into the centre of the storm, and he went off like a mortar round. His rage shut down his higher reasoning, focusing him solely on the cause.

The world was drowned in red, and his hearing was further refined. In this state, he could catch a mouse scurrying along the floor at one-hundred paces, which meant he had no trouble discerning what occurred beyond that door.

His fingertips were fully formed talons before he reached for the package. With the flick of a finger, the twine was cut, and he unwrapped his pistol in one pull.

Without thought of consequence, he grabbed his weapon and went straight for Susanna, even running down some hapless patron, sending him hurtling through the air and into a wall.

All of this happened before the bartender’s heart completed a ba bump. No one in the room was aware that something was off until the door splintered, sending debris raining down on the patrons below. A second later, that man hit the wall, rendering him unconscious…

* * * *

The chances of his imagination differing from reality were high. The mind embellished, as anglers did when recounting a tale of catching a minnow the size of a whale after having too many drinks.

What he faced turned out to be worse. Susanna’s dress was torn, revealing her bare chest, but there were also slashes across her breasts. The gouges were deep and bleeding… she’s not healing…

The man hovered over her, the picture of a monster intent on getting his way. In vampiric form, he faced Marc in a flash.

“It took you long—” the man said.

Marc aimed and fired, the hammer hit home in slow motion, causing a spark to send flame shooting into the chamber. In a large puff of smoke, the ball hurtled towards his target. While it was a little high, it flew towards the target’s neck.

As expected, the vampire moved to evade the projectile. Two vampires in combat were a serious affair, as their inherent strength and speed upped the ante… at the risk of draining too much from your blood reserves and losing yourself…

It was often subterfuge or raw power that shaped history. Here, it was an easily missed detail in the fraction of a second his opponent had to react.

As the lead ball was released, Marc turned his barrel, so the fresh charge and ball slid into place. With his movements obscured by the smoke, Marc cocked the hammer, took aim while leading the target, and fired.

As a second ball was loosed, he dropped his pistol and charged the man. The first shot hit the back wall, shattering plaster on impact. The second struck the man in the shoulder, causing him to spin around.

Before the vampire could steady himself, his throat was slashed, once, twice, and thrice. Vampiric strength was vicious; Marc’s taloned fingers grazed the spine on the third strike.

Normally, that was enough for a fatal blow. However, Marc was not about to take any chances. He drove the man hard into the wall, causing several loud cracks. What followed was a wave of blood and gore that poured from the exposed neck, and the head bounced off the floor.

Alas, the maelstrom would not give up its hold on him. When guards appeared at the door, he turned around like a blur and attacked.

CHAPTER 53

THE END OF AN ERA

Warning, oxygen levels at 13.6% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“The total came to eighteen dead and eleven wounded by the time Susanna dragged me out of the maelstrom…”

* * * *

Confusion settled into Marc’s mind as he set his eyes upon the carnage. Everywhere he looked, there were bodies, blood, and viscera. In his state, he even killed five courtesans, innocents who had done nothing to deserve their fate.

Without Susanna’s emotional blanket, he could not fathom the depth of shame he should have experienced. Still, failing to adhere to his rigid code of conduct was sure to come at a price… more voices to haunt me…

Susanna healed herself enough to stop the bleeding. She was visibly shaking, but did not know the catalyst.

“Do you realise what you’ve done?” Susanna said in a dead voice.

“I saved you?”

The answer was straightforward enough. However, she would not have asked if that were true.

“You killed one of Drusilla’s agents!” Susanna exclaimed.

There were several key pieces of information missing from his equation. He knew Drusilla opposed Susanna in some way. He also remembered how that woman had been there to humiliate and sabotage the ritual.

It was also Drusilla who hired the Contessa to kill him. However, the Venetian council saw the value of recruiting a brilliant, military mind. That had been enough to save him; in turn, it made her a powerful enemy.

“He was here for you,” Susanna said while grabbing both ends of her torn gown to cover her chest. “He told me to beat the price on your head or stand aside.”

That explained the bag of money, and the sexual favours. Susanna must have agreed to sell her body to meet part of his price… Based on his last words, the bastard always planned to incapacitate her before I showed up…

She went over to the body and grabbed his coin purse. The fabric strained, weighed down by gold. She tossed it casually to Marc who grabbed it out of the air.

“You’ll need this,” Susanna said through his mind. “You have to leave this city as soon as possible.”

The secrecy of using their link to communicate pointed out the seriousness of his situation. Susanna would be able to explain away her wounds, and remain in town, but several witnesses would place Marc at the scene… There’ll be a price on my head…

“As your sire, I am bound by law.”

Marc cocked his head, unsure why she was saying this out loud. This doesn’t end up—

“Knock me out before I finish the next statement,” Susanna ordered through the link.

“For your crimes,” Susanna began, while the number of fingers on her visible hand went from five to one. “For that you must—”

Marc followed the last order she ever gave him to the letter. One strike to the back of Susanna’s head rendered her unconscious. Given the indignity she suffered, he neatly laid her upon the bed and covered her in a blanket, even as rivulets of blood stained the fabric.

A part of his human side must have bled through. He lingered for a minute, while his eyes were tearing up. Without a word, Marc grabbed his pistol and disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER 54

PARTS UNKNOWN

Warning, oxygen levels at 13.7% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“I didn’t run away as ordered,” Marc began. “I spent three days and nights at the bottom of a rarely used canal, buried beneath the mud.”

He remembered his mind struggling to deal with the loss of stimulus. Other than knowing where the sun was in relation to this world, all he had to keep him company was himself.

“It may not have been a dream,” Marc added. “But it rivalled my worst nightmares.”

The ghosts from his past made sure to keep him company. Endless dead eyes, ashen skin, and animalistic wounds. The latter were glimpses from his rampage, vivid enough to trigger an emotional response.

“I wasn’t equipped to deal with that down there, not without Susanna’s help.”

That’s when he realised that he did have emotions. However, they were so muted, they may as well be non-existent.

“Susanna realised that early on, but she needed me to discover it for myself.”

On the third night, around high tide, Marc broke through the surface. Using water from a barrel, he washed up and put on some stolen clothes.

Marc took his time getting to the docks. On the way, he found out where the ship’s masters were known to frequent. That night, he overheard a captain speaking about cargo bound for Paris.

Since le Roi he swore an allegiance to had died, the idea of returning home appealed to him. He followed the man to his ship and stowed away in a barrel. This time, his ghosts were merciful. Marc attended Morpheus’ court for the bulk of the trip.

“Two years after arriving in Paris, I received word of Susanna—”

Upon saying those words, Marc stopped carving into the bulkhead and bowed his head. He remained like that through several announcements over the public address system.

“Without that news, I’d never have met Geneviève…”

PART IV

GENEVIÈVE

CHAPTER 55

THE WORLD’S A STAGE

An English bard once said that the world was a stage. For Marc, that expression applied literally, as his every action was filtered through the lens of an actor. If his true nature slipped through his grasp, he risked exposure.

At the age of thirty-eight, Marc had been hiding in Paris for two years. He stayed away from anyone who knew who he was and realised there was a price on his head.

Susanna had done her best to build alliances when they frequented the club. However, the incident with Drusilla and capitulation of the Venetian council indicated that no one could be trusted… So, I avoided my kind…

Marc grew up thinking that Paris was the crowning jewel of the civilised world, a beauty unrivalled by her neighbours. While there were architectural splendours within the web of streets and avenues therein, there were also seedier elements to be found throughout. Marc knew of several places where few dared to tread, and these locales suited his needs perfectly.

Such places were the perfect hunting ground. Desperation meant that women were forced to sell their bodies to secure food and shelter for the night… In my own way, I was giving these women a helping hand…

In exchange for a pint of blood, Marc paid them generously to sleep off what he took. He became known as Le Monsieur, the well-dressed man who left women with a smile on their faces.

Vampires often sought out luxury and comfort. He supposed that after a few lifetimes of sleeping on a dirt floor, their view on what the bare necessities were changed.

Marc had been a soldier, accustomed to living a spartan life. He owned several small warehouses along the canal, skirting a depressed neighbourhood.

To further avoid detection, Marc knew the Parisian underground intimately. A large network of tunnels and pipes used to carry wastewater to the waterways were vital to his survival.

This permitted him to do what he had done in Venice to avoid detection. He would sink to the bottom of the river and burrow into the mud. No one would ever look for him within the murky depths… which is precisely the point…

He became accustomed to facing his victims day in and day out. It was comforting to be reminded that a part of him was capable of guilt… Even if I see their eyes staring back at me, whispering things they will never accomplish because of me…

However, the man who attacked his sire never appeared. In his mind, that confirmed that his instincts were correct… if only I managed to keep my anger in check…

Marc periodically received word from his home. Bertrand knew where he had been living since returning to France and established various means of contact… Usually through a distant relative…

He realised that Bertrand was an old man. Marc was not even sure that he would recognise him if they crossed paths. His steward managed the comté well… better than I ever could…

Marc also learned that his son was becoming a man… He’ll soon be old enough to assume the mantle…

Émilie was still in the picture, but Bertrand knew to avoid the subject. He did pass on, years ago, that she never took a man into her bed, and seldom spoke to anyone outside of her staff. Marc never understood the reason for such loyalty, considering what she did was unforgivable.

Bertrand also sent him a modest stipend for his personal use. While Marc insisted that he did not need any financial support, the money was sent anyway. At least the daily lives of those who toiled under him improved dramatically since taking over.

Besides, that money was earmarked for the crown. Marc began to see it as a small recompense for being left to die defending a down…

That money was invested into illicit activities like arms dealing and smuggling. For a man of war, equipping soldiers properly meant they would live to fight another day… all with a healthy margin…

That last part afforded him his lifestyle and created a risk-free environment in which to hunt. To hide his wealth, he always wore outfits that were no longer in fashion. Sometimes, he sewed in patches to appear like he could not afford a good tailor… Well worth it if they underestimate me…

CHAPTER 56

A FEEDING PLAN

Marc spent several nights at the seedier taverns and public houses. He always bought a couple of pints before finding a table with a card game. While Marc loathed the idea of gambling, he learned much about what went on in the world from listening to their chatter.

The trouble was that Marc could not eat or drink. Over the course of a game, Marc exchanged empty drinks with those he brought with him. By the end of the night, it looked as though he had been drinking to excess, rather than wetting his lips.

While Marc never asked, his ears always perked up whenever Venice came up. He was thankful there was no mention of the massacre… no matter how much I wanted to find out what happened after I left…

He was about four pints in when someone new entered the bar. Marc noticed the behavioural ticks right away… The man lacks a heartbeat…

As a precaution, Marc kept an eye on the new arrival. He was young, poorly dressed, and dishevelled. The day’s old stubble on his face would have made his blood boil as a sergeant. However, there was something distinctly familiar about this man’s profile… wait? Is that Aelred?

Marc had not seen him since the masquerade ball. Had Susanna not freed his memories, Aelred would have just been another faceless vampire entering his territory.

The new arrival caused every synapse to come alight. With his emotions so stunted, it was his intellect and reasoning that filled in the gaps. His mind replaced anxiety by conjuring countless scenarios to explain why he was here… with few being cordial…

While unlikely, this meeting might have been a chance occurrence, so Marc could not act. Doing so risked exposing them both… not to mention alerting potential hunters in the area…

They never made eye contact, which was both a reason to be concerned and relieved. Instead, the English vampire went directly to the bar and ordered a drink.

Marc observed the man for a couple of hours, while playing on. To keep the other players from drawing attention to him, Marc ended up in a losing streak. Sure, the winners would gloat, but cleaning them out risked him becoming the centre of attention.

Aelred looked to be no different than the regulars. Every so often, a young barmaid came up to fill orders. Aelred always used the opportunity to strike up a conversation. At first, it was apparent that he annoyed her, but later that night, she adjusted her bust to give him a better view… The man’s hunting…

If Aelred was using his voice, Marc did not pick up on it, but suspected the vampire was not… Susanna would have the barmaid smelling of arousal in their first exchange.

After Aelred’s fifth drink and tenth exchange, Marc caught the barmaid blush. The man leaned over closer to whisper something into her ear and her face turned red as the setting sun. Without waiting for a response, Aelred dropped several coins onto the counter to pay for his drink.

“For your troubles,” Aelred said before leaving a coin on the counter.

Again, without eye contact, Aelred slipped out into the night. The timing was fortuitous, since it left Marc with the opportunity to play to win. Given his losses, the wolves at the table guessed that lady luck left him long ago. However, when he dropped his hand after Aelred left, they all groaned. Some were tempted to pick a fight, but Marc’s dead eyes gave them a reason to rethink their actions.

“Et bien, I best be off,” Marc said.

To avoid being followed, Marc left a portion of the pot behind. While his winnings were meagre, freely parting with some of it avoided conflict.

Marc stepped out in pursuit…

CHAPTER 57

WALK IN ONE’S FOOTSTEPS

This night turned out to be full of surprises for Marc. For one, Aelred was not outside waiting for the barmaid… Which would have been at least an hour…

Second, that vampire genuinely appeared to indulge in alcohol. Marc once ordered some cognac after being turned… It didn’t go well…

Without a working digestive system, he ended up coughing up cognac, along with dark, coagulated blood for the better part of an hour… It took hours for me to clean it up…

Third, Aelred mastered how to mimic human behaviour… One would think he indulged too much and is stumbling back home…

The unsteady steps certainly aligned with that view. Nevertheless, Marc shadowed the vampire, even as Aelred leaned against a wall for support while urinating in a dark alley. He never once looked back, nor were there any blurs to indicate he had.

Aelred’s intentions were not immediately clear to Marc. Like a drunkard, they appeared to be random. That all changed when Aelred passed someone leaning against a wall.

This was a well-dressed man with a trimmed beard, who kept busy by tossing a coin into the air. He stuck out like a sore thumb in this neighbourhood, or did until Marc realised those mannerisms and posture were associated with men intimate with violence. They keep an eye open for opportunities to prey on the unfortunate… or compromised.

The vampire appeared to be oblivious to the knave as he walked on by. That scowl that man wore changed to a smile as he pushed off the wall with a dagger in hand.

Aelred shoved the knave into the shadows, and sounds of moaning soon filtered out of the tenebrous alley… He preys on other predators…

Marc kept his distance, moving forward when Aelred was back on course. There was a spring in his step, whereas the would-be cutthroat was unconscious. Marc judged from his heartbeat that most of his blood had been consumed… He’s leaving God to decide his fate…

Freed from behaving like a bumbling drunk, Aelred kept a steady pace and remained on the main thoroughfares. When they arrived in a neighbourhood known for artisans and painters, it marked the end of their journey.

While Aelred searched his pockets for a key, Marc slunk into the shadows and waited. His eyes scanned the building. The large windows at the front were a clue his domicile doubled as a shop during the day. The second floor had no obvious ingress points… but the adjourning building did…

Marc circled around and kept on going, even as the sound of a key falling to the floor rang out. He went up an outside set of stairs, stepping on the edge of the planks to avoid any squeaks. At the top, he jumped onto the railing, found his balance, and lept onto Aelred’s roof.

From there, Marc crept along the side and slipped through an open, second-story window. Around the same time, there came the sound of the door lock engaging… Thankfully, I fed recently…

Vampires were capable of great feats of strength, dexterity, and speed. However, they had to consume more blood to keep up with the demand. To hide amongst the flock, vampires had to feed well, but do so in such a way as to avoid suspicion.

Running down their reserves risked the chances of surrendering control to their hunger. The stories were horrific: rooms of mangled dead, all drained of blood… Invariably these creatures had to be put down…

To get where he was, Marc had to burn into his reserves, but he was in no danger. By the time Aelred opened the door, Marc was downstairs, concealed by the shadows.

The downstairs area was a singular room with a large, stone fireplace along the back wall. One portion appeared to serve as a living space, as it featured furniture, sheets, and a wool rug. The rest contained work benches, cabinets, and stools. Marc was initially confused about what he saw, until the scents of paints, oils, and solvents overpowered his senses… Aelred’s a painter?

Marc ensured the door was locked and bolted. The last thing he wanted was the stray sounds of a struggle bleeding out into the night. While waiting, Marc’s fingertips turned into talons—

“I wish to offer my condolences,” Aelred said.

The English vampire hung up his hat and coat. The latter revealed finely tailored garbs that would pass muster at any royal court… Who is he talking to?

“Susanna was a fine woman,” Aelred added.

Marc might have assumed it was a wild guess, but a tiny iota of anxiety took root. Despite all his precaution and tactics, Aelred somehow knew that Marc was here.

“I saw you back at the pub.”

This time, Aelred was looking straight into the shadows. Given their superior night vision, it made sense that he could also peer into the darkness… just like I can…

“You never looked my way,” Marc replied.

Given the situation, Marc felt it appropriate to remain at the ready, although Aelred did not appear to be readying for a fight.

“That was the second time I entered…” Aelred said. “I always take a quick peek before going into an establishment. It avoids confrontations with hunters, or worse.”

“Worse?”

“You think you’re the only one who left Venice that night?”

That question left Marc feeling as though he had been drinking to excess. Confusion set in, as his actions ought not to have impacted others… other than Susanna…

Without a response, Aelred moved towards a worktable. He pulled a bottle out of a cabinet, along with a couple of wooden cups. As though weary from a hard day’s work, Aelred perched upon a stool and sighed.

“Nothing?” Aelred asked.

“Well… I—”

“Beware a woman scorned…”

That served as a potent clue, revealing how little he knew about the situation… that means…

“Drusilla?” Marc guessed.

The name still meant very little to Marc. For him, she was just a powerful vampire of great beauty who enjoyed tormenting lessers… I had no idea—

“It pays to be out of her reach when she doesn’t get her way,” Aelred said. “Half of the Venetian vampires left that night or shortly thereafter.”

“Why would my actions—”

“My boy,” Aelred said to outline how young Marc was in comparison. “You were only the last straw. We’ve been opposing her for years.”

Susanna never talked to him about Drusilla and barely delved into the details of their society. What he knew was learned from hushed conversations at the club.

This implied that his sire sought to protect him from the greater conflict surrounding them… I feel like a villager near our garrison waking up one morning and realising the Spanish are at their doorstep…

“What’s the conflict?” Marc asked.

“That’s not what you should ask… yet…”

The elder poured two glasses of wine from the bottle and slid one towards Marc. The scent of blood was clear to a vampire, although the living remained oblivious to it.

“I wish to offer my condolences…” Aelred started up the conversation again.

“You know about—” Marc said as his fingers returned to normal.

“That’s better,” Aelred said with a smile. “Now, sit down, have a drink, and let’s talk…”

CHAPTER 58

THE FIRST OF MANY

Warning, oxygen levels at 13.9% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“I forgot to mention what Aelred was doing in Paris.”

To avoid detection, the elder vampire hid amongst one of his nation’s enemies. Susanna had been a skilled musician and singer, and Aelred shared a penchant for the arts.

He posed as a young man, newly released from his master. To make a living, Aelred created paintings of stunning detail, most of which were centred around the fairer sex.

“That’s why he was flirting with that barmaid.”

“She had beautiful eyes, and I wanted to see if the rest of her was as well,” Aelred confessed to him.

“We became friends that night,” Marc said. “So long as I kept up the act.”

Aelred had much to offer to a fledgling vampire. He was more than three-hundred years old and intimately familiar with the inner-workings of their society. Namely, the broader conflict that divided their kind.

For millennia, vampires survived by hiding amongst their prey. For that, they needed to hunt conservatively or risk rousing the local population.

Cities made it possible for large numbers of vampires to congregate. How to manage these numbers in large population centres was where the groups diverged ideologically. Those like Aelred and Susanna sought to maintain the status quo, believing that humanity should never know what lurked in the shadows.

Drusilla and her allies saw themselves as superior, and humanity as chattel. They actively sought to subjugate lesser creatures with the greater goal of enslaving humanity… A master race…

“That’s why Susanna needed someone like me.”

A disillusioned soldier who could fight against the odds was like firing a shot across the bow of an enemy ship. A show of force that was necessary to maintain the detente.

“Susanna wanted me to embrace vampiric life and choose my role within their society,” Marc said. “On the other hand, Drusilla was desperate to flush me out into the open. Exposed, I’d either join her side or die.”

Either way, Marc would no longer be a threat. That freed Drusilla to execute her plans without opposition.

Warning, oxygen levels at 14.0% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“Just before dawn… he told me…” Marc whispered.

It was a calculated risk telling Marc what happened in Venice. Given that he was close to his sire, it was natural to conclude the young vampire might react poorly… That assumed I had a healthy emotional range…

Aelred divulged how someone betrayed Susanna’s nature to a group of hunters. As was their way, they stormed the club during the day. While several were killed during the incursion, the sun was their biggest weapon.

“All we found was a pile of ashes,” Aelred said. “Killed over a political disagreement.”

Five centuries after hearing the news, those words still resonated throughout the void. Marc slammed his fist against the bulkhead, deforming the material and crushing every bone in his hand… I need to feel something…

“Aelred had more than a clenched fist to deal with,” Marc said through a tensed jaw.

Marc remembered flying off the handle. If not for the elder vampire’s superior strength, Marc would have taken out his rage on anyone who crossed his path. As it stood, the stoic elder restrained Marc until the fire in those eyes went out.

“You’ll get your revenge,” Aelred confessed.

Marc healed his hand, watching the bones fall back into place before fusing together. It never failed to amaze him how vampires could do that.

“The penance for what they stole from me would be astronomical…”

CHAPTER 59

LE MONSIEUR

At the dawn of summer, Marc learned that Susanna had a will. For someone who was already dead, the idea of a will seemed quaint. Still, this further confirmed that the woman he once genuinely loved was gone.

Aelred handed him a letter from some solicitors. A perusal revealed that Marc was the sole recipient of Susanna’s holdings. As per her request, her properties were sold, and goods liquidated. They held in trust a large sum and awaited direction.

The elder vampire also mentioned that he took possession of the club. He wanted to ensure the gate was not controlled by someone loyal to Drusilla.

Marc noted there were few monetary assets prior to death. While he was not privy to the entirety of Susanna’s finances, he had a good idea of the profits her clubs generated and what Susanna kept on reserve. The idea of a large sum missing made his heart feel lighter that she found a way out… even if the evidence speaks otherwise…

“So, that’s it?” Marc whispered.

While some preferred to know the bitter truth, Marc preferred to believe that Susanna beat the odds… Now, I’ll have to face the fact that I never said goodbye…

Something crawled out from out of the void. This time, it was melancholy, which at first blush was not all that different from a regular dosage of nothing. People often described depression as feeling empty inside, but that was nothing when compared to the void… It’s like thinking muskets are silent because you’re standing next to cannon fire…

That night, he skipped his routine of going out to gamble. The boisterous atmosphere of such a place contrasted the predominant emotion lurking within. Instead, he opted for a bordello.

“I need a change,” Marc whispered.

He decided to visit an establishment that several courtesans spoke of. While many wished to become courtesans of stature, most realised that was a step too far. This place was the next rung up the ladder for them… one they dream will take them on…

While his first time here, the staff recognised him as soon as Marc walked through the doors. Marc was both flattered and aghast that his feeding habits led to a measure of renown.

“I see le Monsieur has graced us with our presence,” the well-dressed lady said.

Because of her grey streaked hair and flawless attire, Marc guessed this was the madame. It was rumoured she was a shrewd owner, but treated her ladies well.

While the décor left much to be desired, that was a minor irritation. He preferred to keep things simple, but this place was filled with curtains, pillows, carpets, and furniture. For Marc, the flood of colours nearly overwhelmed him.

“I felt it was time for a change of pace,” Marc answered.

Upon entering the parlour, Marc noticed two scantily clad women sitting side by side. Either they were waiting for clients, or escorted gentlemen up to their suites.

At least this place burned incense, which drowned out the odours associated with sex. Marc had grown accustomed to it, but often found himself wishing that his sense of smell was not enhanced… I’d gladly give it up to get my emotions back…

“I’m certain we have what your heart desires,” the Madame said.

Given that she recognised him, he half-suspected the Madame would mention someone in passing. However, the silence forced him to play the game.

“Who would you recommend?” Marc asked.

The Madame’s eyes grew wide, either for the promise of income or for the rumours surrounding his sexual prowess. It was odd, considering none of the courtesans he met ever laid eyes upon it.

The quick glance up and down his body confirmed her thoughts were focused on the latter. The Madame smiled, and Marc adopted a well-practised facsimile in return. Without Susanna, he had to remind himself to do things like smile… I miss her humanity…

“Bernadette is almost done with a client,” the Madame said.

Her mannerisms were so practised that she scarcely left him with an opportunity to object. As the Madame waved him towards an escort, he spoke up.

“The night is young,” Marc said. “Surely, you have someone who’s well rested?”

If the Madame failed to grasp what he meant, Marc was prepared to be more colloquial. He did not wish to feed while the scent of another man’s seed wafted from his prey. Fatigue and dehydration also made the blood sluggish and increased the opportunity for complications.

“We have Geneviève,” the Madame said. “I’m afraid she might—”

“What a lovely name,” Marc said specifically to cut her off. “Please, send up a bottle of your finest.”

Marc memorised the prices for the establishments he frequented. He guessed and dropped several livres to gauge her reaction. The Madame’s eyes widened only slightly, which meant she was either adept at controlling her emotions or not overly impressed… Either works…

“Right away,” the Madame said.

Marc walked on by when she motioned. One of the young women took his arm and led him upstairs.

CHAPTER 60

CARVED IN STONE

Marc knocked on the door. It was followed by scurrying, as the occupant hurriedly tried to make the room presentable. The sounds of a hand running over bed linen, and chairs sliding into place certainly lent credence to his theory.

When the door opened, Marc was faced by a woman in her early twenties, who happened to be fully dressed. That might have given him reason to wonder, but the odour of rust lingered in the air… No wonder she’s not seeing clients today…

“Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur,” Geneviève said. “I was not expecting—”

Geneviève was tall for a woman, brunette with wavy hair. Her face was round, and those green eyes pierced through the dim light.

“An angel like you?” Marc said in his most practised tone. “Vous blaguez?”

That last part caused her to freeze. It was slight, but Marc smiled in response. Throwing her off guard would hopefully help make this evening more pleasant.

He opted to use ‘vous’ instead of ‘tu,’ and while it appeared to be no different than using ‘them’ and ‘you,’ the application differed greatly in French. ‘Vous’ was used in reference to someone of importance, like a client, whereas ‘tu’ was far more intimate or subordinate.

Through his choice of words, he placed himself below her. By giving a courtesan such a mark of respect, it presumably gave her pause.

Marc used the opportunity to remind his escort that he wanted the bottle brought up immediately.

“Thank you, mons—” The courtesan said.

“That’s Marc…” he countered. “Please.”

This further threw her off guard. He entered the room and opened the windows. The wind brought in the aroma of a nearby drinking establishment, but it was better than stale air inside.

“Mind if I sit?” Marc said while pointing at a table with two rigid chairs.

She could do little more than smile and nod. He suspected that most of her guests demanded she disrobe on arrival, or hike her skirts just enough to get inside… or tighten her legs enough to let the drunken idiot think he struck gold…

“Thank you,” Marc said. “I had a bottle of wine sent up.”

“Monsieur, I feel I must tell you that—”

“It’s Marc… and I know,” he said, hoping it would ease some of her shame.

“Then, why are you being so charming?”

That was a good question, one that could not be answered truthfully. He was not interested in her services, but desperately needed a distraction from the world.

The wind also carried the sound of music, likely from the public house. Marc closed his eyes for a moment and let the melody take him back to another time.

“Monsieur,” Geneviève whispered, still standing near the door.

“Please, sit, mademoiselle,” Marc said, hinting at her youthful beauty.

“But I can’t offer—”

“Company? Conversation? Share a bottle of wine? A kiss?”

The last one slipped; the music was enough to revive a memory of his meeting the Contessa for the first time… my perfect drug…

“Well…oui. Mons—Marc.”

“Then, sit—” Marc whispered.

He was soon interrupted by the escort. This time, she had a bottle of red wine and two glasses with her. That gave Geneviève time to collect her thoughts.

She moved out of the way, allowing the escort to enter. Marc simply nodded, but kept his eyes focused on Geneviève. To have a bit of fun, he waited till the escort was nearly out of the room before speaking.

“Oh,” Marc said. “Where are my manners?”

He looked Geneviève straight in the eyes and said, “Have you eaten today?”

“Non, monsieur.”

“Please, bring up some food.”

“We don’t serve—”

He casually tossed her a livre and watched as those eyes grew wide. Despite the accurate throw, she fumbled the catch… Had I been red blooded, I would have enjoyed the view of her bending over…

“I’m sure the public house across the street is,” Marc said as the scent of roast boar filled his nostrils.

The woman nodded and closed the door. This room was much less ornate than the parlour. The bed looked to be comfortable, despite the obvious abuse. The table and chairs were of quality wood and good craftsmanship. There were also details that hinted that a woman lived here, like the night and the cupboard by the bed.

“How can I thank you, Monsieur?” Geneviève asked.

“You can start by calling me by my given name, and sit down.”

It would be a while before the food was brought up and that gave them some time alone. It turned out to be an amusing diversion to get Geneviève to relax.

While she sat down, the motions were slow and deliberate. Once she took some weight off her feet, he heard air escape from her lungs.

“Sore joints?” Marc asked.

“How did you know?”

“My…mother had the same trouble,” Marc said. “She would swell up and complain of sore joints. You hide it well.”

“Thank you…”

She was not using his name, but she was not calling him ‘monsieur’ either. He decided to count this as a win… It’s better than comte…

The music in the background faded, presumably so the musicians could take a break. The vivid image of the Contessa in her gown melted along with his smile.

“M-Marc?” Geneviève asked.

His mask existed purely to create the illusion of emotion. Given the confirmation of her death, the note from the solicitor, and the powerful memories triggered by that music, emotions must have escaped the void.

Before realising it, she placed her soft hand upon his shoulders. The lapse had been only a few seconds, but her teary-eyed face both reflected and amplified his own emotional distress… She must be very empathic…

“Mes excuses,” Marc said.

Once she realised Marc’s eyes would not dry up, she reached inside her dress for a clean handkerchief and presented it to him.

“Tiens… please,” Geneviève said.

He eyed it warily, but the features on her face convinced him there was no ulterior motive. He dried his eyes and smiled, despite the void turning into a fountain of emotions.

“Do you know why I was so thrown by you?” Geneviève asked.

“I assumed it had something to do with treating you like a woman of value.”

That response had been painfully blunt in hindsight. This was normal when he was not consciously managing every element of his persona. Still, he hoped it did not offend, at least not for treating her as something more than a product.

Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second before returning more vibrant than before. It was warm and welcoming, and Marc wished that he could fall for someone like her… Alas…

“That…” Geneviève said before pouting as though to tease him. “…watching you is a lot like looking at a portrait…”

Marc cocked an eyebrow, his mind challenged to make sense of that analogy. In his mind, paintings were false representations of the world. The portraits of his father and grandfather looked nothing like the miserable bastards they were in life.

“How so?”

He opened the bottle and poured two glasses of wine. Their best turned out to be a grandiose statement, but he hoped Geneviève would enjoy it.

“I often walk amongst the artisan shops, just to look at their paintings and sculptures,” Geneviève began. “The true master can render a scene with such detail that I can see myself there.”

“…something is missing?” Marc guessed.

“Yes!” Geneviève exclaimed. “There’s no emotion. Their creations show a wide range of reactions, but their emotions are inferred. Like stone—”

“Like stone,” Marc guessed simultaneously.

To give himself a moment, he grabbed his glass and swirled around the contents. The motion was very human of him, and his analytical mind equated it to something that comforted him.

When done, he brought it near his lips, took in the bouquet of this poor vintage, and wet his lips. To his surprise, Geneviève swallowed a few mouthfuls… Good, because you’re the only one who can indulge tonight…

“How am I like stone?”

Geneviève cringed, but the movement was so slight that most would miss it. However, Marc noticed how those lips distorted before the head snapped back a quarter of an inch.

He had no desire to pressure her, even if his curiosity was genuine… I won’t force her to answer…

To conceal her faux pas, she coughed and excused herself. It was an effective way of camouflaging her slight.

“The way you behaved… and flirted… came with none of the emotional markers I’d expect,” Geneviève finally said.

“You mean as though I were a painting?”

“Not exactly,” Geneviève began, but paused to finish her drink to find the courage. “There were fragments…of emotion…that I couldn’t understand at first.”

“Why?”

“You’re not making this easy…”

While she never asked, Marc filled the glass anew. Her eyes lingered on it, and she swallowed another mouthful.

“Like a glimpse of a memory,” Geneviève said. “Distant and faint.”

“Does that worry you?”

“Should I be?”

That was the first real taste he got of her resilience. He could not imagine being emotionally burdened as she was, especially for a woman who dealt with the dredges of society. She was careful, but that was to be expected… There’s more to her than meets the eye…

“I have no intention of harming you,” Marc said.

“Aggression is one aspect that I’m not sensing,” Geneviève said. “Although, for someone who can hide their nature so easily…”

“Rage… has been a problem in the past,” Marc said. “I’ve fought in wars, and I’ve taken lives.”

Geneviève nodded before replying, “You’re not the only man I’ve come across who committed similar sins. Some committed them on these very streets.”

“I suppose not… It made me who I am, but I wouldn’t take it back even if I could.”

“You lost someone?” Geneviève guessed.

He did not know how, but the combination of music and his reaction must have given her a glimpse of the source of his melancholy. His emotions, while a shadow of what they once were, could still be interpreted by someone so attuned to theirs.

“Two years ago,” Marc said. “I intervened when someone tried to have their way…my love…people died.”

Marc did not realise it, but his manner of speech reverted to normal. It was devoid of warmth, monotone, and marched in concert with a drum… What have I done?

“Apologies,” Marc said. “I must have forgotten my—”

She took his hand and leaned forward. Her skin was soft and warm. The tenderness somehow broke through his defences. He could not fathom why she was not repulsed like Susanna and Aelred were.

“It must be exhausting for you to keep this act up,” Geneviève said.

That was not phrased as a question, because deep inside, she knew. To live without emotion, and be forced to compensate for the irrational actions of those who did, drained him.

“I’ve found it’s better to blend in?” Marc replied, without putting his mask back on.

Without intending to do so, the emotions spilling out from the void cleared. In response, Geneviève squeezed his hand.

“She meant the world to you?”

“Susanna was my world.”

“Tell me about her…”

CHAPTER 61

ALWAYS THE CRITIC

You can’t be serious?” Aelred asked.

Marc neglected his usual haunts for eleven days. His absence was noticed, namely by Aelred who dispatched agents to find him. Upon locating him where Geneviève worked, they conveyed to him a single word: Tonight.

Marc knew better than to turn down the invitation from an elder vampire. Even if Aelred was hiding out as a starving artist, the man secretly owned most of the street.

That night, Marc paid the Madame in full for his time with Geneviève and walked out the back… After that much time with me, she probably needed a break…

* * * *

“What?” Marc said after taking a sip of the blood wine. “She already knew that I wasn’t human…”

Aelred cocked a brow, but kept those piercing blue eyes fixed on him. That stare left Marc wondering if the elder could peer into his soul… or wants to add me as another notch on his bed…

“So, you drop all pretence and spend the week with her?” Aelred asked.

It certainly appeared foolish, when phrased that way. However, Geneviève was best described as a kind soul. A woman who could not help but feel for others because she literally did… She can’t even hurt a fly…

“It was cathartic,” Marc said. “It’s better than giving into the beast within…”

“With your track record? You’d end up wanted throughout the known world.”

Susanna never covered the intricacies of vampire society. While some of it was dry as the desert heat, other elements were quite important.

Vampires that killed indiscriminately, making it impossible for the local population to ignore, were put down. The reason Marc was not actively being hunted was the presence of another vampire at the scene of the crime… They pinned it all on him…

Given Drusilla’s proclivity for blood and carnage, her favoured assassin was more than capable of the same. Aelred confessed they leveraged that ambiguity to keep the council from acting… It also forced Drusilla to back down…temporarily…

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Marc said.

“Nor should you.”

Seeing as the contents of their wooden mugs were nearly gone, the host filled them anew. Even blood wine made Marc queasy, but it was nice to drink socially for a change.

“Do you like it?” Aelred said.

Marc took a sip and nodded. While a lie, there was no need to offend his host.

“It was a donation from that barmaid I was flirting with,” Aelred said. “Alas, other than those eyes, this was her sole, redeeming quality.”

The man got up and removed a white sheet from a canvas. There she was in all her glory. Given the intricate details captured on canvas, Marc had no trouble recognising the woman. For a moment, his eyes lingered on the model; he found her to be quite attractive.

“Why’d you paint her then?” Marc asked, before shifting in his seat.

“Because a young man, such as myself, is expected to paint beautiful women,” Aelred said. “Besides, I consider it a fair exchange for a pint of her finest.”

The part left unsaid was that Aelred would gladly spend his days painting men. Marc was not sure how he would react to that truth if he were normal… I suppose his nonconformity would initially bring out my fear and anxiety…

As it stood, he had no opinion. Susanna showed a proclivity for women, and no one got hurt… I should have become a monk…

“I don’t know how you do it,” Marc said. “I heard that you tend to the shop during the day.”

Aelred smiled, as though he were about to confess his deepest and darkest secret. Marc leaned in to not miss a word.

“I spend the entire day under the awning or inside painting,” Aelred said.

“Hence the wine.”

The elder nodded, as the glow in his blue eyes increased in intensity. The problem with interacting with the sheep all day was that Aelred could never let his guard down… I can’t imagine being le Marquis for a day…

“Precisely!” Aelred said. “I feed in plain sight, and no one is the wiser.”

The execution was ingenuous, and created the perception that Aelred was a drunkard… They underestimate him, which he exploits to his advantage.

“They also come to you,” Marc said.

“Now you understand… Speaking of which…”

Marc won against a numerically superior foe, but had just been outmanoeuvred by an artist. That reinforced just how much he needed to adjust his outlook on life.

Under Susanna, he could afford to be the soldier, as she eased the social aspects in the background. As it stood, Marc could not always go in with guns blazing.

“Well played,” Marc said. “What about my feeding habits?”

“They’ll get you in trouble…”

The fact he had been noticed so readily by the Madame was a clue. However, they were not so different from his feeding habits in Venice.

“Why?” Marc said. “They get paid… well, they feel intense pleasure, and get to sleep it off.”

“If that were it…” Aelred said. “But you’ve developed quite the persona as le Monsieur.”

“So?”

“Vampires are not saints… You wish to save them, and you clearly have a soft—”

Those words conjured up images of Émilie taking advantage of him. He hated it when memories of her surfaced.

His hand tightened around the cup until the wood splintered, sending the contents running down the table and onto the planked floor.

“Merde,” Marc swore.

“Were you thinking about the mother of your son?”

“How did—”

Aelred smiled without saying anything. This was getting to be routine, a sign he knew far more than expected.

“You confessed that detail during the masquerade,” Aelred said.

It was Marc’s turn to grin. That was a lie, and he had Susanna to thank for it. Her reasons for freeing his memory ended up being quite wise.

“You’re lying,” Marc said.

“Really? How would you know?”

“The same way I know the young princeling was not thrilled with my opinion of le Roi.”

Aelred finished off the contents of his cup. When done, he went out back and returned with another bottle. He poured the wine slowly, making a show of it… All of that to give him more time to think…

“Susanna told me,” Aelred confessed. “She asked me to steer people clear of that topic.”

“She—”

Marc opened his mouth, before realising the reason. When surrounded by predators, being taken advantage of by a lesser person might have swayed the outcome… Alas… Beatriz brought it up anyways…

“I see you reasoned it out,” Aelred said. “Susanna really did care for you.”

“She must have. Few would put up with me after I was turned.”

“Quite…”

CHAPTER 62

HEAT WAVE

Warning, oxygen levels at 14.4% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“He was right…”

Aelred was often correct on several subjects. For one, Marc naturally fell into the role of defender of the little guy. He fought tooth and nail for his men, even when le Roi forfeited their lives.

His decision to claim his title was not because it was owed to him, but to provide relief to those who toiled under his father’s tyrannical reign.

Just like keeping Émilie from being humiliated laid the first brick on the path to her betrayal. It was his treatment of women of the night that earned him the moniker of ‘le Monsieur.’ In turn, that caught the notice of forces he held no sway over.

“However, had I given up on helping courtesans in need, I would have never met her…”

* * * *

“How long has it been?” Geneviève asked.

Marc looked up from his book, reading without any natural light. Her words tore him away from a poignant poetry verse. The author had been a soldier in his youth, and Marc almost felt the words.

“I’m sorry,” Marc said. “I was somewhere else.”

Because of the insufferable heat, Geneviève laid atop the sheets, stark naked. Her sweat glistened in the pale light of the moon.

In this state of undress, Marc described her as a biblical beauty. Pale skin, cherubic, hourglass shape, and small breasts that hung perfectly off her chest. She was the embodiment of what many artists sought to capture on canvas when representing angels… or Eve herself…

“I can see that,” Geneviève said, but she was too hot to manage a smile “I asked you how long you’ve been coming here?”

“Oh!”

He put down the book, but maintained his rigid posture. While his name was not engraved on the chair, he had been using it exclusively since his first visit.

She reached out from the bed to adjust his jacket, taking out the wrinkles so he would appear more presentable. Unlike the courtesan, Marc was entirely immune from the effects of the heat.

“It’s been three months, and seventeen days,” Marc replied without hesitation.

While she asked that question often, his answer never failed to widen those beautiful, green eyes. His answer was the byproduct of an analytical mind, combined with an ability to track time with a high degree of precision.

“You haven’t gotten sick of me yet?” Geneviève asked.

There was a hint of impatience in her voice. He dismissed it as a side effect of this infernal heat… I know I’d be…difficult in her place…

“Never,” Marc said in his normal, emotionless tone. “You look wonderful tonight.”

Geneviève rolled her eyes and chuckled. She knew him well enough to realise he was serious, but she did not feel beautiful marinating in her own sweat.

“I’m more worried that you’ll tire of looking at my portrait,” Marc said.

While they were not a match on a cursory glance, their emotional imbalance worked in their favour.

Geneviève found in Marc a sanctuary from the onslaught of emotions she endured when interacting with people. As long as he was here, they left her alone… I could buy this place for what I’m paying…

However, Geneviève also interpreted his emotions. They might have been slight, but she understood and accepted them as genuine. In exchange, there was little that Marc would not do for her.

“Take my hand,” Geneviève said.

Marc knelt at her bedside and took her hand. He noted her palm was sweaty, while heat radiated from her skin in waves. It reminded him of standing out in the sun on a hot, summer day.

She pulled him close until his hand was pressed against her cheek. There came an immediate sigh of relief. Despite the discomfort of being stretched over the bed, Marc made no attempts to move.

“What if I told you to strip down to nothing and join me?”

Marc knew there was nothing sexual to her request. They was no such connection between them. That subject was broached once, when she confessed that making love required an emotional component he could never provide. To be honest, that suited his lack of desire just fine.

“While I’d be cool for a short while, you’d eventually warm me up,” Marc said. “Then, I’d be just as uncomfortable as that pillow of yours.”

Geneviève let out a long stream of air, which pushed her curls out of the way. It was so humid outside that her hair was frizzy. That apparently bothered her, because they rolled back constantly to mar her eyesight.

“I’m this close,” Geneviève said while holding her thumb and index finger close together, “from asking you to do it anyway, just to leech some of the heat from my skin…”

They had not used the hearth in days. Paris was an oven, and would not cool… not even at night…

“Would you like me to—” Marc asked.

Two men entered through the front doors of the bordello. Given the heat, their clientele had dried up, so the parlour turned into a hive of activity.

However, there was something off about these two. In this heat, heart rates were faster, presumably to help keep the body cool. Even now, Geneviève’s heart was beating at a pace appropriate for a leisurely walk, even if she was at rest…

These two had steady heart rates. That was only possible if they were in phenomenal shape, not human, or capable of adjusting their heart rates… The first may well be linked to the third…

“Marc?” Geneviève asked.

Mark shot up his hand with his palm facing her. The speed may have been jarring, but he could not afford to make a sound. As though hurt by his abruptness, she turned away and closed her eyes.

Her reaction was enough to dredge up a faint imprint of guilt. Marc hoped that she would understand when he had the opportunity to explain himself.

“How can I help you two gentlemen this evening?” the Madame asked.

The Madame’s heart was at a gallop, and she wheezed with every breath… She’s obviously not dealing well with the stress brought on by the heat…

“We’re here for our friend,” one of the men said.

Since they could maintain a steady heart rate, and natural breathing, that took vampire off the list. While Marc never met one that could reliably maintain vital life signs, Aelred confirmed that some did… They are the very best hunters amongst us…

There came the sound of coins rattling within a cloth bag… a bribe?

Marc took Geneviève’s hand and squeezed it. It was enough for her to turn around to look upon him. Those wide eyes and trembling lower lip were exactly what he expected for someone afraid of him… or is it what’s to come?

“I might have to leave,” Marc said softly.

The long pause from the Madame ended. The first word she uttered was audible, but the rest was whispered… This can’t be good…

“If these are hunters, I won’t be able to see you until I know you’re safe,” Marc whispered.

“Hunters?” Geneviève mouthed.

Marc nodded before standing up from her bedside. Just above his head, there were rafters. His fingertips became talons, and after a silent jump, he dug his claws into the wood.

All the while, there were two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs. That was irregular behaviour, since escorts were the norm. Marc remained there, his body parallel to the ceiling, like a spider waiting for a fly.

Without surprise, the door was unlocked. The steady heart rates were directly behind that door. For a moment, he permitted himself to gaze upon Geneviève as she held her breath. While she knew he was not entirely human, the speed, strength, and those talons further upended the perception she had of him.

The men entered, with blades in hand. Marc observed from atop. The first thing the men saw was the naked courtesan on her bed.

“I’m not supposed to be seeing clients today,” Geneviève said dryly.

The words were convincing, which surprised him. He never expected her to be a credible liar, but she was being truthful by omission… The most powerful lies are based on truth…

“Our apologies,” the same man said. “We were looking for a friend.”

“Do you see him here?” Geneviève asked in return. “So, unless you’re interested in what you see—”

“We never said who our friend was,” the man stated.

While he could not be sure, Marc assumed the Madame sold him out. They went straight to this room for a reason… there’s nothing she can say that would throw them off…

Marc knew little of hunters, other than belonging to a religious order and tending to hunt in pairs. Still, he found it odd that they would openly hunt together… unless they believed this to be an easy mission…

The men entered the room and closed the door behind them. Alone in the dark, there was only one person who had a clear view of their surroundings and that was Marc. Still, he remained motionless, and would remain like this for hours if required.

“Who else would you be looking for in a brothel?” Geneviève attempted to recover. “The only women here are working…”

The male speaker motioned for the young man to approach the bed. The younger knelt beside Geneviève who was humming with energy… She must be picking up on their emotions…

Suddenly, the younger turned back and spotted Marc’s white hands and face glistening in the pale moonlight. Out of options, Marc released his grip and fell to the floor. Before making contact, he tucked in his knees to absorb the impact.

Marc sprung up and kicked the elder dead centre of his chest. The impact sent him into the wall, leaving him winded. While his breathing was chaotic and shallow, the man would live.

There came a splash, followed by something dripping off Marc’s skin. He looked at his arm as it turned red and blistered. It had been so long since he last experienced genuine pain, that he stared at his arm as though it was a science experiment.

When the younger moved in to strike, Marc reacted without thought. He grabbed the blade with his good hand and tore it from the younger’s hands. Before that blade hit the floor, Marc had the man pinned against the wall.

The pain was sending him closer to the maelstrom. His face was distorted, creating a smile that chilled the hearts of the bravest soldier. As the hunter struggled, Marc planned to use his talons with surgical accuracy.

“Marc,” Geneviève said. “Please…”

While those words were tender, there was disappointment hidden behind every syllable. He turned to see those tear-filled eyes. Without a word, he vanished in a gust of wind.

CHAPTER 63

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

Warning, oxygen levels at 14.5% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“What a story this would make had I returned the next night and whisked her way,” Marc began. “We could have found a home in an isolated region of France. A place free from hunters and the demands of this cruel world.”

He sometimes imagined himself introducing Geneviève to the vampire council as a candidate. There was comfort in the idea of spending centuries with the only woman capable of understanding him… No matter how flawed I remain to this day…

“Alas.”

However, Marc considered such a choice to be purely selfish. Given what happened to him, what were the chances of her being freed of her emotions? Marc decided that he would never turn another human… unless there’s no other option…

Besides, Aelred once told him that the council refused those like her. The elder vampire suspected that being so attuned to empathy was not natural for humans. That meant she was a witch or at least the descendant of one.

“You’re free to consort with who you wish,” Aelred once counselled. “Be aware that you risk a great deal if your enemies find out.”

That much was true, as the hunters had been alerted to his whereabouts by Drusilla. She used the opportunity to strike at an irritant and bring the situation to a boil… The fact they lived ensured the status quo held…

“That night my thoughts were muddled, as ideas filled my skull. Every thought competed for my undivided attention, even as more were added to the fray.”

What Marc wanted was to have everything. More time with Geneviève, to keep her safe, and find a semblance of normalcy.

“Every plan that flashed before my eyes ended with the same conclusion,” Marc said. “In a moment of clarity, my mind stilled, and the truth stared back at me… only in a dream.”

Geneviève got a taste of his true nature. How could a woman, incapable of hurting a fly, accept someone who killed so casually? No matter the course of action, Marc could not make her forget what he was.

“It was les Moires that led me to her, and later tore her away from my grasp.”

He spent that night hiding under the waves and sought out Aelred the next evening. News of hunters striking one of their own already made its rounds within the community.

“That’s reason enough for me to worry,” Aelred said that night.

It was both prophetic, and insightful. This incident was staged for a reason. A goal that countered what Aelred and Susanna believed. Their kind hid amongst the sheep, and did not enlist them to eradicate the opposition…

Knowing they would never again see each other, Marc ensured that Geneviève was taken care of. She was to get a few hours per night alone to herself. All to help her deal with the emotions of those around her.

However, if Geneviève so wished, she had the means to reach back to him. That was his biggest gamble and he remembered vividly how Aelred disagreed with his choice.

Marc was certain that Geneviève did not wish him harm. Her fear had been fleeting and warranted… I missed the chance to say goodbye…

Warning, oxygen levels at 14.6% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“Right,” Marc said. “Back to work…”

CHAPTER 64

A DINNER DATE

Marc was forty-two years old, dead longer than he had been alive. For four years, Marc kept two steps ahead of the hunters, changing locale every three months to avoid his patented feeding habits from being noticed. Destinations were typically random, easily accomplished by boarding a tramp schooner bound for parts unknown.

It was a mystery how they tracked him at all. Either they had an excellent intelligence network, which did not explain how Aelred evaded detection, or there was something else at play… Perhaps, someone is more applicable…

Eventually, he crossed paths with Florian who had returned to Austria after making a hasty exit from Venice. This was the moment when Marc learned that Drusilla was augmenting hunters using her own intelligence. She had gained control of an army of religious zealots… Point them in the right way and they throw themselves at a target…

Florian was the Austrian Graf who had attended Marc’s masquerade party. He knew little of the man, other than what was learned from the banter between Aelred and Florian that evening…

People said that the truth would set them free, but in this case, it narrowed his focus. Marc was fine with remaining on the run to keep innocents from getting caught in the crossfire. Hunters did not take human life, but if confronted, Marc could lose control. The first time the maelstrom enveloped him, Susanna paid the price… the second time, he lost Geneviève… never again…

Being chased throughout Europe because of Drusilla’s meddling steeled his resolve. This time, he remained in place for several months. He relied on Florian for his intelligence, waiting for the hunters to show up.

When they finally made their move, Marc sprung his trap. This left both women bound and gagged to sturdy chairs. Ultimately, hunters were creatures of faith, which meant a vampire’s skin could burn on contact. Fortunately, the effects were easily ignored by an old soldier like him.

He stood ahead of the two women who looked to be perfectly calm and composed. Their heart rates were steady, their breathing deep and controlled. If not for their eyes being open, he would have thought they were asleep.

“Which one of you is in charge?” Marc asked calmly.

The women were near in age and determined to keep silent. What he did not expect was their beauty. It was as though they had walked off a pedestal at Michelangelo’s workshop. Both were veritable incarnations of Aphrodite… although Artemis is a better comparison…

This behaviour did not surprise him; hunters were trained to resist all forms of interrogation. Besides, these were zealots and torture would not likely yield results… Living in the hopes of becoming martyrs…

Instead, he left the room and returned six minutes later with Florian. They both had an assortment of items in their hand, and in nine minutes, a dinner table was set at the centre of the room.

“You must be hungry,” Marc said.

He made eye contact with Florian before approaching the closest hunter with a knife. He cut away her bindings, but left the gag in place… I don’t need to hear them yell out obscenities just yet…

The same was done for the other hunter. As expected, neither moved, because the odds were against them. Both remained silent, and Marc suspected that, had they been armed, they would have taken their own lives.

Like any good trap, this room was chosen to fit a purpose. He used a rope to tear free the drapery covering the windows. Both Florian and Marc instinctually backed away as light bathed half the room in direct sunlight.

This served to demonstrate two points. The first was that vampires were not as defenceless as they assumed during the day… That’ll give them more reason to reconsider attacking us again…

The second point was more poignant. Neither Florian nor Marc could get near them. On the other hand, the three-story drop outside meant the women could not easily leave. Meanwhile, the vampires were free to retreat deeper into the building.

Even religious zealots could see that the table they prepared for them, as well as their salvation, were bathed in the light. This empowered the hunters, and he hoped it would leave them open to listening.

“Why?” a hunter asked.

This one had a distinctive, Prussian accent. Marc noted that the other one had called her Imma before breaching the building.

The other had a Viennese accent and presumably went by the name Ottilia. While the names might be made up, it identified them.

“How else could I convince you that I wish to talk?” Marc asked.

Imma eyed Florian with a wary eye. Marc’s opening remark did not allay their fears completely.

“Florian,” Marc said, “leave us, please.”

They briefly made eye contact, and the Graf vanished in the blink of an eye. That left Marc alone in a room with two who swore to destroy his kind.

“Florian has the ability to make you cooperative, whereas I cannot,” Marc answered.

He sat against the wall on the bare, wooden floor. As he was, the hunters towered over him.

The women looked to one another, communicating in Latin. It was funny how they assumed vampires were ignorant of the language… I’ve met some that were around before Latin was even spoken…

“What’s stopping us from leaving?” Ottilia asked.

He suspected their roles were initially reversed. Let the subordinate lead the charge, permitting the leader to observe… I always considered that to be the hallmarks of a coward…

“You’ll need to climb down three stories,” Marc said. “It should take you about an hour, and the sun will protect you for another four hours and thirty-seven minutes.”

“So, we can leave?” Ottilia confirmed.

“When you’re ready,” Marc replied. “However, I see no reason why we can’t have a chat…”

They stared at each other, their brows furrowed, and foreheads creased. As though to confirm what Marc had said, Imma went to the window and stuck her head out. After three minutes, she nodded to Ottilia, who hunched her shoulders and returned to face him.

“Why the food?” Ottilia questioned.

“I figured you’d be hungry. It’s from a local tavern.”

“Poisoned?”

“No,” Mark answered. “That would rather defeat the purpose.”

“What’s your purpose, exactly?”

Marc was growing wary of their attempt to interrogate him. He had no doubt that these two would waste the day away until they risked emptying the hourglass.

He rubbed his temples to help him focus and gave his head a shake. He had to get through to them and fast, short of carving the message into their skulls… time for a new approach…

“Let’s start over,” Marc began. “Hello, I’m Marc, and I’m here to tell you that someone like me has been manipulating your order to clear the board of opponents.”

The subordinate hunter betrayed her thoughts by raising both brows. Once Imma realised her slight, she recovered, but far too late for it to be missed.

“We don’t believe—” Imma snapped.

Marc grabbed a courier pouch hanging against the wall and tossed it their way. He had no idea how Florian intercepted several hunters’ communiques in the span of a month, nor did he care. However, the sight of the sealed correspondence from their order made them both gasp.

“Take your time,” Marc said. “Read, talk, and eat while I wait… or don’t.”

“Why?” Ottilia asked.

“Why what?”

“Show us this?”

That was a good question, and they would not like the answer.

“To save lives…” Marc said, “…and to avert a war that exposes both sides.”

That was a lot to absorb, so he felt it appropriate to further blur the lines between vampires and hunters.

“Again, I’m Marc.” He pointed to the subordinate and said, “And you are?”

There was a pause that spanned several heart beats. After a gulp, Imma answered, “Imma.”

Marc smiled but remained where he was. Moving now would only reset the board.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Marc said. “And you?”

“Ottilia,” she replied without hesitation.

Marc suspected that Otillia would give her subordinate a stern talking to later.

“Excellent. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

* * * *

Warning, oxygen levels at 14.7% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“It came as no surprise that the orders turned out to be convincing forgeries.”

Florian suspected as such, but allowing the hunters to reach the same conclusion would help deter future attempts. It also meant the hunters had a bone to pick with whomever was pulling the strings.

“Before we were done with our chat, Imma ended up stuffing her face, whereas Ottilia abstained.”

It was clear the pair could not make promises on behalf of their order. However, he was assured they would pass on the evidence to those who would act. Marc had the distinct impression that they might reach back if the situation warranted.

“Once they left, my true mission began.”

He dedicated the next fourteen years of his existence to dismantling Drusilla’s network of spies. Since Aelred served as his central point of contact, he often returned to Paris for short durations. It was long enough from him to pull the thread on a loose end.

“Despite the missions to keep me busy, I never got over Geneviève,” Marc said. “That leads me to Evelyn…”

PART V

EVELYN

CHAPTER 65

A DOLL NAMED MARIE

In the early days of taking the war to Drusilla’s allies, Marc used every opportunity he had to check on Geneviève. He often scaled the wall of a nearby building and sat over the edge of the roof. Marc remained like that for hours, peering through her window, hoping for a glimpse.

Sometimes, he got lucky and gazed upon that lovely visage. Confirmation that she was alive and well always made his face come aglow.

A single sighting was good enough for him, and Marc would melt away into the night. Geneviève was a courtesan and that meant he might see her with men, which he preferred to avoid. While they never had a physical relationship, he hated being reminded of what she did for a living.

On his forty-eighth birthday, Marc found himself back at that spot after a particularly difficult mission. This time, he spotted Geneviève smiling at the sight of a little girl running into the room.

To raise a girl in a bordello must have been a challenge. The girl giggled, jumped into those outstretched arms, and hugged her mother with all her might… That black hair and matching green eyes were all I needed to know this was her child…

Marc focused his attention on the sight of a young child so full of life and vigour. This was someone who had yet to taste the harshness of life even when surrounded by desperation.

The next evening, he left an expensive doll where he guessed Geneviève’s daughter would find it. When the giggling child showed it to her mother, Geneviève’s own emotions betrayed her. There was shock and disgust etched on that face, strong enough that the child and Marc gasped… Does she suspect it’s from me?

Before her daughter broke into tears, Geneviève said, “Oh, non! Ma petite, Evelyn. I was jealous of your doll. Does she have a name?”

The young Evelyn looked up at the ceiling with those big green eyes while nibbling on her lower lip. After three seconds an answer came.

“Marie,” Evelyn said.

“What a beautiful name, ma belle.”

The girl’s eyes lingered on the doll, but there was still pain in her mother’s eyes. After a long sigh, Evelyn relented.

“You can have her, Maman,” Evelyn said.

The child’s lower lip trembled, but it was more important to make her mother happy.

Geneviève laughed and hugged her child.

“Non, she is yours,” Geneviève said. “Treat her well.”

It was incredible how well-placed affection could make a child carry on as though nothing had happened. The fact that her mother was an empath likely helped, but life had an uncanny way of interrupting.

CHAPTER 66

GIFT FROM AN ANGEL

Marc continued to bring Evelyn dresses, treats, and toys for years. He was not entirely sure of his motivations for doing so. However, a part of Marc enjoyed watching those green eyes come aglow, even if only for a moment… Anything for a glimpse of that innocence…

For years, the exchanges were executed flawlessly. Marc was not known for being careless, and carefully planned where to deposit his gifts… It’s a bit awkward when one of the courtesan’s finds them…

Alas, it was a particularly busy evening at the bordello. Judging by the sounds, he assumed that an orgy was taking place in the parlour. On the other side of this wall, there were well over a dozen hearts beating at a brisk pace, along with the sounds of rutting.

With the package in hand, Marc crept out of the shadows and placed it neatly under the light emanating from a window. The moon shone brightly, which made the package appear as though it was fashioned from silver.

“Are you an angel?” Evelyn asked.

Marc guessed that voice belonged to someone who was nine or ten, but truthfully, he had little experience with children. While a trained assassin was challenged to approach him without his knowledge, Evelyn hid in plain sight.

He closed his eyes and prepared himself to inhabit the role of le Marquis. The last thing he wanted to do was scar this girl for life after hearing his natural method of speech.

“Non,” Marc said simply. “Why’d you think that?”

He never turned around to gaze into those big, green eyes. A part of him wanted to do it, just to watch her open the package… I don’t think Geneviève would like her daughter interacting with a client…

“You’re glowing like a silver bell in the light,” Evelyn said. “Just like that package you left behind.”

Marc laughed, since he was not worried that someone would overhear… I could fire a mortar in here and not arouse suspicion…

“You’re very observant,” Marc said. “Alas, I’m just a man.”

“Are you a duc?” Evelyn asked, seemingly unconcerned that Marc kept his back facing her.

“I’m the son of a comte,” Marc said, after concluding that a healthy dose of truth was his best way out of this.

“Oh…” Evelyn said.

There was sadness in that response, which bordered on disappointment. For Marc, it was the opposite, because a piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

“Why would I be a duc?” Marc asked to confirm his hunch.

“Maman said that my father’s a duc…” Evelyn said. “I was hoping…”

The rest of the narrative wrote itself. Evelyn was hoping to catch her father leaving her gifts. That explained why Geneviève was aghast that this duc had taken an interest… One who obviously does not recognise her as a legitimate heir…

“I… was a friend of your mother,” Marc said.

“Does that make you my friend?”

“In a way… Speaking of which…where is she?”

There was a pause, further tempting Marc to look upon the child, but the less she knew about this angel, the better… for the both of us…

“In there…” Evelyn whispered.

There came the sound of fabric brushing up against fabric. He imagined Evelyn pointing at the wall he faced, the one that shielded this child from the horrors within.

The idea of Geneviève being stuck in a room with so much emotion nearly made Marc cringe. He remembered how sex with Susanna was an emotional experience. Factoring in the numbers, and the potential for negative emotions like jealousy… that’s going to drain the life out of her…

“She’ll be alright,” Marc lied.

“Exhausted…”

This was the first sign that Evelyn was aware of the environment she lived in. She was right and her dose of wisdom probably meant it was not the first time…

“I want you to pass a message on to Madame,” Marc said. “Can you do that?”

“I’ll try,” Evelyn said honestly.

“Tell her you were asked to remind her of an arrangement she made in relation to your mother,” Marc said. “After that, tell her that the walls have ears.”

“The walls have ears?” Evelyn said. “I like that.”

“Can you pass along the message?”

“Oui. Should I tell her now?”

Marc turned a finger into a talon and buried it into his thigh. The pain focused him long enough to get through this conversation without betraying emotion or showing his face.

“Non,” Marc said to avoid having this child walk into something no one that age should ever be exposed to. “You can do it first thing in the morning.”

Before Evelyn responded, Marc was gone, leaving the gift behind. She rubbed her eyes and searched the entire room, but there were no traces of him.

“I think he really was an angel.”

* * * *

Warning, oxygen levels at 14.8% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“I gained valuable insight on the source of Geneviève’s disgust.”

Before he left for another mission, Marc found himself back on his perch. Geneviève looked drained and tired, and he suspected the orgy was the cause. When Evelyn brought out the gift, the courtesan’s skin turned green.

Evelyn’s smile faded, which began a rapid exchange between them. Given the distance, walls, and windows separating them, Marc could not hear most of what was said. However, the words ‘ange,’ ‘comte,’ and ‘disparu’ came across well enough.

Geneviève’s colouring slowly returned to normal as they spoke. With a smile, she hugged Evelyn and told her to open the box. There was a dress inside, nothing fancy, but it would serve her well.

“That was the last time I took a chance to peek.”

The next day, Aelred said there were rumours circulating Paris that Marc had a family in the city. He initially feared for his son, but the only family he had in Paris were distant cousins.

“To avoid exposing them, I had gifts delivered to Evelyn and her mother,” Marc said. “It seemed like a reasonable precaution to take.”

Doing so enabled him to plan deliveries when he was otherwise not in Paris. This further shielded his activities from Geneviève and Evelyn. Marc knew Drusilla played the long game, so it paid to ensure she never found another way to exploit his past.

Warning, oxygen levels at 14.9% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“With that, I became further motivated to dismantle Drusilla’s network.”

When permitted to do so, he used the gates for surgical strikes. Marc dispatched more vampires and agents working for Drusilla than souls he reaped in life. The difference this time was that he was doing it to prevent a war.

“I suspect this was why Susanna wanted me to join her cause…”

Artists, musicians, composers, and intellectuals were ill suited for violence. Marc was forged in battle and was ideal for such a task… I performed it dutifully for another eight years…

However, he never got near Drusilla. Every time he dispatched an enemy, that woman raised another two to take their place. It became clear this was a numbers game, and the odds were stacked against him.

Still, he fought on until he received word from Aelred. The message was straightforward: Come home.

“So, I gave up hunting down Liduina of Schiedam and returned home without delay…”

CHAPTER 67

THE PORTRAIT’S NOTEBOOK

Where are we headed?” Marc asked.

Aelred looked over his shoulder to confirm the soldier was keeping pace.

“It’s easier to explain if you see for yourself,” Aelred replied. “Or is the birthday boy too old to keep up?”

That was a reference to him recently turning fifty-six years old. Not that it mattered, as he would forever be a man in his twenties.

They came upon a series of wooden stairs near someone’s personal stables. If Marc had to guess, Aelred owned this place as well… He expands his empire while people think he’s a starving artist…

Interestingly, Aelred recently changed his identity. His former persona died mysteriously when a fire broke out at his shop. After changing his hair colour, and shaving off his beard, the elder vampire settled in a workshop in a new part of the city, posing unsurprisingly as a painter fresh off his apprenticeship.

“The women are better fed in this neighbourhood,” Aelred confessed to him.

Marc was not sure if the elder preferred the challenge of getting women on canvas who were better off, or simply found them more attractive… or are they in season?

They made a right turn on the second floor, reaching another set of stairs that led to the roof. Aelred navigated the area as though he frequently made this trip.

Marc was thankful that he was not really a man in his late fifties. Given their pace, he would have been too winded to keep up… Aelred would be a handful of dust in some crypt…

From up here, Marc saw much of the city, including a cathedral that towered over the area. He rather enjoyed the view but knew that was not the reason they were here.

“What—” Marc asked.

“Shhhhh.” In a whisper Aelred added, “She’s almost here…”

In the distance, there was a young woman moving through the streets of Paris with a familiarity that came to those who grew up in them. No guide or King’s cartographer could comprehend the interconnected network of streets and routes she employed to get home.

She passed under the shadows of a great church. The impressive structure that took generations to complete stood above all others.

“All for the glory of God,” she hissed.

The young woman paid no heed to the glances received from those nearby. The stares from the clergy hinted this was not the first time she had done this.

Marc caught a young priest adjusting his cassock. He reasoned this one was tempted to solicit a confession from her when no one was looking… just as quickly deny everything if he was caught…

This young woman passed under an oil lamp, granting him some insight on how she appeared. While still young, the woman was pushing the age that society typically associated with old maids. The way she walked alone at night, made it clear that she had no suitor… or prospects…

Her dress was decidedly peculiar. It was accessible from the front… that marks her as a courtesan.

However, this style of dress was more appropriate for children. Given how thin and relatively undeveloped the wearer was, Marc deduced what clientele this one attracted.

Marc rarely killed, but he made an exception for those who preyed upon children. The idea of her courting such clients would make his skin crawl had he been capable of authentic emotion… at least, she keeps them away from children…

Marc made a note to get a list of her customers. Aelred would never say no to a generous blood donation…

The courtesan put on a well-practised smile as a gentleman approached—judging by the attire, he was on the way to a function. It was clearly a reflex, ever on display to catch the eye of a passer-by. Her smile reminded him of the one Susanna wore when making an entrance… or to leave an impression…

It would be cruel to say it to her face, but the rest of her was unremarkable. Her visage was gaunt, leaving her cheekbones and jaw clearly defined, and that black was hair dull and listless. Marc guessed there were dark patches under her eyes, but he could not confirm given the poor light.

The gentleman passed her without a glimpse. She sighed, a sign that she knew all too well that men were not drawn to her…

“An old maid,” the courtesan said before a loud and painful cough wracked her body.

A different smile crept over her face after catching her breath. It was genuine, bordering on a smirk, as though she had just won in the game of life.

Once at the back door to a familiar brothel, the courtesan took a deep breath. Before she opened the door, she turned around to confirm she was not being followed. In that instant, Marc caught sight of those piercing, green eyes.

“Bonsoir, Madame!” the courtesan said brightly before shutting the door behind her.

“Wait…” Marc said as pieces fell neatly into place. “That’s where Geneviève works?”

“You have a good eye,” Aelred replied. “What else did you notice?”

“Those eyes. You mean to tell me that’s Geneviève’s daughter?”

“That’s her only redeemable trait, if you ask me,” Aelred said before clearing his throat. “You’re correct; Geneviève was her mother…”

Marc’s emotions betrayed him, and he froze in place. This unexpected bit of news reminded Marc that people like him were never meant to be happy… or even content…

Susanna died trying to keep him safe. Every bit of good in his life had been taken from him, or was left to wither away and die… to think Émilie lives to this day…

“How?” Marc whispered after snapping free from his trance.

Aelred went to say something, but stopped before sound escaped those lips. He remained like that until a proper response formed in his mind.

“She bled out,” Aelred said. “After learning that she was pregnant, she chose not to raise another child in a brothel.”

He remembered staff from the Keep speaking of using a knitting needle to get themselves out of a mess. However, several young women went missing shortly thereafter… Funny how those old hens never mentioned the risks…

“When?” Marc asked, without making eye contact.

Marc rolled his hands into fists, so tight the knuckles were white before he released them. He repeated this several times, focusing on the void vice the maelstrom. It was a shame that those capable of helping him were dead…

“Two months ago,” Aelred replied.

The elder vampire took a few steps back from the edge and centred himself on the platform. While his mask was impeccable, he was clearly worried that Marc would embody wrath… It seems I’ve earned myself a reputation…

While completely unnecessary, Marc took a deep breath and returned to what was considered normal for le Marquis. Even if drunk patrons often commented there was something long and rigid stuck up his ass…

“That’s why you had me recalled?” Marc asked.

Given the situation, Marc thought that being direct would make this easier for them… At the very least, it will allay his fears…

“In part…”

“There was another reason?”

“You astound me,” Aelred said flatly. “You can hunt down one of our own with ease, and yet, you fail to see the bigger picture.”

Marc bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. The pain ensured he remained safely within the void.

The last mission sent him to a remote area of Europe with no gate access… I never got to say goodbye…

His reasoned mind took over. With several questions left to answer, Marc decided to go over what he knew.

Geneviève was dead, and Evelyn was a courtesan. That detail bothered him; namely, because he hoped that her mother would be able to leave that life. How would Geneviève manage that without catching the eye of a suitor?

He knew she worked at the same bordello, and wondered how that was possible. The Madame was not known to be altruistic nor charitable. That much was obvious from their limited interactions…wait…does that mean…

“Was my arrangement with Geneviève transferred to Evelyn?” Marc asked.

“It seemed only fair,” Aelred replied. “Even with your income, the Madame needed persuasion.”

The elder confirmed that Evelyn did not bring in much business. The men who chose this establishment could afford to be picky. Aelred confessed that Evelyn was often used as a chambermaid or worked in the kitchen. They also sent her out for supplies, or to meet with high-risk clients… like tonight…

While Geneviève had a hard life, her daughter was worse off. Without steady clients, the best Evelyn could hope for was that her Madame’s generosity would hold, or she would end up on the streets… she’d be dead in a gutter within a fortnight…

Still, that did not explain the big picture statement. So far, there was nothing that surprised him, nor any detail that risked sending him headfirst into the maelstrom… It must be something I overlooked…

There was Evelyn herself: pale, with dark patches under her eyes. All of that could be attributed to a lack of rest and a poor diet. However, none of that lined up with the memories he had of her as a child…

“She coughed,” Marc said absentmindedly, voicing his thoughts aloud.

“You noticed?” Aelred confirmed.

That response was a clue all its own. That cough was painful, productive, and her reaction was that she had a macabre familiarity to it.

“How long has she been coughing like that?”

“I’d say about six months now.”

That answer surprised him; this was the type of news that Marc would wish to know. Then again, Aelred had taken liberties with the arrangement they had with the Madame for a reason…

“Did she see a doctor?”

Aelred nodded before answering.

“Something in her lungs,” Aelred began. “Shortness of breath, fatigue, and those coughs…”

That description brought forth memories of Jeanne dying in her bed. Wasting away until nothing was left for la Mort to take away. Evelyn would end up living a short, brutal… and pointless life…

Despite his digestive system having atrophied, a sensation of nausea washed over him. He quickly wrestled control of his faculties and banished it to the void where it belonged. The burp that followed was vile, like opening a sealed coffin decades after burial.

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” Aelred said. “The doctor refused to speak to her about it.”

While that pointed at the severity, it was nothing they could work with. What Marc needed was information, and remaining perched on this roof would not yield answers.

“Have you anything to add?” Marc guessed.

“I suspect she doesn’t have long.”

“How?”

The man cocked a brow, as though surprised by the question. It never occurred to him that Marc had yet to encounter tainted prey.

“She has the scent of death,” Aelred says. “I know better than to feed off anyone who smells like a bloated corpse.”

“I want to see for myself,” Marc said. “Tonight.”

“That can be arranged…”

CHAPTER 68

THE PORTRAIT’S DREAM

Warning, oxygen levels at 15.0% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“Aelred knew exactly what I wanted.”

Marc could not just walk in and ask for time with Evelyn. If the Madame realised that he was le Monsieur, that would create a situation. Not only did she sell him out, but he looked no older than the last time he was there as a client.

However, a starving artist, such as Aelred, could make the request. After which it was a simple matter of sneaking in through a window.

The problem remained: Evelyn could not remember their interaction, and for that, Marc needed someone with the voice to put her under this spell.

“Poor girl,” Marc said. “That was the first time she was exposed to my normal manner of speech…”

* * * *

“Tired?” Marc asked.

That word was so devoid of emotion that it sent a chill down Evelyn’s spine. She shivered visibly, which made him reconsider his plan.

Marc realised that Aelred stripped Evelyn of her senses, along with the ability to move consciously. The poor girl was trapped in an ethereal world of shadows, and Marc was the only one capable of reaching out to her.

He approached from a dark corner of the room, trying to push away the memories made in this room. From his point of view, he had been happy here with Geneviève, even if his emotions—Focus…

Marc slid his hand gently over her thigh, like he would have done to comfort Susanna. However, it straightened every hair on the back of her neck… I forgot how cold my hands are…

“Are you tired of the rampant corruption? Leary of criminals ruling the streets? Or do you like hiding in the gutter while reeking of death?” Marc asked.

His voice was constant in pitch and tone, employing precisely measured spacing. His goal was to show her that he understood her world.

She did reek of death, and Marc was, unfortunately, all too familiar with that scent. If not for her heart beating strong and true, he would assume that someone left her to rot in the high heat… She’s rotting from the inside…

“Are you tired of dirt and grime covering every surface, blanketing the streets and even the sheets of your bed?”

Marc did not mention the overpowering odour of male seed and urine. It was pungent enough to overpower the scent of her decaying body. It wafted from the sheets and was strongest between her legs… How did I miss that detail with Geneviève?

These questions painted a grim portrait of her life. Marc felt that he needed to be brutally honest with her… What comes next might well prove worse…

He lifted her head, bringing it closer to him. Her hair was cracked and dry, but the warmth radiating through her skin further reminded him that she was not yet ready to cross the threshold.

“What has God done for you?” Marc asked.

He noticed how Evelyn behaved when she crossed the paths with the clergy, watched when she hissed at the cathedral. Marc needed her to know that he understood and would offer her a way out.

Another shiver ran down her spine. Marc made a note to ponder how his actions might affect her. With her senses solely focused on him, Evelyn only had her imagination to fill in the gaps.

“Have you ever been blessed by his divine light?” Marc asked.

He put her head down, trying to place her in a dignified position. Alas, bile built up in her stomach, so he let go of her head. She looked like a rag doll casually tossed to the floor.

“Perhaps, you shy away from his light? Like you have with your father?” Marc prodded.

Evelyn’s breathing turned short and shallow. At the corner of an eye, Marc saw a lone tear forming before rolling down her cheek. He caught the tear before it fell to the ground and marvelled at the reflections within for fifteen heartbeats… When was the last time I shed a tear?

“A lifetime ago…” Marc whispered.

Marc placed the tear upon her cracked lips. For a moment, they appeared healthy and plump, but that was an illusion stemming from a half-forgotten memory. It was enough to make him question his entire course of action. However, a constant remained… La Mort greets her no matter the path she takes…

“Youth is fleeting as a freshly cut flower, withering away until nothing remains.” Marc paused for effect. “Not even a king is immune to the sands of time. Each grain tears flesh from bone… What a shame if such a fate should find you…”

He noticed her eyes darting from one side to the other. She should have seen the rafters illuminated by the candlelight… instead, she’s staring into the abyss…

“No,” Marc began, “you deserve better…”

He focused on Evelyn’s face, which was etched in horror. It was time to make his choice, even if he decided long ago never to go down this path.

This poor creature never had a chance to live. The harsh truth was that this brothel and her mother’s line of work robbed Evelyn of a childhood. Her father refused to acknowledge her existence, and Geneviève was dead, leaving her child to the wolves. Unless he did something, Evelyn would end up in a shallow grave, and show up at the Pearly gates with nothing to show for her troubles.

Marc had seen more than his fair share of death and destruction. God never showered him with love, but laughed at his misery and misfortune. Finding desperation whenever he was surrounded by those teetering on the edge of death. No compassionate god could sit back and do nothing…unless we’re all part of his sick plan…

Perhaps, there was hope for Evelyn in the afterlife… Her sins can’t rival mine at her age…

“Your death… is near. La Mort shall soon reach out past the veil to claim you…”

Marc could slit her throat or stab her in the heart to ensure a quick death. Evelyn would not be made to suffer the indignity of having her young body fail as disease consumed her from the inside.

Alternatively, he could break his vow and give her a life worth living, but she was not a doll that he could mend back together using a needle and thread… She needs to choose…

“Please, listen carefully,” Marc asked before taking her hand. “I can end your suffering; it will be quick and painless. You may even find salvation waiting for you on the other side.”

He paused, while he worked up the courage to bring forth his proposal. If he carried out this plan, their lives would be forever bound… Like I am to Émilie…

He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and squeezed her hand. For a fleeting moment he almost felt human for doing so, but the void was never satiated. It sapped the warmth from this moment until nothing remained.

“I can make you like me,” Marc said. “You’ll become a creature of the night, the stuff of nightmares. I will train you, educate you, and promise you that this world will feel your impact.”

He paused while focusing on her heart rate. On the third beat, Evelyn squeezed his hand. It was slight, but a positive sign. It took great strength of will to overcome an elder vampire’s control.

“Are you certain? I will not think less of you—”

Again, she managed to squeeze his hand, although it was stronger and more deliberate this time. Marc’s lips curled upwards imperceptibly.

“The world won’t see you coming…”

CHAPTER 69

THE MEASURE OF INSANITY

Are you out of your mind?” Aelred asked.

The elder slammed his hand against the workbench, causing tools and instruments to jump from the surface. While the bottle of blood wine wobbled, it settled back into place as though afraid of its master’s wrath.

Aelred rarely broke decorum. Like Susanna, he occasionally took a paternalistic approach with Marc. While dead for thirty years, that meant nothing to those who witnessed Christianity take root within the Roman Empire.

The elder’s face was red, while veins bulged from his forehead. Every muscle was pulsating.

“I think it’s exactly within character,” Marc replied.

He used his natural method of speech to drive the point home. If that argument failed to sway him, Marc had others prepared.

“That hero complex of yours is going to get you killed,” Aelred countered after taking a deep breath.

The elder reached for the bottle of wine. Marc noticed there was far more blood to the mix than normal.

Marc did not see this as a hero complex. More of a refined sense of duty, which was further honed by his stunted emotions. While it was easy to discount the value of human life when free of emotions, his code of conduct tempered that deficit.

“What of it?” Marc asked. “La Mort came for me a long time ago… I’ve merely delayed the inevitable.”

Aelred poured two glasses. The powerful scent of iron in his drink awakened the beast within. His fangs fell into place, but he quickly retracted them.

“Do you think so little of our kind?”

Like Susanna would do, the elder had a way of asking questions that forced Marc to approach a subject from a different perspective. This time, he was asked to see things as though he were a centuries old vampire who forgot what it was like to put their lives on the line for others… He may play the starving artist, but he’s very much one of the bourgeoisies…

“I think highly of those who suffer and toil,” Marc said. “That common whore reached out to me despite your control… twice. That takes a sharp mind…”

To give Aelred time to think, Marc took a sip of wine. His face broke into a small, contented smile, followed by a sigh.

“Her mind is empty, and she’s unrefined,” Aelred said.

“She can be educated, and you know full-well who her father is.”

That forced Aelred to think, because lineage meant everything to vampires. Marc had been a comte, which earned him a place easily enough, but a duchesse was closer still to a king.

Marc managed to track down this duc and confirmed there were familial traits. Evelyn was the feminised version of this vile man, all except for those eyes and black hair… Those are Geneviève’s eyes…

“It’ll be a challenge to convince the Parisian council,” Aelred said.

The part left unsaid was that the Venetian council was more enlightened when Marc was brought forward. Now, city councils were drifting towards Drusilla, as her ideological poison spread throughout Europe.

Marc rarely considered such details. However, going after Drusilla also meant he could not openly sponsor Evelyn.

“That’s why you’ll sponsor her,” Marc replied.

Knowing this request would cause consternation, Marc took another sip. Given the high concentration of blood, there was no wave of nausea.

The elder huffed, and his face went slack. It was as though a dark cloud blotched out the sun on an otherwise cloudless day. The reasons for the elder to bring forth Evelyn were clear, but it did not mean Aelred had to like it.

“What’s different about this batch?” Marc asked.

“I realised you didn’t take well to the normal ratio,” Aelred said. “So, I tripled the blood.”

To give Aelred time to process this request, Marc did not betray his thoughts. Playing the role of the good vampire made the elder smile.

“You’re asking a great deal,” Aelred said.

“You send me out to thin out Drusilla’s ranks while keeping you out of it.”

Going after those allied with Drusilla came with significant risk. They were often tracked down by the carnage they left behind, which often included hunters… I don’t know how their order can afford to lose so many…

“I’ll need to buy her from the Madame,” Aelred said.

“I have the funds,” Marc countered.

“She’ll need to look the part,” Aelred said. “A full, court gown tailored for her frame.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“She’ll need to be shown how to behave like a lady.”

“I can’t imagine a better teacher.”

“Me?”

Aelred had been sipping on wine and subsequently spat out the contents. Marc took most of it to the face, but instead of making a scene, he calmly withdrew a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face clean.

Marc worried that if he got involved, it would arouse suspicion. Aelred needed to step into the role as Susanna had, while he remained in the shadows.

“If I handle all the preparation,” Aelred said, “she will bond to me.”

“Do you think anyone could bond with me?”

Logic and reason were fickle mistresses. Men often believed reason guided their lives, but emotions influenced choice, no matter how hard someone tried to repress them.

Marc could not rationalise the flaw in his reasoning. Had he been amongst the living, the fear of rejection might have been obvious… Can I still fear?

“She won’t have much of a choice,” Aelred said. “I can petition the council for her inclusion into our ranks, but she needs to consume some of your blood.”

“Like Susanna did with me?”

“Of course,” Aelred said. “In this case, it may prove beneficial.”

Marc furrowed a brow while his mind ran over scenarios on how this would be a boon. In his case, Susanna used the link to expand his range of emotions.

“Given her state, I doubt she’ll live long enough to execute the plan,” Aelred answered. “Your blood will lend her some of your strength.”

“Can it heal her?” Marc asked.

“I don’t believe so,” Aelred said. “Not without altering who she is.”

Aelred was referring to blood dolls, humans who gave up their blood willingly to experience the ecstasy of being drained. However, vampires gifted them with their own blood, which corrupted their minds. After a few years, these poor souls became extensions of their master, incapable of independent thought… I never realised that it was simply a matter of quantity…

“How?” Marc asked.

After getting a splatter of blood in the face, Marc was less interested in his drink. Still, he would not insult his host, so he downed the rest in one gulp.

“Slip some drops into a bottle of wine,” Aelred began. “Alternatively, a drop in her mouth while she sleeps, or kiss her with your tongue sliced open.”

Thoughts about doing the latter did not agree with him, which intensified the wave of nausea washing over him. Based on his reflection in a mirror, Marc was also a shade lighter than before.

“…in your case, I recommend lacing her drink,” Aelred said.

“I see her more as a daughter,” Marc said without thinking.

“Be careful… those emotions will betray you.”

Marc’s mouth was half-open before reason took hold. No matter how much he wished to deny it, several reactions during this exchange were attributable to emotions… you can’t kill off the human side entirely…

“One last thing,” Marc said.

Aelred’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling as though Marc was about to ask for the moon on a silver platter. That was the elder’s way of preparing for what was to come. While time was irrelevant to a vampire, Evelyn’s mortality meant they were both on the clock.

“I want to commission a painting of her,” Marc said.

“You mean me?”

Marc opened his hand and waved it around the studio. It was clear the elder had both the means and the talent.

“Why?” Aelred asked.

“To play her part…” Marc said. “She needs a win…”

CHAPTER 70

THE LINK

Warning, oxygen levels at 15.3% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“Aelred began making preparations for the masquerade the next day.”

Some elements of their preparation naturally followed others. Marc arranged for Evelyn to be released from her obligations at the bordello, which was a fancy way of saying that the young woman was bought and paid for… I never liked the idea of owning someone…

The Madame claimed there were significant losses associated with providing room and board for this charity case. All of which was forgotten once she set eyes on all those coins… Our kind have exploited greed against humanity since the dawn of time…

That was followed by the delivery of a bottle of wine. While he suspected no one at this bordello could read the attached note, Marc ensured the courier also relayed the message verbally.

“A bottle to celebrate your freedom.”

* * * *

With that seed planted within the depths of Evelyn’s mind, she drank herself into a stupor. Marc found himself sitting atop the same rooftop once used to keep tabs on Geneviève. The connection was not immediately established after finishing her first glass. However, after her third, Marc began to sense her thoughts and emotions… Susanna must have been selective with what she shared…

The predominant emotion was euphoric happiness. He assumed that was a combination of being freed from the clutches of the Madame and being under the influence of a fine wine.

There were emotions simmering just below the surface. There was nervousness that accounted for an increased heart rate. For lack of a better term, the life of a courtesan was intimately familiar to her and came to an end… she has no idea where it will lead…

There was also sadness. While that emotion was buried deep within her psyche, it was powerful and raw. Amongst the causes, Marc assumed Geneviève played a big part, like it did for him when Jeanne died.

He knew that she was dying, and suspected that Evelyn would experience shock, betrayal, disillusionment, and desperation if she learned of her dark fate. These emotions were present within the fabric of her being, but constantly in flux. Desperation would spike, followed by a drop as it was usurped by another.

He likened her natural emotional state to the maelstrom he actively avoided. Marc was certain that he would lose himself if he ventured too close to that quagmire of emotion… How can she cope?

Before dawn forced them apart, Marc tested the strength of their link. He compelled her to awaken and to find a mirror. It was his first time planting a thought in the mind of another and he found it unpleasant. Unfortunately, Marc had to ascertain the effects his blood had on her.

Evelyn put on just enough to appear presentable before walking barefoot to the parlour. There, she found a silver mirror, her reflection visible in the dying candlelight.

She had changed noticeably from the last time they met. Her skin had a healthy glow, her hair was softer, and those piercing, green eyes glowed. It had been so long that Marc had forgotten how little humans saw in poor light.

Evelyn must have noticed the change as well. She reached out for her face, and the sensation of her warm hand running over smooth skin made him shiver. While not sensual, it awoke memories he thought forgotten.

The young woman let out a soft sigh and smiled. The same one she adopted after hissing at the cathedral. Inundated by her emotions and memories, Marc had to fight the urge to not rush in to comfort her… I could become addicted to those feelings…

Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek, enough that his jaw muscles bulged, and his teeth strained. The pain cleared his mind and severed the link. Without realising it, Marc stopped breathing entirely.

“I’ll need to take precautions next time…”

* * * *

Warning, oxygen levels at 15.3% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

Marc paused; even now, that taste of Evelyn’s emotions as a human confused him. The intensity never failed to shatter through his defences, so Marc buried that memory deep.

“I never told her that I was with her that morning.”

It remained his dirty little secret. From then on, Marc narrowed the link between them. To experience all of her was too much for him. He spent a lifetime creating the illusion of emotion and had no defences against a genuine emotional response.

“That day, they escorted her to a seamstress for a fitting.”

He requested that the court gown not be mentioned in her presence. Instead, she was fitted for simpler dresses, suitable for daily use. Evelyn would see them as courtesan dresses, but that could not be helped.

“I had no intention of her leaving that bordello again with her looking like a child,” Marc began. “Eventually, it was time to have her sit for her portrait…”

CHAPTER 71

THE PORTRAIT’S COMMISSION

The room was dimly lit except for candles, lamps, and the hearth. Some light filtered through the heavy drapes covering the windows, interacting with the billowing smoke inside. The scene was sombre, but suited both vampires just fine.

The aroma of various paints, oils, and solvents created a unique bouquet as it mingled with the burning oil. It was much stronger than Marc was accustomed to… He does it so the models will attest that he’s up and about during the day…

“Confortable, ma chère?” Aelred asked in a smooth and practised voice.

The elder vampire confessed earlier that he was worried about portraying a woman who bore no special beauty. While that smile of hers entranced, such traits were the product of years of practice… At least he agreed that my blood helped make her look presentable…

“She might be pale,” Aelred told him, “but her skin and hair are healthy… if only she managed to put on some weight…”

Evelyn could not fill in the space within the corset. This reminded Aelred of common street trash, or more appropriately, the body of a little girl… Thin, small-breasted, with a subtle, hourglass shape…

Those green eyes, other than her bewitching smile, impressed him the most. They reflected the harshness of her life, but remained bright and defiant. It was said that a candle which burns twice as bright burns half as long. Marc found that it rang false… she never had a chance to shine…

“Oui,” Evelyn said with a nod.

She looked at Aelred while adopting that practised smile from earlier. Her generous lips were pressed together, and she tilted her head slightly to appear alluring with a hint of intent.

That smile was authentic today. No signs of strain…

Marc knew she was lying, because he was tapped into her cognitive mind. This granted him a view of her thoughts without falling prey to her emotions. Even with such a selective link, spikes in her emotional state sometimes punched through. To reduce the chances of sensory overload, Marc closed his eyes while standing perfectly at ease.

Those clothes were more rigid than Evelyn was accustomed to. The constraints of the quality corset pushing against her chest were pronounced. Aelred tightened it with all of his strength, in a failed attempt to force her form to yield to his will.

Marc knew that Evelyn missed the simplicity of a courtesan’s dress, because the additional layers made the gown unbearably warm. The sun beaming brightly against the windows served as a constant reminder of the heat outside that even Lucifer would bemoan.

“Perhaps…if I sit like this?” Evelyn asked as she slid into a more comfortable position.

She put her legs together at the knees, curved her back inwards, and pushed her shoulders back. This brought out her chest to the forefront. While she looked upon the painter, her eyes teared up as emotions swirled within. The glow from those eyes coalesced into a visage of pure innocence.

“That…that’s perfect!” Aelred exclaimed while hiding a sigh.

Marc’s eyes shot open and focused on the back of Aelred’s head. While not linked, the elder must have sensed the ire of the man behind him and stiffened visibly.

“Try to remain as still as possible. It’ll make this easier for the both of us,” he added.

Aelred picked up a stick of charcoal and applied it directly onto the canvas to draft a rough outline of the model.

The movements of his hands were quick and practised. First, he concentrated on the fragile locks of hair sitting atop her forehead. The coiffed hair that he spent hours working on, freeing the strands from the oils and dirt off the streets until it shined. The elder carefully cut some of it away to tame its wild nature. What remained of her black hair was nothing short of a miracle.

Evelyn’s eyes were focused on the painter’s stare. Her breathing was controlled and shallow, though that was hardly a challenge since the tight corset made deep breaths painful.

Marc was constantly assailed by stray thoughts going through her mind. He learned that Evelyn did not believe that she was attractive. This was followed by images of the Madame enumerating her many failings daily.

She was filled with genuine curiosity as to why anyone would wish to capture her likeness. Last, she began to think of the countless beauties who made better candidates for this commission… None of whom look anything like her…

Evelyn swallowed hard, and those thoughts settled. Instead, she focused on Aelred. She enjoyed his confidence and passion as he worked feverishly on her portrait.

“What is—” Evelyn asked lightly.

Marc saw that Evelyn was focused on Aelred’s blue eyes. It was like looking into the divine light of the moon. Those eyes contrasted his day’s old beard and long, wild hair that required him to occasionally push it aside to see.

He sensed that she found him to be a handsome man. One she would gladly wish to please, if only he asked. Inevitably, doubt seeped into her mind, and she dismissed the thought as something better suited to a fairy tale.

Still, her mind and the heart were rarely in sync. The more Evelyn looked within those eyes, the more enraptured she became. Eventually, an image of the two of them in a passionate embrace crossed her mind…wait…something’s off…

Marc sensed the heat building between her legs, to the point of making her uncomfortable. She desperately wished to change position, or for an opportunity to touch herself and quench the passion growing within.

As the scene developed, Marc became aware that Evelyn was not looking at the man. At least not the one he knew. What she saw was a feminised version. His hair was longer, his skin and facial features were softer…

Without any recourse for relief, she bit the tip of her tongue. The spike in pain was like adding fuel to the fire, which pushed her over the edge. Evelyn let out a muffled moan, but kept her legs pressed together to hide her shame.

However, a surge of emotions washed over him. In the space between one of Evelyn’s heart beats, Marc’s knees gave out and the sensation of falling broke him free from the link.

The creak in the floorboards from his recovery was enough to notice. The young courtesan peered into the tenebrous corner of the studio where he lurked. While she could not see him, Marc remained still, once more a stoic soldier.

From that point forward, he observed without the link in place. While Susanna had been his perfect drug, Evelyn was the spark that could set him aflame… She needs to discipline her mind…

CHAPTER 72

EVOLVING SITUATION

Warning, oxygen levels at 15.4% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“By the time Aelred was done with the portrait, the sun had set,” Marc said. “For that to happen, Aelred had to draw from his blood reserves to complete the work sooner.”

They were lucky that autumn was upon them. Since the sun set early in the evening, it permitted Marc to follow Evelyn as she made her way back to the bordello.

Marc hoped the familiarity of her surroundings would soothe Evelyn. This had been her mother’s room, a reminder of all the love she felt when her mother was still with her. He feared that finding her a room at a tavern, or securing a small apartment would further tear her from the world she knew.

“I never considered she felt I was leaving her there to rot.”

Just like his interactions with her while under Aelred’s spell, Marc conveyed the opposite of what he intended. His execution was the reason why he failed so spectacularly.

Nights were difficult for her after receiving word that she was free from her obligations. Evelyn cried herself to sleep every night, shedding silent tears for fear it would catch the Madame’s ire.

“So, I altered the plan.”

He ensured that a dress was made ready for her every couple of days. Hence, one was waiting for her when she arrived.

“The look on her face was priceless.”

Evelyn’s face literally came aglow, with a bright smile that warmed the room. For a moment, she forgot about the horrors of this bordello, her eyes focused on that colourful dress.

“It didn’t last…” Marc admitted.

Evelyn pressed the dress against her chest and let it flow. She realised it was for a courtesan, although more elaborate than even the Madame could afford.

The dress was thoughtful, but the style left her wondering if she would ever escape the life. It seemed more likely that she caught the eye of a client who was too afraid to show his face.

“I spoke of this with Aelred.”

It took an hour for the elder vampire to walk Marc through what had to be done. There was plenty of time before the masquerade, and it was Marc’s moment to make himself known.

“Keeping to the shadows makes her think this is a cruel joke,” Marc said while mimicking Aelred perfectly.

Warning, oxygen levels at 15.5% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“So, I altered the plan…”

CHAPTER 73

GOING HOME

A horse and carriage approached the bordello. The man sitting by the driver climbed down and went inside. Marc leaned back into his seat, causing the leather to creak… This will take a while…

Susanna always took longer than expected, as did Émilie. He concluded that this would be the case with Evelyn as well… She has to pack her life into a coffi—

A chest was delivered in the morning, along with a message. It informed her that she was to pack her things and be ready to leave an hour after sunset. Marc was certain the Madame would protest on account of a loss of income, so a sizable payment was made to ensure her full cooperation.

Thirteen minutes later, the bordello’s front doors opened. This was soon followed by the assistant dragging a large wooden chest behind him. As judged by the red face and eyes that were about to pop out, Evelyn must have packed the furniture as well.

Outlined by the doorway, there was the silhouette of a slender woman in a gown. It was Evelyn standing at the threshold. Judging by her racing heart, she was nervous… Who could blame her?

The hostesses who opened the doors looked upon Evelyn with intense jealousy and disdain. The sight of the silver, horse-drawn carriage with the emblem that matched his signet ring accounted for the former. That Evelyn was leaving tonight, even if she barely eked out a living as a courtesan, explained the latter.

Since that poor man was seconds from the grave, Marc had no choice but to further alter the plan. He adjusted his sleeves, so just the right amount of lace was visible, and confirmed that his boots were not scuffed.

He opened the door and stepped out on his own. The man went pale at the sight of him and gulped… He must be worried that he’ll get the sac for this slight…

Instead, Marc wordlessly walked past the assistant and stopped twelve paces away from the entrance. This area was poorly lit, permitting him to keep out of sight from the nosey Madame. He bowed stiffly, while keeping his eyes fixed on Evelyn the entire time.

“Mademoiselle,” Marc said in his finest impression of le Marquis.

Her heart rate kicked up a notch as excitement sent a shot of adrenaline into her veins. She sighed dreamily before giggling… We have a lot of work ahead to prepare her for the masquerade…

“If you will?” Marc said.

He faced the carriage. With both hands pointed towards the open door, he looked over his shoulder towards the silhouette.

Evelyn clapped her hands together and skipped towards him. Marc timed her movements and long-marched towards the carriage to arrive at the same time.

He adopted a stiff pose, as though a courtier, leaving an arm outstretched for her to grab. Her warm hand took a hold of his. She caught his dark brown eyes, while he indulged in her piercing green eyes, shining in the low light like jewels.

Her hand trembled as he expertly guided her inside. The gasp that followed told him this was a first for her, let alone one so opulent… It’s hard to imagine anyone her age never riding in a carriage…

Eventually, the sound of wood scraping against cobblestone reached his ears. The assistant was about to collapse, but the driver showed no inkling to help his fellow man.

Instead of letting the man flounder, Marc grabbed the handle on the opposing end and lifted it straight off the ground. The change in weight nearly made the poor man trip and fall, but Marc ensured it would not.

There came a flurry of whispers from within the brothel, but a single glance from the Madame was enough to restore order. She directed them to close the doors, while keeping her eye on Marc until the bordello’s doors were shut.

Once at the rear boot, Marc picked up the trunk and singlehandedly slid it inside. The weight caused the carriage frame to strain, but the cabin did not move. The assistant’s eyes widened, but Marc was not concerned… Aelred trusts them…

Seeing as the assistant was done making a fool of himself, Marc walked calmly back to the door and stepped inside. Evelyn was sitting on his seat, the one facing forward. Instead of making a scene, he sat opposing her… It’s not like I leave a warm spot when I sit…

A minute later, they were underway. This model was more modern and comfortable, but it brought back memories of travelling with the Comte and Comtesse. He immediately bit the inside of his cheek to arrest any attempt to revive unpleasant memories.

“Vous êtes confortable?” Marc asked.

“Oui,” Evelyn said before adopting a bashful smile.

Through that single word, Marc heard the strain in her voice. Evelyn was more nervous now than at the threshold. There came the sound of fabrics rubbing together and he realised that she was fidgeting.

“Where are we headed?”

It surprised him that she asked, even if her voice was a whisper at the end.

“Home,” Marc replied. “In a manner of speaking.”

That last part was said without conscious thought. That led Evelyn to recoil, and he guessed it conjured up memories of a recent nightmare.

“My apologies,” Marc said after clearing his throat. “I’ve secured a place for now. Later, I plan to move us into the country…”

The temporary residence was an apartment Aelred used to entertain other vampires. A manor in the country would take time to secure. It was fortunate that a distant cousin of his fell out of favour with le Roi… Desperation weakens his position to negotiate…

He did not care for the manicured lands of the estate, or the lavish château that dominated the landscape. What he wanted was the modest, six-bedroom cottage at the edge of the property. While it was intended for guests, it was perfect to help Evelyn acclimatise after the change.

“The country?”

The way she asked hinted that he may as well have said the New World. Marc smiled to help her relax, but the attention only made her blush…

“Mais oui,” Marc said. “Have you ever left the city?”

Evelyn turned beat red, too ashamed to answer. That was not his intent, but once again, he failed to account for her emotions. Of course, Marc could exploit the link he had with her, but he worried that she would overwhelm him.

“Non, jamais,” Evelyn eventually said.

Marc smiled and leaned forward. He wanted her to focus on what he had to say.

“I envy you.”

“W-wha-what?” Evelyn asked. “How? Monsieur?”

“You’re about to be exposed to new experiences, many that I’ve taken for granted all my life.”

Her eyes teared up, overwhelmed by the promise of something she never dared dream of. For the first time, her day would consist of something more than doing what was necessary to survive.

“What should I call you?” Evelyn asked.

In Marc’s mind, this was probably the least important question. However, she could not share his home without knowing his name.

“Marc will do, when we are alone.”

He leaned back in his seat and looked outside. Despite the cloud cover, Marc had no trouble seeing they had a long way to go. Even with a lantern at the front, the driver took his time to avoid hitting something… or someone…

Still, every step the horse made meant they were nearer to their destination. This further brought home the sheer depth and breadth of what was done to prepare her.

“However,” Marc said flatly, “until you’re accustomed to it, I would prefer you used my Lord.”

“Oui, my Lord,” Evelyn said without hesitation.

“Thank you, Evelyn,” Marc said with a fake smile… I’ll hate myself a little more every time she uses that title…

CHAPTER 74

NEW SURROUNDINGS

The apartment was specifically designed to reduce direct light. The bedrooms faced towards a courtyard, due north. When factoring in the units above, that meant their windows were almost always shaded.

The front door faced the street, but it was framed by staircases leading to an overhanging floor. While Marc would never willingly open the door or walk out, he could greet guests at any time.

The inside was lavish, which included fully furnished bedrooms and a comfortable parlour. The kitchen was Spartan, which was expected when the owner was a vampire. Still, the staff had taken care to stock the kitchen, including fresh fruits and vegetables… The advantages of the harvest season…

The excitement of the carriage ride must have drained Evelyn, because her eyes were heavy when they came to a stop. Marc carried her through the threshold and laid her down, fully clothed, upon her bed. Shortly thereafter, the chest was left by the door, out of the way… We’ll need to wash and air out the contents…

He thanked the men and dropped a few coins in their hands for their trouble. Aelred informed him that the men would take care of the carriage and horse, and provide security during the day… I wonder if Aelred has control of their minds?

“No matter,” Marc whispered as the horse and carriage drove off.

Marc closed his eyes and let the situation sink in. He could not place it, but it was as though a great weight fell upon his shoulders. His jaw muscles bulged, and his teeth strained for a fraction of a second before he closed his eyes and reason took over.

“Off to bed,” Marc said.

For the time being, he needed to conceal what he was. That meant sleeping at night and being active during the day. It was fortunate the days were growing shorter…

Still, he didn’t like the idea of feigning sleep for so long. Even when he was buried in the muddy depths of the Seine, Marc could be himself…

CHAPTER 75

CONDITIONS

It was early morning, and Paris was still. The sun would not break over the horizon for a couple of hours. At this time of day, even the birds were asleep… Save for a young woman…

Evelyn’s heart rate and breathing were back to normal. He imagined her eyes opening in a flutter, followed by stretching to take out any kinks from sleeping clothed… The sounds of her dress moving against the linen confirms the last part…

“Où suis-je?” Evelyn whispered. Given her situation, who wouldn’t ask where they were… That was followed by a whispered, “Aie.”

She must have pinched herself to confirm this was not a dream. Marc remained where he was, with no desire to cause her distress… She may not even remember that I was with her last night…

Evelyn got off the bed and walked towards a silver mirror. There she remained, muttering to herself, as though trying to conjure up memories from last night. She cried, and Marc even picked up the sounds of tears falling to the floor.

“Pourquoi?” Evelyn asked herself. Why? What’s the full question?

Tapping into her mind would provide the answer, but that was the easy way out. Evelyn needed to work through her emotions, and Marc could not cheat his way through living with an emotional creature.

“Il ne m’a pas même touché,” Evelyn whispered.

Evelyn questioned why he never took advantage of her. It was impossible for him to fully understand her conflict. For a person whose only worth was their body, the idea of having bodily autonomy and showing a measure of respect shook the very foundations of their identity.

She made a fist and hit the wall.

“On vas voir,” Evelyn said in a hushed tone. We shall see?

There was determination in that voice, and he remembered being the same way around that age. The question was, what was she about to do? The sound of her undressing certainly confused the matter.

Marc was sleeping like a corpse. With arms at his side, hands over his stomach, legs straight together, and stiff as a board. He was not human, so how he slept no longer had any effect… I don’t think she’d react well if she caught me sleeping like this…

He changed position before the sounds of her bare feet rang out in the parlour. It did not take long for her to find his room, since they shared a wall. Evelyn paused by the threshold, her breathing shallow and her heart rate picking up. All that determination gave way to fear and self-doubt. Still, after a loud gulp, her shift puddled to the floor, and she approached the bed.

“What are you doing, Evelyn?”

His voice was deep and muffled by the pillow. He hoped it would sound more authentic to her ear… This was not a scenario I played out in my mind…

Evelyn had just placed her hand against the side of the bed when he spoke. She was frozen in mid-stride, unsure of what to do or even say.

“Well?” Marc pressed.

“I-I wanted to thank you,” Evelyn said.

“You’re welcome,” Marc countered.

He knew that his reply would not resolve this situation. In a world that existed solely to crush her soul, getting something for nothing in return did not happen. His lack of interest probably conjured up dark scenarios on what he planned to do to her… she’s partially right…

“That’s not—” Evelyn said.

“I know.”

Marc rolled in bed, before propping his head up with a couple of pillows. This gave him a view of Evelyn in all her glory. Her breasts were slight, and confirmed that her hourglass figure was subtle… There’s nothing to her…

After letting out a long yawn, Marc focused on her eyes. Since the sun was nearing the horizon, his body yearned to sleep the day away.

“You owe me nothing,” Marc added.

“But you freed me from my—”

“The key word being free.”

Marc had no expectations that she would understand the concept. Her first memories were of her mother living under the thumb of the Madame.

He saw it in her eyes, the way they darted from point-to-point as her mind struggled to make the connections. It was not a case of her being dim. From what he observed, she had potential. Still, Evelyn stood at the breach of a new world… and I’ve yet to take her off the deep end…

“You mean to say that I can leave?” Evelyn whispered while blinking several times.

“If that is your wish? Yes,” Marc replied.

“Where would I go?”

“Only you can answer that…”

“What would I do?”

Marc smiled, and it nearly appeared genuine. He wanted her to realise that she was not the first person who asked themselves that question.

“I think we’ve all been there,” Marc said. “Many struggle to find a purpose in life.”

“Purpose?”

“Think of it as a raison d’être,” he added. “Some paint, some pray, others fight for king and country…”

She crossed her arms and covered her breasts. To be honest, Marc would rather she get dressed. He had no desire to be reminded why she came into his room.

“Some sell themselves?” Evelyn guessed.

“That’s survival,” Marc said. “I doubt you’d find more than a handful of courtesans that genuinely view that as their reason for being.”

“Why was I put on this Earth?”

He needed to be careful here. His natural response was to reply that this was all a sick joke. Or imply they were all cast members in some badly written play. Even as emotionally numb as he was, Marc knew she would not take well to his dark humour.

“You’re lucky.”

It was a shot in the dark, but it hit the mark.

“Me?” Evelyn asked.

Her hands became fists with her thumbs in the middle. He made a note to teach her how to punch and to avoid injury. However, it must have helped because her breathing steadied.

“How so?”

He sat up in bed, and the sheets rolled off his chest. Had it been Geneviève, she would have locked eyes on the unveiling. Evelyn maintained a steady focus on his eyes… I wonder if she knows the truth about her own appetites?

“You have the opportunity to explore and find your calling,” Marc said. “Imagine painting a portrait, writing a poem, singing at a concert hall, or taking the lead in a play.”

He channelled le Marquis and acted out the specific roles. It must have had an effect, because Evelyn giggled every time he adopted the mannerisms of a new persona.

He enjoyed the sight of her being playful and honest. While it taxed him to play the role of le Marquis for long— it was worth it!

“How?” Evelyn asked while wiping her teary eyes dry.

“Do you want me to ruin the surprise?”

Without precursor, she ran towards the bed, grabbed a pillow and swung it at him.

“Quit it, you tease!” Evelyn exclaimed before giggling.

The pillow hit him square in the face. He could have dodged it, or blocked it, but he took the hit for her benefit.

When Evelyn realised what she had done, she pressed her hands flat against her cheeks while her mouth was shaped into an O.

Marc looked so shocked and hurt that she responded to it. Before the mood could further sour, he smiled and stuck his tongue out at her.

“You scamp!” Evelyn exclaimed.

Those lips turned into a pout, and she stomped her feet against the floor several times. This was the part of her he enjoyed: raw emotions without the benefit of a reason… the opposite of my overly rigid self…

“At your service,” Marc said with a mock bow.

“So… You won’t tell me?”

“I’ll only say that we must start with the basics,” Marc said. “First, you’ll need to behave like a lady.”

Evelyn’s eyes relaxed, and her smile resembled a lovestruck student when they spotted their crush. She cocked her head to the side and sighed. These were clues that she often dreamed of such a fate.

“Really?” Evelyn whispered.

“Yes, really… Now, we had a late night—”

“Can I sleep here?”

His eyes rolled towards the ceiling because they were back to where they started… I’m not going to reach her on the first day… I just need to set that spark…

“Fine…” Marc said, “…but only this once.”

Before her smile cleaved that face in half, Marc dampened her enthusiasm.

“Two conditions,” Marc began.

“Name them.”

That smile would not subside, because for her, even such a small victory was like winning the war.

“First, I want you to put on your shift before getting in,” Marc added.

“That’s easily done.”

“Second. Keep to your side of the bed.”

“What if I want to cuddle?” Evelyn countered.

“Have you ever cuddled up against a pair of cold feet…”

CHAPTER 76

HOLDING A GRUDGE

An hour after sunrise, Marc noticed that Evelyn’s breathing was back to normal. She woke up and laid there, staring at the back of his head for twenty-three minutes.

He had been feigning sleep all this time and was tired of having to do so. However, he suspected that Evelyn did not abandon her earlier plan… she’s going to try something…

She slowly slid towards him, pressing her body against his. The shock of him being at ambient temperature caused her to recoil. Had he been asleep, Marc might have reacted poorly to being startled awake.

Instead, he pretended that her reaction simply interrupted his sleep and stopped breathing heavily. She held her breath, but before long, Marc returned to his slow and peaceful breaths… It’s all up to her now…

Evelyn reached out with a hand, gliding it over his exposed hip and down towards her goal. From the way she manoeuvred herself, it was clear that Evelyn knew what to do.

However, not even the practised movements, and the perfect application of pressure, would get a rise out of him. After several attempts, she snuck back to her room to cry.

He had no plans to awaken; doing so would only worsen the impact. He needed her to stop trying to repay his kindness using her body. His failure to respond seemed like a good way to achieve that goal.

After her tears ran dry, Evelyn slipped into a deep sleep. For now, it appeared to be a win for him.

* * * *

Warning, oxygen levels at 15.8% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“It turned out that Evelyn had much to teach me,” Marc said.

She awoke and went into the parlour around noon. Marc walked out fifteen minutes later. He realised that if her eyes could shoot lightning bolts, he would have ended up as a pile of ash.

“She sang away off key, while preparing a plate of fruit.”

The disconnect between outward behaviour and perceived mood confused him. She even ignored any attempt to open a dialogue.

“I learned that women can hold a grudge for things that happened while I slept… or in their dreams…”

CHAPTER 77

A SIMPLE PLAN

Warning, oxygen levels at 15.9% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“At first blush, it seemed reasonable to assume we could turn a young woman into a lady within ninety-two days,” Marc said. “I’d taken raw recruits and readied them for war in less time.”

It was not Evelyn that was the problem. She was decidedly eager to take on the challenge. The difficulty was that becoming a lady and readying a man for war were fundamentally different concepts.

Even without focusing on reading and writing, Evelyn had to learn the nuances associated with those on the upper rungs of the social ladder. She had to learn to dance, sing, and be purged of habits that marked her as a lesser.

“Evelyn may have been descended from royalty, but there was more to being a lady than a bit of blue blood.”

They spent every waking moment preparing her for the masquerade. Marc focused on protocol, while Aelred lived for the arts. Additionally, several school matrons were introduced to assist.

“Most ended up leaving in disgust on their first day.”

He remembered how Evelyn would plop onto her bed after a gruelling day. Like a raw recruit, she was exhausted physically and emotionally. It took her no more than five deep breaths before falling asleep.

“I wasn’t much better off,” Marc admitted.

To play the role of Le Marquis for so long left him drained… I never realised how much strength Susanna lent me to make it through a single evening…

As a result, Marc genuinely slept through the night. However, he always woke up at dawn, with no memory of dreaming… It was better than being surrounded by the ghosts of my past…

The next day, Evelyn would still her breath and accept that the new day would be more of the same. Every morning, she put on a fake smile and greeted Marc in a pleasant voice, as though daring the world to break her spirit.

The masquerade ball was to be held on the day Aelred referred to as All Hallows’ Eve. Marc knew nothing of it, other than it was important to the pagans. The way Aelred’s eyes shined when he mentioned the name implied he had many fond memories associated with that day.

CHAPTER 78

THE WARM UP

It turned out that Evelyn was excitable when exposed to new experiences. That warm and bubbly personality would flow out of her every pore, setting the room alight. While refreshingly honest, Marc knew that such childish behaviour would not go well with those who were long dead.

On the day of the masquerade, they delivered the court gown to their apartment. Evelyn had been so excited for the change of pace that she was positively humming with energy as the dress was pulled from the box for her to see.

Upon setting her eyes on the familiar fabric, Evelyn jumped up and down while clapping her hands. It was fortunate that it only took a stern look from Marc to settle her down… nothing could erase that smile…

They brought in two maids to help Evelyn into her gown. Marc knew how to do it, but he had no desire to further complicate their relationship. While she had yet to give up on thanking him, her attempts were now more subtle.

Given that it was late fall, Evelyn was dressed, painted, and coiffed after sunset. The combination of paint, powder, blush, and rouge benefited Evelyn’s appearance. Even with Marc’s blood, she was again showing signs of la Mort lurking about… We can’t do anything about her scent…

When the women signalled that Evelyn was ready, Marc motioned to one of Aelred’s men to prepare for departure. Nineteen minutes later, a horse and carriage pulled alongside, the very same that brought her home. He took her hand and escorted her to the carriage. With Evelyn settled, they were off to their first stop.

Many questioned his choice to take Evelyn to a ball prior to the masquerade. However, Marc needed her to burn off some of that excess energy… to quell her excitable nature…

Besides, this was a reward for the hard work she poured into her transformation… It’ll hopefully dampen the impact later when she’s surrounded by so many predators…

He once visited the estate where the ball was being held. It belonged to another distant cousin. This château featured a wide and expansive hall of marble, plaster, and gold trim. Portraits of his cousin’s family adorned the walls.

Other than a bar, there were few tables to be found. The expectation was that guests would mingle and dance. To ease conversation, servants made their rounds, carrying food and drink on silver trays… The Comte would have never allowed such a lavish and wasteful display of power…

Marc escorted his Evelyn into the ball. They went past the main doors, through a large and expansive hallway that was two stories high. Dead ahead, they faced a set of doors.

To further the impact of the event, their arrival was announced. Evelyn was so excited that she missed his proper title entirely.

To her credit, even as those green eyes welled up with water, she kept her painted face dry. For that, he rewarded her by taking her onto the floor for several dances.

As she grew more confident, other men approached her. While not a natural beauty, at least not by the standards of the day, her bubbly nature proved to be infectious… They want to dance with her because she’s fun…

Eventually, he stood at the bar while pretending to indulge in cognac. It was times like these that he envied Aelred’s ability to consume in alcohol. However, tonight was all about Evelyn and he never took his eyes off her.

While he appeared to be completely at ease, his muscles twitched along the length of his spine. The last time he had behaved like that was on the eve of a battle. Marc realised that he was sailing close to the maelstrom and took steps to evade it… steer clear of the storm…

Fortunately, his worst-case scenario never materialised. Ninety-two minutes after arriving, a footman relayed a message in a whisper. As was custom, Marc did not acknowledge the servant’s presence.

Marc stiffened as he adjusted the lace on his cuffs. He paused for a moment, just enough to get a feel for the music before walking into the fray of dancers and cutting in. It surprised Evelyn to see him again, and that alluring smile of hers softened.

They finished this dance before leaving the floor, through two sets of doors, and into a nondescript carriage. It had an ethereal glow, brought on by the silver moonlight.

The two horses pulling the carriage were nearly invisible against the night sky. The air had cooled as they neared the witching hour, and long streams of fog shot out wherever they exhaled… The driver’s pushing them hard…

The driver was alone, and there was a curious lack of lanterns on the outside of the cab. Marc noticed a faint glow bleeding through the cracks of the door, but that was it… The windows are curtained so we won’t be able to see where we are headed…

A footman from the estate ran past them and opened the door. As the light from within shone onto Evelyn, she glowed in the warmth. She took him by his hand and squeezed. This was considered a faux pas, but he would address it when they were alone.

This carriage was high, and she needed to take the hands of both Marc and the footman to hop aboard. Had Marc been human that night, he would have gulped… We’re both headed into the heart of darkness…

CHAPTER 79

THE PORTRAIT’S HEART OF DARKNESS

Given the somniferous clip-clop of the horses and the luxurious carriage ride, Marc figured it would have soothed Evelyn’s mind, but it had the opposite effect; she was fidgeting, and her eyes could not remain focused on a single point.

This was her first time straying from the city. The fixed curtains prevented him from seeing outside, but Marc possessed a finely honed sense of direction and hearing. They were headed east with the sounds of crickets and other night bugs dominating the spectrum… It’s exactly what you’d expect to hear along a lonely, country road…

To help ease her mind, Marc did three things. The first was to feed her mind an illusion, concealing the truth about the horses being pushed to the brink of exhaustion.

The second was permitting her to see beyond those curtains. Since it was an illusion, Marc settled on a view of the night sky from his youth… Giving her a view of the horizon will alleviate feelings of being trapped…

The third part was more human; Marc took her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers. When he squeezed, Evelyn looked into his brown eyes and smiled. When a tear rolled over her painted face, he wiped it away with a handkerchief.

She smiled, even as her lips trembled. It took him decades to realise that such a simple gesture could mean so much to someone in distress… That and how telling someone to relax had the opposite effect…

As they headed further into the unknown, Evelyn leaned against Marc’s shoulder. Her breathing slowed, and she settled down. For a moment, there was a thought gnawing at the back of his mind… It’s all an act, a reasoned and practised response to her emotions…

* * * *

The horses slowed to a walk before coming to a halt. Marc stiffened noticeably, while Evelyn distanced herself from him. She did as such to create the illusion that nothing untoward was going on… Aelred would faint if something had…

Evelyn was the first to disembark, followed by her Lord. While she needed his hand to guide them up the moonlit steps towards a château, Marc saw the scene in perfect detail… I’ve never been here before…

The estate was larger than his cousin’s place, and the architecture was in vogue. Even as music was carried by the wind, there were no visible sources of light anywhere… you’d think the place was abandoned…

They came to a landing with two courtiers standing by the doors. Evelyn’s heart was racing, so he broke protocol and squeezed her arm. His cool, strong, and steady hand helped calm her down, as though he would always be at her side… If only she knew…

Aelred reminded him several times that Marc would have to leave her to the proverbial wolves. He was permitted to observe only, either by lurking in the shadows, or eavesdropping from the next room.

“You’ll need to be a ghost,” Aelred told him.

When the ornate doors were opened, Marc noted they were heavy with iron plates at their core. When closed, the guests saw nothing more than intricate moulding and gold accents. This place is a fortress…

There was a dull glow at the end of a long and expansive hallway. While Evelyn would never catch their purpose, there were slits found at regular intervals along the walls… those are arrow slits…

The hall was ornate, with large, Corinthian columns protruding from the walls, framing marble statues at their side. While Evelyn gasped at the opulence, Marc rolled his eyes, unimpressed at such a blatant display of wealth.

After ninety-eight paces, they neared another set of doors. These were opened once the outer set was shut. This time, a bright, warm light flooded the hall, accentuating details of the marble for each statue.

Evelyn paused and he gave her time to indulge. After forty-five heartbeats, he cleared his throat, and the young woman’s head snapped forward. Marc focused on the room beyond, expecting to find some sort of parlour or a ballroom.

Given that the music was louder than ever, he reasoned this might have been a concert hall. Instead, he was faced by rows and rows of books… It’s a library?

The choice perplexed him, as his mother had insisted he respect a library and the tomes contained therein… Instead, it’ll serve as Evelyn’s torture chamber…

As they crossed the threshold, Marc expected Evelyn to gasp, marking her as uncouth. However, the cheek facing him was sunken in. It seemed that Evelyn was biting herself to maintain composure… Of all my bad habits…

Marc stepped inside and realised this library was more complex than he initially assumed. They were in a central hall befitting a cathedral. The vaulted ceilings featured intricate paintings, whereas the walls were entirely covered in books.

There was a second level as well, with shelves reaching to the ceiling. To get to higher shelves, they used a brass rail system with sturdy, oak ladders.

Whereas a church opened near the altar to make a cross on the floor plan, the library featured three such openings. Those at his sides were chambers filled with books. He presumed the other four openings contained the same.

At the far end of the hall, Marc spotted the string quartet. That had been the source of the music, but unbeknownst to him, the musicians stopped when they stepped inside… In my haste to get a feel for the layout, I ignored my other senses…

A servant approached them from the left with two long-stemmed glasses on his tray.

“Drink, my Lord?” the man asked.

Marc picked up the drinks and handed one to Evelyn. He raised his hand as though it was a toast, and she followed his lead. Given how long the ride had been, she emptied her glass in four, nervous gulps.

“Merci,” Evelyn said.

There came an inquisitive look from those nearby. He only caught their momentary lapse in decorum because he was a vampire. All Evelyn would have seen was a distortion in their faces… They noticed her lapse…

Marc returned his drink to the tray, and the servant walked away. The first part of the initiation was done. The drinks were laced with a chemical that would make her susceptible to suggestion.

The next step came when Aelred appeared from the distance. The elder vampire wore the mask of a wise owl, which was tame compared to some of the others on display. That was his cue to leave Evelyn where she was.

“I have some business to attend to,” Marc said softly. “Why don’t you explore and mingle?”

“I will—”

Marc was gone before she turned to reply. In one moment, he was visible from the corner of her eyes; in the other, there was no trace of him.

“My Lord?” Evelyn finished, while doing an all-around search.

That was when Evelyn realised that everyone here wore a mask. Her heart skipped a beat, but she recovered quickly… She’s more resilient than anyone gives her credit for…

Just behind her, Marc reappeared long enough to say something.

“You see those masks?” he asked in a cold and measured voice. “They represent their predatory natures, but what lies beneath is much more telling.”

Evelyn turned around to find there was no one there. Confused, she looked up and her mouth went agape at the painted ceiling and large chandeliers that breathed life into this place.

Marc watched, from around the corner. There was a pause, a moment of hesitation that would be noticed. Instead of starting with the chambers to her left or right, Evelyn ventured deeper down the hall.

“That wasn’t part of the protocol,” Aelred whispered.

“Susanna did the same for me… You can take the matter up with her.”

“Just watch it.”

The elder vampire had another jacket in his hands. It was of a different cut than what Marc wore and permitted him to blend in. He changed his jacket while following her progress by the sound of her heartbeat.

“How so?” Marc asked.

Next came a mask, which turned out to be an enormous wolf with black fur and ivory fangs… This mask belongs in the pages of Le Petit Chaperon Rouge…

“Drusilla’s here…” Aelred said.

“What?”

Aelred’s eyes went wide and he pressed a finger against his lips. Marc recovered quickly, steering back towards the void.

“I found out tonight,” Aelred said. “That explains…the delay.”

“…the delay…” Marc said in unison.

While it sounded like a great opportunity, the place was crawling with witnesses. Killing one or two vampires was a daunting task, even when armed and with careful planning… I’d need an army at my back…

“I need to shadow Evelyn,” Marc said.

Marc took his mask and stared at it for a minute. He had to admit that it held sway over the primitive part of his brain… Why’s this even mine?

“I thought a wolf suited you,” Aelred said.

“Because they’re predators?”

Aelred snickered and moved in close enough to whisper.

“A wolf hunts in a pack,” the elder said. “However, you’re on your own tonight.”

That was as close to an order as Aelred ever conveyed. Marc had already reasoned it out, but it was nice to know they did not consider him disposable like le Roi had…

“Thanks,” Marc said. “What will you do?”

“Same as always… I’ll put my silver tongue to use.”

Marc nodded and went around the corner to find Evelyn walking towards the central chambers. She appeared to be more focused on the sights than the guests, but realised she was using this opportunity to get a feel for the guests.

Eventually, a mixed group approached Evelyn and triggered the command to freeze her in place. Marc remembered how they did that to him to entertain the guests.

He used the opportunity to slide past a set of marble arches. Instead of more books, it resembled a smoking room. There was a vampire there that looked more at home in a monastery, seated on a settee with an old, dusty tome on his lap.

This book appeared to contain a family tree. The man flipped back and forth as though confirming how the details followed through… Is he looking up her lineage?

The raised stage and intricate lectern along the back wall indicated the other side served as a lecture hall. Tonight, there was a table with basic foodstuffs, and a bar. Several were there, enjoying drinks saturated in blood.

Most importantly, Drusilla stood at the centre of the group. Her blonde hair and blue eyes were striking, but not even her warm smile could take away from those cruel features. Marc’s eyes narrowed at the sight of her… You’re alone tonight…

He spotted Liduina of Schiedam within her entourage. The curly-haired, blue-eyed girl happened to be his final target before being called back to Paris… she surrounds herself with allies…

“Why are you here tonight?” said a man whom Marc recognised as Rénobert Bayeux.

The man was a chevalier in life, but preferred wealth over a chivalrous life. Aelred advised Marc to steer clear of him and anyone mad enough to associate with him.

“Because, my Lord wished it so,” Evelyn replied.

It surprised Marc that Evelyn could follow protocol in that state. He was blunt to the point of getting himself in trouble… To this day, De Prins refuses to acknowledge I exist…

“She reeks of death,” a woman he recognised as Julie Billiart said.

This was a former baroness of a remote region of France that many did not know existed.

Several nodded in agreement, and one made retching sounds for effect. He was thankful that Evelyn was not conscious of what they were saying.

“You can see it in her eyes, too,” another man said, which turned out to be le Vicomte Vincent de Paul.

That one was a member of the Parisian council. Because of his station, his opinion would carry a great deal of weight tonight.

Marc took a step forward, but someone grabbed him by the shoulder. He turned around quick as a viper and noticed the owl mask… You’re on your own tonight…

“Interference will only make it worse for her,” Aelred whispered as only a vampire could. “They are as bored as they are cruel.”

Marc’s jaw muscles bulged, but the elder was correct. He wanted her torment to end… I’ll follow orders; otherwise, they’ll torture her just to get a rise out me…

“Were you always this ugly?” Rénobert added.

“My mother said that I had potential as a child,” Evelyn said bluntly.

The group exchanged glances and laughed. They released Evelyn from her trance. Her features went slack, confused as to what was so funny. However, to fit in, she giggled, only to be greeted by boisterous laughter.

“This is going to be a long night…”

CHAPTER 80

OUTGUNNED

Warning, oxygen levels at 16.1% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“It was indeed a long night,” Marc said. “I’m ashamed I ever doubted her…”

No one appeared to be concerned about her origins as a courtesan. It was her royal lineage that held the most sway, which was the aspect of their selection that bothered Marc the most… breeding does not amount to quality…

No one asked or cared about her mother’s lineage. Since Geneviève was likely a witch or descended from one, Marc was thankful.

He paused and brushed frost from his sleeves. Everything around him was covered in dry ice… Like freshly fallen snow…

“Of course, les Moires saw fit to intervene…”

* * * *

It was early morning, and Marc sensed the familiar tug of his vampiric instincts urging him to rest. Instead, he was busy looking over a group of women congregated around Evelyn.

The men retreated into the smoking room and shut the doors. The scent of tobacco and alcohol was strong, even from his vantage point.

The men were loud and obnoxious; inflammatory conversations focused on which woman was prettiest, or who was the best in the boudoir… To think they say that women gossip like old hens…

There was a smaller group huddled near the corner. Even with the doors closed, Marc caught their whispers. He figured they were busy discussing the suitability of Evelyn with the silver-tongued Aelred. It dawned on him that the larger group of men was purposefully taunting the women… They’re playing with fire…

Baroness Billiart was, once again, asking inane questions to get a reaction from the crowd. With every gasp, snicker, or laugh those dull eyes came alight.

“Have you killed anyone?” Liduina asked.

One detail stuck out with Drusilla’s ally, and that was her youth. She looked to be no older than eight or nine. While those golden locks and dimples were deceptively disarming, her speech carried authority.

Marc had been warned about child-like vampires. Like De Prins, this one did not take well to being treated like a little girl… To be within Drusilla’s entourage, she must have one hell of a temper…

Those within earshot gasped upon hearing the question. Given the lateness of the hour, Marc assumed there was an ulterior motive.

Marc’s eyes shot towards Drusilla, who stood apart from the crowd. She was focused on her nails, as though utterly bored by the proceedings… I wonder if anyone doesn’t know Drusilla pulls the strings…

“Is that really necessary—” a woman said.

Marc was not familiar with this vampire. By the reaction she got from the men tonight, her beauty was beyond compare. Her bronzed skin, raven-black hair, and eyes as black as a moonless night shone through her mask. The latter was black as onyx with gold accents, which embodied the Egyptian god, Seth.

Instead of wearing a multi-layered dress in accordance with current fashion, she wore something long and made of a flowing, white material that was more revealing than Louis’ court would permit… She has the tattoo of an asp on her arm…

“That one’s ancient,” Marc whispered.

“I feel it is,” Drusilla said after wiping a stray bit of dust from her nails. “How else can we keep our existence a secret if we allow murderers to join our ranks?”

Marc gripped the railing, tightening until the pain could no longer be ignored. He saw through Drusilla’s ploy and did not enjoy being so easily outmanoeuvred… She’s suddenly all for hiding in the shadows?

The one wearing a Seth mask bowed out, literally. It was a sight to behold a vampire that was old enough to dress like an Egyptian acquiescing to the will of Drusilla… All I’d need is a clear shot…

“Well?” Liduina asked again.

Evelyn kept quiet until that point. Marc questioned how that was possible, but they had been at this for a while and the hold the drug had over her might have waned.

“I have,” Evelyn replied.

A collective gasp came from the men hiding in the other room. Even Marc was shocked that she had taken a life, but doubted it was in cold blood.

“Well, now,” Drusilla said with a smirk. “Seems this one has claws.”

“Tell me what happened,” Liduina ordered.

Evelyn went over the event in detail. Given her suggestive state, she only paused to take the occasional breath before advancing the narrative.

CHAPTER 81

OUTFLANKED

It happened over a year ago, when the Madame sent her off to run an errand. Given how some men reacted around her, Evelyn often carried a knife. Normally, she flashed it before making a run for it, but this time, she never had the chance.

Along a well-travelled route, Evelyn passed a dark alley. Someone grabbed her from out of the shadows. She tried to break away, but her defiance antagonised her assailant. Without a word, he repeatedly slammed her head against the wall.

Dazed and confused, her knees buckled, and she collapsed. Her assailant dragged Evelyn deeper into the alley. The cobbled stone reeked of horse shit, but she was too far gone to realise where they were.

It was not until she was tossed into a stall that Evelyn realised these were stables. A horse adjacent to her whined and paced around its enclosure.

The assailant’s footsteps faded in the distance. He left long enough for the world to settle, and colour to return to her cheeks. With a clear head, Evelyn grabbed her blade and closed her eyes.

She watched through slits in her eyelids as the man’s elongated silhouette returned. The image made him more monstrous. Once within a few feet of Evelyn, he stopped and fumbled with his pants.

She struck the moment his trousers puddled around his boots. The blade slashed his calf and blood came out in spurts.

The man looked at his leg in awe, but after realising what was done, his face distorted with rage. Evelyn slid her ass along the shit-encrusted floor until she slammed into the back wall. The assailant lumbered towards her, every step slower than the last until he fell atop her.

Alas, there was no room to spare. The impact drove his neck into the wall. It nearly severed his head, and the ensuing shower of blood covered her in crimson.

It took everything she had to push him off. Since her clothes were soiled in blood and shit, Evelyn would not get far. Even with a tear-covered face, they would not believe her, meaning she was destined for the gallows.

Unsure of what to do, Evelyn lay there, unable to move. If not for the sound of a horse drinking nearby, she might have remained in that state until someone stumbled across this grizzly scene.

That sound focused her mind. Using a patch of clean from the bottom of her dress, Evelyn wiped off the blood from her face and ran from the stall. She found a trough of water, and tore off her dress, leaving only her filthy slip on.

Without hesitation, she dunked herself into the water, washing away the assailant’s blood. When she exited the water, those piercing eyes scanned the stables. For now, there were only horses keeping her company.

There remained the matter of evidence. Given how often she roamed these streets, someone might recognise her clothes. Desperate for a solution, her eyes searched the area until they settled upon a lantern.

Evelyn opened every stall door and dropped the bloody rags that had once been her dress atop a pile of straw. Committed, she smashed the lantern against the adjacent wall and filled the air with the scent of oil. Within seconds, the fire turned into an inferno.

The fire left her transfixed, and she remained as such until the heat made her eyes water. Evelyn broke free from her trance and bolted from the scene. Half-naked, she ran through the Parisian streets until her cough turned so violent that it forced her to her knees. She remained like that, gasping for air, until a blood clot escaped her lips…

CHAPTER 82

SCORCHED EARTH

There you have it,” Drusilla said. “She took a life and left a mess behind that would attract hunters…”

Despite having no authentic emotions, his body reacted as though he did. From his perspective, the contents of his atrophied stomach dropped to the bottom of his toes… Drusilla’s going to use this as an excuse to deny Evelyn entry…

Drusilla must not have held sufficient sway beyond her allies to secure the vote. What better way was there to convince her opponents than playing by their rules?

If keeping their existence a secret was paramount, then a young woman committing murder, even in an act of self-preservation, could be leveraged against her… They can’t risk the hunters bearing down on them…

As though to gloat, Drusilla removed her mask and looked right at Marc. Her smile reminded him of soldiers who joined solely to kill.

He might have shivered had his self-control lapsed. However, she only managed to win this battle. His mind lit up with ideas, ensuring that they would be victorious in war… even if it means bargaining with Lucifer himself…

His complete lack of emotional response must have bored Drusilla. The cruel beauty left her mask on a table and walked out with Liduina in tow…

* * * *

Warning, oxygen levels at 16.2% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“We were thoroughly outmanoeuvred.”

He remembered the look of shock painted on Aelred’s face. They spent months setting the pieces on the board, only to have Drusilla end the game with a sweep of her arm.

That left them back at square one. The difference was that Evelyn would not last much longer… not without a large infusion of blood that would strip Evelyn of her personality…

“Geneviève may not have opposed me turning her daughter, but she would haunt me till the end of time if Evelyn became an extension of me.”

That meant they were fighting against the sands of time…

“With the regular channels closed to us, it was time to get creative…”

* * * *

To ensure there were no prying eyes, Marc and Aelred agreed to meet at his studio. As was their custom, they sat at his workbench, partaking liberally in blood wine.

“Are you insane?” Aelred asked.

“No more than usual.”

From Marc’s point of view, a near-total lack of emotions meant he would never meet the definition of sane. However, not only did reason conclude this was a valid course of action, but it also felt right.

“You want to bring in the hunters?” Aelred asked. “The ones who spent years hunting you down.”

“The ones who owe me for shedding light on Drusilla’s ploy.”

“Florian told me about that foolhardy plan of yours,” Aelred said. “I would’ve tortured them for their secrets.”

That worked in theory, but Marc had never seen a more dedicated group of soldiers. Their eyes said they would gladly die for their cause… You can’t reason with zealots…

“Every dead hunter I left in my wake would further encourage them to take chase,” Marc said. “Drusilla was counting on it…”

If not for Geneviève, Marc would have killed the first group. Hunters would have chased him to the ends of the Earth, all because of a misplaced sense of righteousness… with a healthy thirst for revenge tossed in for good measure…

“Some will question your… logic…” Aelred said.

Marc guessed there was an underlying threat behind that statement.

“You have no problems coming after one of your own,” Aelred added.

There it was. The implication that Marc forgot who his enemies were. He missed fighting a foe who wore the colours of their cause.

“I go after those who seek to subjugate mankind,” Marc said. “While they may have been our kind, they were all targets of your choosing.”

“Hunters are targets of opportunity.”

“They pose no risk to me and you; we certainly have nothing to worry about.”

That response was not something the elder vampire was accustomed to hearing. For a man passionate for the arts, it was odd to see him so closed minded… The less we interact with them, the better…

“It’s the principle of the matter,” Aelred said meekly.

“Drusilla is growing an army,” Marc began. “We can’t afford to overlook potential allies.”

“They’re human!”

“They already know we exist!” Marc countered. “Like us, they would never risk divulging the existence of monsters.”

The room went quiet, a sign that cold-hearted logic managed to strike a resonating chord within the depths of Aelred’s mind. Hunters were on the opposing side of the same coin.

“What do you propose?” Aelred asked.

“Pass the word to give hunters a wide berth.”

“Why?”

“Those on Drusilla’s side will either comply or suffer their wrath. With fewer targets, an attack from one of us will be like beating a hornet’s nest with a stick,” Marc said. “That will drive the hunters towards our enemies.”

Aelred was proof that hunters did not go after vampires who were effectively hidden… A hunter disappearing indicates that something dangerous lurks near there…

“Besides, they can be useful to us,” Marc said. “We leak news of a feral vampire to the hunters and have them deal with it. That way, they think we are fewer in number than we are in reality.”

“…I can do that,” Aelred said. “I can’t guarantee anyone will listen.”

“Meanwhile… I’ll send out a message…”

CHAPTER 83

SHALL EVER BE FORGOT

Marc arrived before the break of dawn. While the plan lingered in his mind, there was something else bothering him. It was rare for him to feel anything emotional, but Drusilla found a way to strike him from within the void… That’s only part of the problem…

While Evelyn might have agreed to go along with his original plan, what they came up with would further risk their lives… She needs to know…

There were legitimate concerns with discussing the plan with Evelyn. While she could be trusted, they could exploit her humanity… Another vampire could compel her to give up what she knows…

“Good morning, my Lord,” Evelyn said.

Marc’s head snapped up to focus on her voice. He had been so caught up in his thoughts that Evelyn walked into the foyer without his noticing. She wore a slip and was barefoot. While those green eyes were bright, her face was long. Evelyn yawned, and stretched out her arms.

“Good morning, Evelyn,” Marc said. “Did you sleep well?”

“I slept like the dead… I still feel run down though…”

Her body was decaying at a faster rate. Soon, she would sleep her days away… We need to push forward… and fast.

“You were out?” Evelyn asked.

“I had something to discuss with a friend.”

“Did it go well?”

An obvious question to ask. While Marc cringed, he was relieved that Evelyn brought this matter to a head… I may as well be honest…

“It did,” Marc said before motioning her to a chair. “Please, sit.”

There was hesitation in her movements; a part of her still believed this was a dream. She lived in fear that a slight or a poor choice of words would send it all crumbling down… sending her back to that bordello…

“My Lord?” Evelyn asked, as water welled up in her eyes.

“Sit,” Marc said.

This time, he chose to be direct, and she complied mechanically. There was worry etched in those eyes, so Marc needed to convey the news and their plan… doing so in a way to reassure her…

Her eyes were fixed on Marc as he approached. At first, there was fear in her eyes, but that changed when he knelt before her, and took her hand. The rise in her heart rate was immediate, forcing Marc to wonder if she had the wrong idea… I’ll need to give my best performance of le Marquis yet…

“You did beautifully last night,” Marc said in reference to the masquerade. “Far better than I believed possible…”

She took in a sharp breath of air before letting out a soft giggle… The compliment might help to dampen the blow…

“However, we failed…” Marc said.

It was a lot to absorb in a short period of time. While Evelyn had been giggling fourteen heart beats ago, she now held her breath. Her emotions were erratic, and Marc knew the challenges she faced in finding a balance. Marc kissed her hand tenderly and continued to caress it. However, he needed her to pay attention to what he was about to say.

“It wasn’t you,” Marc said. “We had an unexpected… opponent that made our plan untenable.”

“You’re not going to send me away?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m a burden to you…”

He assumed that she was projecting her fear of dying into this discussion. La Mort was growing near, and she must have guessed it by now. Evelyn questioned why anyone would ever invest in her… as though she’s something to be desired and nothing more…

“You’re not a burden.”

“But—”

“Hush. I have plans for you…”

Her eyes perked up, but a lone tear still found its way down her cheek… I need to be honest with her…

“Several weeks ago, I told you that the world won’t see you coming,” Marc said in his normal voice. “Do you remember?”

The glow in Evelyn’s eyes was snuffed out entirely. Instead, her eyes widened while her lower lip quivered… As the blood flushed from her face, he squeezed her hand for comfort, but fear took root.

“That…” Evelyn began. “Wasn’t a dream?”

“No.”

“This…” Evelyn added, “…isn’t a dream?”

“Alas… No… If it were, you wouldn’t be dying, and I could hold up my end of the promise.”

The harsh truth was probably not what she needed, but he prayed the plain delivery would shock her into seeing reason. Either way, Evelyn had to be fully aware of the situation before deciding her fate.

“I must be dreaming…” Evelyn said.

Marc sighed before pinching her. It sent a sharp jolt of pain shooting through her arm, confirming that this was not a dream. To help sooth her mind, Marc massaged the spot lightly with his hands.

“You have so much potential,” Marc continued to say in his natural voice. “The world will bow before you one day… if you so choose.”

“Choose?” Evelyn said. “What choice do I have?”

“The same choices that I was given,” Marc admitted. “You can die naturally, by my hand, or cross the veil and join me.”

“Death…” Evelyn said that word hanging on her lips.

“To be honest,” Marc said, “I regretted joining my sire… A part of me was lost…”

Given his manner of speech, Marc hoped that Evelyn knew what he was referring to. For some reason, he did not wish to speak of it aloud…

“Why-why should I follow you?”

A most pertinent question. It took him a moment to find his words.

“I think you’ve been robbed,” Marc said. “Some might even say ‘fucked’. To further add to your humiliation, la Mort lurks in every dark corner, waiting to claim his prize.”

Evelyn’s face contorted at those words… that’s not what I wanted…

“Do you think so little of me?” Evelyn asked.

She tried to tear herself away, but Marc would not let her run off… I can’t follow her wherever she goes…

“You mean that much to me! That’s why I’ve dedicated all my time to making sure you’re ready,” Marc said quickly. “I want to give you a second chance at life… to make you a force to be reckoned with.”

There came a pause, as the pendulum guiding her emotions swung in the other direction… Back and forth… back and forth…

“Really?”

Marc had to channel le Marquis to smile. It was warm, but Evelyn could tell there was something unnatural about it.

“Yes, really,” Marc said. “However, our plans have changed. There’s more risk, and a strong chance that la Mort will find us both.”

“What would you do?”

“I can’t answer that,” Marc said. “You must choose your fate.”

“So, I can walk out that door, never to return?”

“The door was never locked.”

“You’d give me a quick death if I asked?”

That question surprised him. As a soldier, he considered such a death as being the coward’s way out.

“To spare you an ounce of pain?” Marc asked. “I would… if you ask.”

“Would you kill for me?”

Her giggling implied this was a joke, but his answer would have been the same.

“For you?” Marc said. “In one of your heartbeats.”

The sincerity of his answer helped Evelyn realise how serious he was… Either that or confirming that my heart doesn’t beat…

“You really would…” Evelyn said. “What if I don’t turn out like you wanted?”

“Then, we shall part ways… The doors are never locked to you.”

Marc suspected that had he been more Shakesperean in his reply, her answer would have been swift. It was one thing to offer a choice, but Evelyn feared the unknown. He offered to be with her, to kill for her, but did not promise to be with her always… That last part empowers and scares her…

Evelyn bit her lower lip and she began to fidget. To help her keep calm, he interwound his fingers with hers while looking up into those green eyes.

“You can’t wait for an answer?” Evelyn said. “Can you?”

He kissed her hand, and nodded.

“Then… I-I’ll join you,”

That alluring smile that promised so much overtook the features of her face. Despite nearly being at la Mort’s door, in that moment, she appeared to be full of life.

“It will be tough,” Marc pushed.

“I know, but you’ll be there for me?”

“For as long as you wish.”

“Then, I’m yours.”

Marc moved until he was at eye level. He kissed her tenderly on the cheek, then approached her right ear.

“Forget this conversation,” Marc said in a whisper.

When he pulled away, Evelyn’s eyes went blank. After a dozen heart beats, she blinked several times and realised he was staring at her.

“Oh!” Evelyn exclaimed as though embarrassed. “I wasn’t there for a moment…”

CHAPTER 84

ASYMMETRIC WARFARE

Warning, oxygen levels at 16.4% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“With Evelyn’s help, I had a veritable army of courtesans leave a letter at every church in Paris.”

The goal was to deliver them at the same time. They were instructed to hand the letters during the noon chime.

“Doing otherwise risked appearing as though we were probing their network.”

The message contained two names: ‘Drusilla’ to reference the incident and ‘Ottilia’ regarding the hunter. By themselves, the names meant nothing, but Marc assumed they could make the connection.

He signed every card as le Marquis. If hunters kept tabs on him, which was likely, they would know where to find him.

“While I waited for a response,” Marc began, “I worked out the logistics of getting us out of the city.”

Drusilla, and by extension the Parisian council, would never allow Marc to leave the city with Evelyn. While he was free to depart by ship or over ground, they knew she would not survive to reach their destination.

Aelred confirmed there were multiple altars, including one in Paris. He expected the local altar to be heavily guarded.

“We needed an alternate site, and I only knew of one… The problem was getting Evelyn there…”

* * * *

Three days had passed since the message went out. Marc suspected that if hunters responded at all, it would be on the number of days with a biblical significance: either three for the Trinity, or seven for perfection.

He knew the religious were prone to attributing meaning to the symbols of their faith… Besides, any good zealot adheres closely to the tenets of their beliefs…

At noon, there came a knock at their door. That was unusual, since Aelred’s men were instructed to make sure no one disturbed them.

“I’ll get it,” Evelyn said in a laboured voice.

Evelyn got up from her chair, wobbling before reaching the apex. Blood flushed from her face, and the contrast emphasised the dark patches under her eyes. Marc did not react. If Evelyn would not admit that la Mort was near, then he would not burst her bubble.

She smiled once her vision settled and walked towards the door. Marc picked up three heart beats on the other side, and guessed that one was female… Evelyn’s putting on a brave face…

“Oui?” Evelyn said after opening the door.

“We’re looking for le Marquis,” an unfamiliar voice said.

“Pardon,” Evelyn said. “There’s no one—”

“It’s okay, Evelyn,” Marc said as he stood up. “Please, show them in.”

There was a pause, followed by the many layers of Evelyn’s dress moving. Three sets of measured steps echoed into the parlour.

The first to appear was Ottilia, followed by two male hunters. The latter two were young, no older than those he once led in battle. One had a distinctive scar across his face with an animalistic quality to it.

All three were armed and had the bearing of someone who knew how to handle themselves in combat. However, the one without scars’ heart rate shot up at the sight of him… He’s never seen a vampire before…

Marc looked past them to Evelyn, who returned to the parlour. She was looking worse for wear, and he needed some privacy.

“Thank you, Evelyn,” Marc said. “It will be a busy evening. Why don’t you get some rest before getting ready?”

Evelyn shot him a curious glance and pouted. After a pause, she bowed without saying a word and went off to her room. When her door was shut, he returned his attention to Ottilia.

The hunter had aged noticeably. That once blonde hair was now streaked with silver. She walked with a limp and was visibly in pain when trying to stand up straight… well… visible to me…

Those blue eyes still had a bright shine to them. However, the adjoining crows’ feet were a clue that time was not kind… I honestly wasn’t expecting her to show up…

One detail stuck out. There was the subtle scent of brine hanging in the air, which dredged up memories of Venice… I really miss my perfect drug…

“Ottilia,” Marc said. “I’m happy to see that you’re well.”

Like with Evelyn, Marc would not shatter the illusion she was trying to create.

“Why did you try to reach me?” Ottilia asked.

He would have been shocked if she exchanged pleasantries. Instead, Ottilia chose to play it as though she was in control. Even with all three armed, Marc could easily tear them limb from limb… That wouldn’t serve my needs…

“Please. Sit down,” Marc said, pointing out the various pieces of furniture.

There was a moment of hesitation in Ottilia’s eyes. However, she sat in the chair furthest from Marc and concealed as best she could a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” Ottilia said.

One of the men positioned himself at her back, while the scarred one stood in a corner. It gave them sightlines of every egress point into the parlour. Marc admired the precautions, but it would not deter a vampire.

“I need your help.”

“What for?” Ottilia asked.

“Smuggling.”

“What?”

“Not what,” Marc began.

The nature of his request must have confused her. Even the one standing at the corner shot him a glance with a raised brow.

“Who,” Marc finished.

“We can’t help—” Ottilia began.

“Venice in three days.”

“That’s impossible.”

Marc grinned before countering in German, “Wie bist du so schnell hergekommen?” How did you get here so fast?

Ottilia spoke with a heavy accent. Had they assigned her to Paris, that accent would have lost some of its bite. Besides, neither of the men had any idea what he said.

“I was in the area,” Ottilia replied.

It was no surprise that she would play the game.

“Right…” Marc said. “You reek of brine.”

Since Paris was nowhere near the ocean, it was unlikely they came from the coast. Given the distance, hunters could not deliver the message and bring her here… not in three days…

Before Ottilia spoke, he raised his arm. While she owed him, he wanted them to willingly participate.

“We have gates that allow us to travel quickly all over the known world,” Marc said. “I could give you the location of the gates in Paris and Venice.”

“Why would you betray your kind?”

“Because it suits my needs. Besides, my kind is… more human than we care to admit.”

The lack of reaction implied she knew of their internal divisions. Of course, that worked in his favour since a unified force under Drusilla’s command would decimate humanity.

“What would we do with such information?” the hunter asked.

Marc leaned back into his seat and looked positively relaxed. He hated adopting such a pose, but it worked well for his role as le Marquis… Besides, it makes me seem less threatening…

“By itself?” Marc said. “There’s little you could do. However, given a ready supply of gunpowder kegs…”

Ottilia leaned forward and grinned. The last time they met, he gave her valuable intelligence related to a breach of their security. Now, he was offering something that could further aid their cause.

“I’m listening,” Ottilia said.

CHAPTER 85

PARTING WAYS

Warning, oxygen levels at 16.6% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“That evening we went out,” Marc said. “I asked Evelyn where she wanted to go, and she replied that she wanted to dance.”

That evening, Marc pulled out her best gown. It may not have been the one she wore for the portrait, but it made her face come aglow. All the while, he pretended to not notice her smile fraying around its edges… she’s exhausted even after that nap…

They arrived by carriage, and he whisked her inside. They stood at the edge of the floor as the dance was finished and Evelyn dragged him onto the floor.

She barely made it through one dance. By the end, Evelyn’s eyes were heavy, and she was on the verge of tears. Without saying a word, Marc took her to a table and sat with her.

Evelyn remained where she was for sixty-three minutes, watching the dancers and their social interactions. It was clear that she was desperate to be a part of this world.

Alas, physically, Evelyn had enough, so she took his hand and squeezed it meekly. Had Marc not been focused on her, he would have missed the signal entirely. Instead, he looked into those eyes welling with tears and understood.

He nodded and took her by the hand. They walked out silently and left the party to the living.

“She apologised for not being able to spend the night dancing.”

Marc kissed her on the forehead and squeezed her hand as they approached the carriage. He was proud of her; Evelyn managed to push through that dance for his benefit. She continually showed resilience, even as the sand was nearly all at the bottom of her hourglass.

“The next day, Ottilia arrived as the sun reached its apex to pick up Evelyn,” Marc said.

He remembered those eyes, brimming with moisture. Evelyn feared that she had been sold off to a place worse than a brothel. Her rapid heart rate only served to confirm his suspicions.

To soothe her mind, Marc hugged her and informed her that he had business to attend to before meeting up later. Had Ottilia not agreed with what he said, Evelyn would have refused to leave.

“She had yet to see my true nature.”

He remembered feeling as though his heart was being squeezed by the cold grip of a vampire’s hand. Fortunately, that organ had atrophied, so he buried the feeling and focused on the mission.

“I always excelled at compartmentalising…”

CHAPTER 86

ASSAULT

Marc was out the door as soon as the sun set over the horizon. He had to be honest with himself; he enjoyed being back in his natural element. Playing the role of le Marquis had been utterly exhausting… but necessary…

He grabbed his horse, Apollon, and rode into the countryside. While they were unable to see where they were headed for the masquerade, Marc followed every twist and turn in his mind. In fact, he knew the precise number and type of bridges they crossed to get there.

As a result, he had no trouble making his way back to the library and archives building he nicknamed le Château. That was the first plank in what would form the foundations of his plan… With some luck, it will bear fruit tonight…

It turned out that the Château was nestled in a valley. The road’s grade was so gentle that he never realised they had been travelling downhill. Given the size of the estate, it was easy to miss the valley walls in the background.

Marc realised the layout of the land was similar to the town he defended… I knew that I had the tactical advantage…

With the help of the hunters, six wagons were concealed just past the crest of the hill, each filled with barrels of black powder and mortar rounds. It purportedly took four hunters per wagon to move them into position… I can move them by myself…

“Although, Apollon would certainly help,” Marc said.

Vampires hated fire, because burns took a long time to heal, whereas his kind could seal a musket shot in a matter of seconds and reattach a severed limb in less than a minute. Severe burns needed a lot of blood or time to heal.

By the time he approached the site, the sun was sixty-three minutes away from rising over the horizon. He might have made better time, but he saw no point in pushing Apollon to his death.

From his mount, Marc saw the wagons, concealed by brush and deadfall. The camouflage rendered them invisible at a casual glance. Marc figured he would need at least five minutes to get from one to the next at full gallop… I hope they’ll uphold their—

“The men are in position,” the hunter with a scar said.

He knew his name was Lambert, as Ottilia volunteered the name when she tasked him with assisting Marc. However, he was the only hunter nearby. As a precaution, they were relying on mercenaries tonight. Marc detested soldiers for hire on principle alone. It was one thing to go to war for the king and country; it was another matter entirely to do so for gold.

“Excellent,” Marc said. “Do you remember the signal?”

“There’s no signal… I’ll light my torch as soon as this hourglass runs out.”

While crude, it would work. Hunters could not track the sun as well as he could, so they needed something to keep them in sync. Lambert must have turned over the hourglass the moment Marc arrived and set their plan into motion.

“Excellent,” Marc said. “I’ll circle around in case there’s a patrol.”

“What if they attack?”

Marc steadied Apollon and withdrew his sabre. The blade shined in the moonlight, but no one would be able to see it below. He leaned in to stare into the hunter’s eyes.

“What would you do?” Marc asked.

“I’d light my torch.”

“Then, we’re in agreement,” Marc said before tapping Apollon’s sides with his heels.

The vampire and his mount raced off into the night. For a human rider, this would be a risky endeavour, but Marc saw fine, and his horse was trained to follow his direction… Apollon would follow me straight into Hades…

* * * *

Warning, oxygen levels at 16.6% and steady. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“I intercepted a patrol nearing the last wagon.”

It surprised him that they were human. Unlike hunters, Marc had no qualms of killing anyone who collaborated with the enemy.

“After dismounting, I slipped off the saddle bags and stealthily made my way down to the front gardens.”

Apollon would find his way home. While not a warhorse, his steed was well trained. He came across another guard at the outer edges of the garden that led to le Château. This one was a vampire, but Apollon followed him and served nicely as bait. Marc struck the vampire from behind.

When killing vampires, Marc was a fervent believer of severing the head from the body. Time permitting, he would also burn and crush the skull. While rare, some of the powerful vampires could rejoin their disparate parts if given enough time.

“All that was left was my main objective…”

CHAPTER 87

BREACH

Marc moved into position and waited. Some might ask why he did not send a signal, but doing so would bring attention to his presence… It’s best to remain hidden…

The sky took on shades of purple and blue. Marc could not help but wonder if they opted to leave him exposed. However, he caught a brief flash of light from atop the hills.

Within a minute, the first of the wagons rolled over the crest. It was engulfed in fire, and would go off with a literal bang… The wood from the wagons was dry, as was the straw they used to pad the barrels and mortars… Those flames will build up fast…

Before the wagon gained momentum, someone on the ground sounded the alarm. Men previously hidden from sight ran out into the open towards the threat.

Another four joined the first before they took fifty paces. The last wagon must have been stuck in a rut. It went off before reaching the crest.

There came a flash of light followed by billowing smoke. Marc tracked several large, black spheres being ejected from the blast. Marc followed a mortar as it landed near another wagon. The timing was unfortunate, because it sent up a wall of dirt when it exploded, flipping a rolling wagon over and sending it tumbling down the hill.

With every impact, parts of it broke off, leaving a trail of burning chaos behind it. When the wood from a barrel split, it exposed the powder to the heat and flame. The subsequent blast sent that wagon into the air, and a hail of mortars back to earth.

The defenders, blessed with a modicum of intelligence, stopped dead in their tracks. Those brighter still pulled back towards the Château. However, most went on.

One even tried to stop a wagon and was cut in half when the wheels ran him over. Nearby, mortar blasts felled others, leaving pools of blood and viscera behind, stripping them of their identities.

In that time, Marc exploited the chaos to cover the space between where he hid, to the massive doors. The remaining guard never saw him coming. With a quick slash of his sabre, the man’s head rolled off the neck.

The spray of blood tempted him, but he could not afford the distraction. He slipped through the doors and found himself within the cavernous hallway… This time, I know the layout…

Marc cut left, hugging the wall until he encountered a panel door. He pressed the left side of it to release the latch. As the door popped open, there came a blast powerful enough to sway the chandeliers above… I felt that…

This passageway was of modest architecture. The stonework was simple, the colours plain, and the windows bare… This route is used by servants to get around without being noticed…

He slipped inside, closed the panel behind him, and disappeared into the shadows. Now was the time to listen to what went on outside.

Given the size of this place, the sounds of the chaos growing outside were distorted by the echoes within. Marc never expected one of the wagons to make it down the hill, let alone find its mark. Yet, the blast caused the walls to shake, which was more than he could hope for.

So far, he counted three explosions, and there were three other wagons. Sure enough, the fourth went off some distance away. By the sounds of it, the wagon must have veered off course and detonated in a remote area.

The last two exceeded all expectations. They slammed against the wall; the impact reverberated through the empty halls like thunder in the mountains. What followed was not muted in the slightest; the walls shook violently…

He grabbed onto the doorframe to steady himself. On the count of fifteen, Marc ran for it. That had been the initial blasts and there would be follow-ons… Anything that goes off inside will cause serious damage…

Marc promised the hunters a distraction to lure any vampires into the open. The sunlight meant the hunters had a chance.

He ran as fast as a vampire could and reached the other end of le Château before secondary explosions rang out.

This time, there was a simple door to contend with. Marc went inside and moved at a good pace with his sabre drawn. Nothing gave him cause for concern, but he knew better than to expect a plan to run through to the end without having to adapt.

A mortar went off as he reached a set of stairs. The stone steps and walls were foreboding, likely to appeal to the human’s innate fear of dark places. Taking no chances, Marc withdrew his pistol and descended.

The air was stale and musty, with humidity clinging to his skin. When the path diverged, he took a left. Aelred said the path on the right led to the alternate entrance, and the altar… That’s the entrance I’d normally use to get to the gate…

Without hesitation, he moved deeper into the complex of tunnels. After nine-hundred-and-sixty-two steps, he spotted an eerie glow around the corner. It disappeared so fast that Marc nearly convinced himself that it was a trick of the eye. After five paces, the glow reappeared… I’m almost—

Something tall, thin, and inhuman cast a shadow against that light. That orange glow meant he was dealing with ghouls, lanky creatures of ashen skin that fed off the dead. Their eyes could entrance humans, and drain them of all cognitive thought… They’ll even forget how to breathe…

This development created a dilemma. Firing his pistol could alert those guarding the entrance and altar, whereas going toe-to-toe with the ghouls would lead to a protracted battle… that may also alert those nearby…

Marc knew they would eventually catch his scent… I can’t stand here and wait until my destination passes me by…

Out of options, Marc dropped his saddle bags. One pouch was filled with a gelatinous composition made from pitch, brimstone, and a secret ingredient that Aelred refused to share. The other contained a white powder, which was used to dispose of the dead after a battle… It eats away at their flesh…

His fingertips turned into talons, and he cut away the leather strip joining the two pouches. He peeled away the flap covering the gel… I’m going to regret this…

He grabbed the pouch filled with quicklime and threw it into the room. The bag became a blur before exploding on contact with the wall. The powder dispersed into the air, creating a heavy cloud of dust. Immediately, the ghouls began to cough and wheeze… Lucky… that I don’t need to breathe…

He grabbed the remaining pouch by its flap of leather and ran into the room with the charge in tow. When exposed to the quicklime, the gel turned into liquid fire… erupting like Mount Vesuvius…

Unfortunately, some of the gel transferred onto his clothes and caught flame. He never noticed due to his singular focus on his way out. Within the span of a second, he pushed through the portal into a world bathed in shadow, outlined by a desolate, silver landscape…

CHAPTER 88

ONE GIANT LEAP

Warning, oxygen levels at 16.8% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“It turned out that the moon was not made of cheese…”

* * * *

The first thing that hit Marc was the cold. Vampires did not feel variances in temperature, a side effect of being entombed in dead flesh. What he experienced firsthand were the effects associated with a sharp drop in atmospheric pressure and ambient temperature.

All the humidity clinging to his skin transitioned from liquid to a vapour and froze in a fraction of a second. Around the portal, there were ice crystals floating in the atmosphere as though it were a cold winter’s day.

It might have been a sight to behold, but Marc had been at a run when he went through. The drop in gravity was the second thing he noticed. Marc leaned forward, and his feet floated off the surface…

Any rational human would have panicked, assuming they survived this environment. Marc did, in his own way. The shock of breaking free of the surface caused him to release his pistol, sending it floating harmlessly into the unknown. Reason took over as his course was firmly set into the void. His flight path appeared to be an exaggerated arc, which meant trouble if he lost track of the gate.

With nothing to grab onto, he buried his sabre into the silver dust. His body went on until his arms were fully extended. In that moment, he snapped back and found his footing. This left him roughly forty-five paces away from the gate.

“That was close,” Marc attempted to say.

Instead of sound, only ice came out of his mouth. The experience was odd once he realised that his skin had hardened. His movements were also sluggish, and every adjustment he made came with sharp pain… It only serves to focus my mind…

“What’s that glow?” Marc wondered.

The gate was still connected to his point of origin. The view through the doorway was engulfed in flames, evoking an image of l’Enfer. The ghouls writhed in pain, but sound did not carry through the thin, lunar atmosphere… That’s something to be thankful for…

“There’s a glow around my feet?” Marc wondered.

The reason dawned on him; he looked over his shoulder and realised that his jacket was on fire. Whatever Greek Fire was made of, the flames were not hindered by the hostile environment.

He grabbed both sides of the jacket and tore it clean off. The motion forced him to snap his feet together to tether himself. His jacket floated away in an exaggerated arc, consuming the material with zeal… It couldn’t have been more than a drop…

As a precaution, Marc checked himself for any other sources of fire. The glow moved away in tandem with his jacket, until it landed onto the sandy surface. For a moment, he saw the silver colour of the soil before the flames died out. What Marc could not articulate, was that the gate was located in a crater, one perpetually bathed in darkness.

The gate severed its connection. If not for his vampiric eyes and the gateway’s natural glow, there would be nothing for him to see. Marc observed the outline of a rectangular gateway, with nothing in the middle.

Just beyond the gate, there was the oddest sight. It appeared to be a larger version of the moon – a big, blue ball with white, green, and brown accents. Logic told him it was the Earth, but his mind rejected the idea.

“What destination will I find next?”

There were seven more destinations in all before the Venetian gate appeared. It may have taken less than fifteen minutes for the exit point to come up, but by then, the ice was causing distortions in his vision… A bit longer and I’d have to go through a random gate…

The familiar, dark wood panelling and lighting dredged up memories of his time with Susanna. With his survival on the line, he pushed all those memories away. The problem was getting to the gate, since any attempt to walk left him reaching for his sabre.

“How am I going to—”

An idea lit up his mind like a flash of lightning. What got him into this mess might just get him out. He extended his arms until they were straight, dug his boots into the dust, and launched himself towards the gate.

Like the last time, he went soaring. The motions were exaggerated and slow, just like his jacket. That only made things worse when he realised that his trajectory was off. He was sure to miss the centre, as his aim was too high…by about an inch…

Everything happened in slow motion. He tried to reach for the gateway, but was too far off course. The attempt sent him spinning around, leading his boot to impact the outer edge. The collision altered his course, sending him into the ground where he bounced and shot backwards through the gate…

CHAPTER 89

IN SUSANNA’S FOOTSTEPS

Where there was once silence, Marc’s ears came alive with the sound of air pushing against his eardrums. He had never been consciously aware of that effect before. As his mind filtered out the background noise, eventually, he realised there were several steady heartbeats, and breathing all around him.

This time, gravity took over and slammed him into the floor. He was so cold that he almost believed he would shatter. In fact, some of his skin split on impact like lead piping did under pressure. It was fortunate that he could will his blood to keep him together… I might need to thaw out…

“Marc,” Evelyn said as she ran towards him.

He wanted to say something, but his vocal cords were frozen. The air expelled from his lungs caused droplets of water to form out of thin air.

When Evelyn made contact, she recoiled violently. He was so cold that it was like touching a hot pan over an open flame. Ottilia grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her away.

Worn as she was, Evelyn did not protest. In fact, even such a negligible amount of exertion left her visibly drained.

Marc focused and willed his blood to heal. The effect was slow and sluggish. He concentrated on healing his joints, airway, and vocal cords to speak out.

“I’m fine,” Marc croaked.

“Where was that?” Ottilia asked.

“A place where man is decidedly not welcome…”

Ottilia and two female escorts kept their eyes focused on the surface of the moon. Given their angle, they could not see the Earth hanging in the sky. However, no one dared to approach until the gate shut down entirely.

“There’s a bit of a wait ahead of us…”

* * * *

Warning, oxygen levels at 16.9% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“With the Parisian gate out of commission and being reunited with Evelyn,” Marc began, “it was time to take the last leap…”

* * * *

Marc had given the hunters access to a couple of his caches. They took several barrels of gunpowder, along with a selection of weapons.

The latter was more important. His sabre remained firmly planted in the regolith… I don’t even know where my pistol landed…

Where he stood, there were barrels stacked three high. Each was connected to a fuse that was lit from the doorway. Nearer to the gate, there were six stacks of barrels free of fusing.

Ottilia approached cautiously and handed him a sabre. He took it and bowed deeply as a sign of respect. The other hunters went pale and walked off silently towards the doors… They don’t like the idea of me being armed…

Just beyond that wall, there were several hearts beating. Every one of them was calm and measured, which in his experience meant more hunters. There will be nothing left of Susanna’s club after—we leave…

“Thank you,” Marc said.

If he remembered the sequence correctly, their destination would soon be upon them. Marc turned towards Evelyn, who was leaning against the wall. She was pale as a ghost, and he knew they had a bit of a hike left before reaching the altar… and hopefully, her genesis…

CHAPTER 90

LAND OF HEAT AND SAND

The dry desert heat hit him as soon as he crossed the threshold. The familiar tunnel that led to a temple dedicated to a forgotten night god brought back memories… most of which are unpleasant…

The thin layer of sand covering the stone floor was a good sign. That meant that no one had been here in a while, which worked well for his plan… I wonder if we were the last?

He took Evelyn’s hand and helped her to the nearest wall. Her breathing was shallow and painful, but she did her best to smile. There was no way she could understand where they were, but Evelyn did not appear to be bothered by the sudden change in locales… Joining up with me back in Venice must have come as a shock to her…

Eighteen barrels were rolled through the gate. He noticed that Ottilia was overseeing the transfer. When they made eye contact, the hunter barked out an order. Five seconds later, a powder horn and two pistols were sent through.

“Thank you. We’re even—” Marc tried to say.

She raised her hand to silence him before adopting a wide grin. Another order was barked, and fuses on their end lit. They also sent a smaller barrel rolling through that came to a halt at his feet.

“Now, we’re even,” Ottilia said. “Godspeed, and may we never meet again.”

A moment later, the gate terminated their link. They stood in the dull glow of the portal. Evelyn’s breathing quickened as did her heart, so Marc lit a pitch torch and proceeded to light others in the vicinity.

“Thank you,” Evelyn whispered.

Marc bowed with a smile before picking up his weapons. Both pistols were double barrelled like his favourite. While bulky, they permitted him to fire off four shots before having to reload the barrels… Susanna warned me there are things that live in the shadows…

It was said these creatures were once vampires. The false god turned them into mindless husks, mere extensions of himself. They served as his defenders in the depths, but it was said that any exposure to light would sear their flesh.

“How far?” Evelyn asked.

That was a great question. He remembered the thousands of steps needed to reach the altar. However, Marc had been a soldier in life and in good health, whereas Evelyn was not dressed appropriately, nor healthy enough to cover the distance at a good pace… I wish I had someone to help me…

Of course, wishing would not conjure up a helper. Upon closer inspection, the smaller barrel turned out to be blood wine from Susanna’s personal stock… That’ll come in handy…

“Excuse my manners,” Marc said.

He popped the cork and let the mixture of blood and wine flow straight down his throat. Marc gulped, and pushed through the overpowering nausea, until his strength returned. He found it odd that Evelyn said nothing about his miraculous recovery.

Marc eyed her for a moment, and after a loud belch, made enough space for more. Evelyn giggled, and he wondered if his crass behaviour took some of the shine off his projected image… All the more human…

“What?” Marc asked.

“C’est rien, my Lord,” Evelyn whispered.

She was pale, and the scent of death was strong enough that ghouls would be drawn to her. Given that three-quarters of the barrel remained… salvation comes to those who help themselves…

“Stay in the light,” Marc said in his natural voice.

The minute she registered his voice, her entire face went slack. Her mouth was agape when Marc disappeared in a gust of wind… adding to her trauma…

However, instead of blowing out the lights and bathing her in the dark, the torches lit up in a rapid sequence until they illuminated a passageway that seemingly stretched on forever.

“It was you…” Evelyn said, before having to take a knee on account of fatigue. “The one from the dream…”

* * * *

Warning, oxygen levels at 16.9% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“Given the ready supply of blood,” Marc began, “I used speed and strength to prepare the way.”

Six barrels were placed at the bottom of the stairwell, and twelve at the arch separating the portal chamber from the hallway.

“I used the opportunity to light up the way while placing charges.”

Every time a new torch was lit, something scurried further away.

“They feared the light, and posed no threat…until we had to find our way back…”

* * * *

Evelyn was unconscious by the time Marc returned. While time was against him, he needed to replenish his reserves. So, Marc drank to excess, until the barrel was almost empty.

With no time to waste, Marc lifted Evelyn from the ground and laid her upon his left shoulder. She was so slight that he could march all day and night without complaint; it also left Marc free to use his pistol.

With time against them, Marc decided to shed away any semblance of humanity. He transitioned from a walk to a light run.

After a hundred steps, he fired his pistol and watched as a trail of powder sparkled towards the barrels. Marc bolted and was halfway between the portal and stairwell before there came a loud blast.

The shockwave blew out a long line of torches, followed by a wall of dust that washed over them. Several large stones broke free from the ceiling, bringing about a cave in… That will slow down anyone following…

With one practised motion, Marc rolled the barrel of his pistol along his leg to line up the fresh charge. He was back into the expansive hall with a trap floor. Once clear of the illusionary wall, he lit another line of gunpowder.

Without hesitation, he ran through the next wall and flew down the adjacent steps towards the water. There came another blast. This time, the ground trembled, which sent vibrations through the bottom of his boots. It went on for a solid minute as rubble and stone filled in the stairwell… Let them dig though that…

He switched pistols and ran towards the altar.

“Hold on,” Marc urged.

Her heart was weak, and she did not even flinch when he fired his pistol. He knew she was not long for this world. Marc pushed himself, until the world itself became a blur.

He ran right past where the ancient vampire was laid to rest. The creature made no attempt to invade their minds, and he suspected that Drusilla must have awakened it. Evelyn moaned as they neared his tomb, and calmed down once they gained some distance.

Even as he was, Marc sensed this god’s raw power… and evil. He should have reserved a couple of barrels for the creature, but he guessed it would do little more than wake him… I’d hate to imagine him in a fit of rage…

By the time Marc slowed to a stop, he was at the base of the blood pool they said went on forever… straight to l’Enfer, if that’s to be believed…

“It’s time,” Marc whispered.

He laid her by the side and kissed her on the forehead before moving away. From the altar, he stood at attention, remaining perfectly still while waiting.

There was nothing at first, but tendrils soon broke through the surface. He watched as they formed into a coherent humanoid form and picked up Evelyn moments before les Moires could sever her golden thread.

In his case, the creature pulled him into the pool, as though trying to catch him unawares. This time, the creature picked up Evelyn as a mother would a newborn babe and carried her over the surface. Once at the centre, the tendrils were slowly absorbed by the pool.

Evelyn was lowered gently into the thick, red substance until it enveloped her. He waited there, patiently, and worried when her heart missed a beat. Nine erratic beats later, her heart stopped altogether…

That was the moment when the agents of chaos were called forth. The contents of the pool blew like a geyser. A shockwave followed, which sent him hurtling towards the wall.

The impact made a crack, loud enough to reverberate off the walls and down the tunnel.

“SHE’S MINE!” the angel of death yelled.

CHAPTER 91

THE WAGER

Eleanor was the woman in white who guided souls to their final destination. She had been here thousands of times, watching each victim trade their soul to live on in a prison of flesh and bone… Like the corpse who called himself Marc… Now, he’s entirely out of my reach…

She was forbidden from interfering once the choice was made. Every time the angel of death pleaded with them to say ‘no’, to be judged, instead of opting for immediate damnation.

Invariably, she was forced to witness the demon below consume their souls. What returned from that pit was outwardly the same person, but something was always lost in the change.

This time, the young woman was unconscious and thus, unable to consent. By convention, the dark entity within the well should have let her life slip away… never to resurface…

However, demons were greedy, and it reached out for the soul of the dearly departed. This demon had intruded upon her domain, and freed her to act. Eleanor would not give up this soul without a fight.

“SHE’S MINE,” Eleanor bellowed, causing loose material to shake free from the ceiling.

Eleanor may have been the creation of a goddess, but her powers were extensive. Any construct that tended to the dead and dying had to attend to thousands of deaths simultaneously.

Sensing the need, three others appeared at the foot of the pool. Every instance stood at cardinal point, and their eyes glowed with the light of creation. The Eleanors knelt and touched the surface.

Their bodies worked like lightning rods channelling the light of God straight into the pool of dark blood at their feet. The reaction between light and dark, or good and evil, was violent, like tossing a chunk of sodium into a glass of water.

The pool broke cohesion and sent the corpse hurtling into the wall, but Eleanor no longer cared for his well-being. Instead, she waited until the body of the victim came out from the pool.

Upon reaching eye level, there came a snap from their fingers, freezing this chamber and beyond in a bubble of time.

Deep below, the demon denied this new reality. It refused to comply, screeching at a frequency so high that it would shatter crystal. Exposed as it was, the creature was vulnerable, and reached out through the ether for help.

Another four instances of Eleanor appeared from thin air and approached the pool. These new arrivals froze in place, as though an opposing force was meddling with time.

The original Eleanor on the scene turned and spotted the interloper, which first appeared as a tendril oozing out of a crack in the stonework. It increased in size and shape until it formed a skeleton, vascular system, and a layer of oily, black skin.

Once fully formed, the creature was set aflame, consuming every aspect of the entity. As the flames died down, its face and hair became visible. Despite its demonic origins, the creature before her would have caught the eye of many a maiden.

Eleanor recognised him immediately; this was Abaddon and these altars were part of his domain… The construct below reached out to its creator…

“Have you forgotten your place?” Abaddon said.

“It is you who forgets his place,” every instance of Eleanor said in unison.

The man’s eyes glowed, and the first instance of Eleanor dropped to her knees for being insubordinate. The white glow went out from those eyes, and she turned into a pile of golden dust.

“We are infinite,” the Eleanors reminded him.

Another hundred instances appeared, and Abaddon realised that he unleashed a force he could not control. Instances of the angel of death could be killed, but her source of power came from the souls themselves, which approached infinity.

To make matters worse, a golden crack opened above. The light bleeding was bright enough to scorch the stone beneath. Moments later, the silhouette of a man, bathed in white light, slammed into the surface and shattered the stone floor.

When the new arrival stood, the shadows of its wings were projected onto the wall. This, too, was a beautiful man, symmetrical, and built like a Greek god. Eleanor rarely interacted with the jailers of Heaven, but she knew this was the archangel, Gabriel.

The angel drew his sword, which glowed with the fire of a thousand suns, but did not burn him. The arrival of an angel and demon did not dissuade Eleanor, as more versions of herself continued to appear.

Further upstream, there came screams that were loud enough to shake the walls. The corpse buried at the base of the ziggurat became aware that the light of God was near. Despite being buried under hundreds of metres of rock, the wretch was entirely vulnerable to the forces of Heaven.

“Stay out of this, you overgrown shit hawk!” Abaddon yelled before spitting at the ground.

The angels who were fashioned by the hands of God were emotionless. They were also ageless and experienced time differently than most Earthly creatures. From Gabriel’s perspective, that single sentence took an hour to say.

Nothing this demon said would sway the archangel’s mind. He was summoned for a reason, even if doing so could trigger a war.

“It is you who forgets your place,” Gabriel said. “The wager was agreed upon by both sides, as were the rules.”

The Eleanors were now sufficient in number that they covered all the floorspace. To permit the opportunity for the dialogue between the aggrieved parties, a narrow channel was left open.

None of the instances betrayed emotion, but those normally black eyes were all aglow. The chamber was bathed in warm light, extinguishing any shadows, save for those deep within the pit. The creature below writhed, unable to shield itself from their light.

“Leave,” Gabriel ordered.

“No,” the Eleanors said.

“I order you to—”

“You cannot interfere with death.”

By now, Abaddon appeared to be uncomfortable. A droplet of perspiration ran from his temples and rolled onto his jaw. The place was becoming an oven, but Evelyn and Marc were immune, as they were both frozen in time, like insects trapped in amber.

“There is no way your god will go to war over this,” Abaddon hissed.

His perspiration could not be abated, and all the Eleanors smirked in response. A creature of darkness could not wield shadows if none existed, whereas the armies of light were further aided by Eleanor’s interference.

“They sent me,” Gabriel said. “Although, I sense my presence was not required.”

All of the Eleanors turned to face the demon. She would not stand by as Abaddon interfered with her sacred duty.

A powerful glow came from the tunnel leading into the chamber. Two more angels landed on Earth, and the buried corpse’s screams were now long enough for cracks to form in the walls. With a snap of her fingers, the Eleanors trapped it within its own bubble of time.

“You would risk war over that whore?” Abaddon said. “She’s already taken a life.”

“She will be judged,” the Eleanors said.

“If you want a war…” Gabriel said.

Demons were creatures of emotion, whereas Angels were rooted in reason. This did not define either as explicitly good or evil. Reason could justify atrocities just as easily as feelings could.

Abaddon’s mask faltered. Those beautiful, blue eyes darted throughout the chamber. He realised the balance would never shift in his favour. Even if his brothers were summoned, they would ignore his call to avoid a war… They would only wage war if they’re certain to win…

However, there were ways of salvaging a victory from the bleakest of losses. Abaddon’s shape lost coherence, and he melted into the cracks of the stone flooring. The dark stain slithered its way towards the pit and poured within.

Before returning to his realm, he freed Evelyn from her bubble in time. The young woman was turned into a vampire before everyone’s eyes, but to ensure no side could claim victory, her soul remained intact.

“On her day of judgement,” the disembodied voice said, “I’ll receive my payment in full, and with interest…”

Just like that, Abaddon was gone. The Eleanors’ eyes dimmed until they returned to their black state. If not for the angels, there would not have been any light within these caves.

Gabriel’s eyes lingered on the angel of death, followed by an imperceptible pause. Without a word, those wings opened wide, and he flew through the divine opening.

Free from additional interference, the Eleanors faded out of existence until only one remained. She reached over the pit and took the blood-soaked body of the young woman in her arms. Despite the interaction, her white dress was pristine. She laid Evelyn gently at the base of the altar.

“I’m not sure if you’ll ever realise just how special you are,” Eleanor said.

This was a vampire tempered by a soul. Abaddon gave her a new life, one that could span for centuries or even millennia. The difference was that her soul would carry on after death.

How that would play out was anyone’s guess. Evelyn escaped Eleanor’s grasp once already when that corpse dosed her with a bit of his blood. The young woman was once more out of her reach and they might not meet again until the world turned to ash.

“I hope you turn towards the light,” Eleanor said.

That way, Abaddon would be denied his prize. He wagered that given so much time, Evelyn would surrender to the dark impulses of a vampire. Her soul would hopefully make all the difference, even if the odds were against her.

The angel of death stood up and walked away, going down the stairs and the wet stones. For Marc and Evelyn, less than a heartbeat had passed. However, the sun would soon set over these cursed lands.

With a snap of her fingers, the ritual chamber was brought back in sync with time. Concurrently, every torch in range came afire… I’ll keep a watch over her until she’s safely away from this place…

If that meant keeping that entombed corpse trapped for a while longer, then so be it. Eleanor had the time…

CHAPTER 92

THE MONSTER

The force of the impact pinned Marc against the wall, and he dropped to his knees once the explosive wave dissipated. The pain was sharp, forcing him to cover the back of his head, fearing that the contents within would pour out. While the wound was serious, a bit of focus fused his cracked skull and scalp.

His eyes widened upon setting sight on the chamber. Every surface was bathed in congealing blood. Even for a vampire, this scene disturbed him. Somehow, the torches were still lit, although several sizzled as they burned away the pooled blood.

Despite healing his wounds, his head was pounding like the drum. He figured it would take a while to recover from the impact. That much was expected, but this was not a luxury he could afford.

“Evelyn?” Marc whispered.

He lifted a knee and planted his foot firmly on the ground. Marc used his hands to stabilise himself until he found his footing. The world before him refused to steady itself, but Marc would not surrender to the frailty of his body.

“Evelyn?” Marc called out.

He walked towards the well and was greeted by an endless abyss. His logical mind struggled to reason out a cause, but logic failed him… If she’s down there, I’ll never be able to reach her…

There was something moving deep within that pit. It behaved very much like fire would, as though it was alive. The sight of it triggered his primal fear response, requiring a great deal of willpower to maintain control.

He took three steps back, unsure of what to do. Evelyn had been in that pool when it erupted, and given the concussive force of the blast, Marc doubted there would be much of her left.

“I’m sorry, Evelyn,” Marc whispered.

Ba bump…

Marc’s eyes widened at the familiar sound. Given the scene before him, he questioned his senses.

“Evelyn?” Marc asked.

There was nothing in sight to account for the sound… I have no point of reference—

Ba bump… Ba bump… Ba bump…

The source was right behind him. Marc turned around in a snap and set his eyes upon Evelyn. Her heart was beating strong and true, but her chest did not expand… as though she isn’t breathing…

Marc heard stories about vampires who could maintain a heartbeat without consciously being aware of it… How can that be?

He ran towards her and knelt at her side. There was blood and carnage everywhere, but she was a proverbial angel, sleeping soundly. The disconnect was disturbing, but Marc was not about to question his good fortune.

He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from her face. That’s when Evelyn took in a deep breath to fill her lungs… If she’s human, then she won’t have much time…

He took her hand, noticed the strong pulse, and squeezed. Evelyn did the same, but she broke his skin while doing so. When he looked down, he noticed her onyx talons, and pearly white fangs protruding through her lips… this doesn’t make sense…

“Evelyn?”

Evelyn moaned, and her eyes opened in a flutter. Those green eyes glowed with defiance, and Marc noticed the dark patches under her eyes were gone. She appeared to be the picture of health, even if a bit pale… which is normal for our kind…

“How do you feel, Evelyn?”

Without realising, he reverted to his natural manner of speech. Had it not been for her mouth contorting as though she was about to scream, Marc would have missed it.

“Oh,” Marc said. “I sincerely apolog—”

Evelyn surprised him by lunging at him. Quick as lightning, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him with enough strength to force the air from his lungs.

“Thank you,” Evelyn whispered. “Never apologise for who you are.”

Marc was in shock, unsure how to proceed. While in pain, he dared not interrupt her. Her entire reality was just turned upside down and would need time to adjust.

“The sun will set soon,” Evelyn said after pulling away. “Should we get going?”

“The sun won’t set for—” Marc countered.

He paused, and his mind recognised the incongruity. He had planned to spend hours in this cursed place, but the setting sun meant they could travel overland back to the portal… Where did the time go?

“How are you?” Marc asked.

The young woman giggled before adopting the smile that promised so much. She took a deep breath and appeared to be genuinely content with life.

“Think you can keep up?” Evelyn said.

She winked and just like that, she was gone.

“I created a monster,” Marc said before taking off after her.

CHAPTER 93

STORY FOR ANOTHER TIME

Warning, oxygen levels at 17.2% and rising. Please proceed to the nearest emergency shelter.

“We got out in record time,” Marc said. “To this day, I can’t explain how, but Evelyn knew exactly where to turn, and how to avoid the traps. She insists to this day that a woman in a white dress left clues for her to follow.”

Marc paused, unwilling to dwell on such a revelation. He had seen the woman in white several times as a mortal… never since…

It meant that the woman in white had taken an interest in this fledgling vampire. While the reasons eluded him, he had no reason to complain about the result.

“We found an escape tunnel that led to the surface. From there, we made our way back to the gate.”

They went to Vienna, where Florian awaited them. Three months later, they were back home in Paris.

“That’s when the greatest adventure of my life began,” Marc admitted. “To think I was fifty-eight years old.”

Marc taught his protégée how to read, write, and count. After she had a firm grip on academics and the natural world, it was time for her to explore the arts.

“Evelyn was a natural at the arts.”

She could sing, dance, sculpt, and paint. While she mastered dozens of instruments, Evelyn was never able to breathe life into the notes. Instead, she focused on creating paintings that made Aelred weep, or sculptures that people believed could walk off their pedestals.

“Evelyn is the reason I was put on this Earth.”

Jeanne was the one who instilled in him knowledge and reason. Arès may have been the god of war, but Athéna won using strategy and wisdom.

Émilie was the name he cursed even now. However, her betrayal taught him a harsh lesson. They said that the path to hell was paved with good intentions, and she was proof of that.

Susanna gave him a taste of normalcy. She was his perfect drug and Marc would do anything to be with her just another day. It was her sacrifice that turned him into the man he was.

Geneviève was the woman who accepted him as he was. They found peace in each other’s company, but fate, and his own stubbornness, kept them apart.

“After Evelyn became a vampire, she mentioned that her mother often spoke fondly of their short time together.”

While he hid it behind an impenetrable mask, Marc took the news hard. By showing a measure of courage, Marc could have reached out to Geneviève and spent a lifetime together.

“Then, Evelyn would have never been born.”

His experiences are what made Marc the man he was. However, it was the women in his life who defined him. Without his choices, Marc might have missed out on his greatest accomplishments.

“Evelyn makes up the best parts of these women.”

Evelyn was as wise as Jeanne, as shrewd as Émilie, artistic as Susanna, and empathic as her mother. She wielded a skillset that served her well under any circumstances. No matter how bloody the conflict between Drusilla and their group became, she always found good in humanity… no matter how little I thought remained…

“That’s why I took my place at her side when she was ready.”

Marc could lead and had done so successfully in the past. However, being so disconnected from his emotions ended up making him a better soldier than a general… I’ve rarely questioned her orders…

“Besides,” Marc began, “I’m only truly myself when at war.”

They continued to fight against Drusilla’s forces, weakening their opponents at every opportunity. It was a bitter pill for the both of them to swallow, when some hunter rid the world of their greatest foe.

Marc served in several wars, most notably in the Great War. Drusilla allied herself with the Germans, and naturally deployed her allies to tip the scales. Marc spent years in the blood-soaked mud of No-Man’s-Land, ensuring her efforts were countered… I must have crossed paths with that hunter while she was posing as a nurse…

“Evelyn was so happy to see me when I returned from the front after four long years.”

He would never admit it, but Marc appreciated her emotional outbursts. She often tried to tease him, and tormented him for being so disconnected from his emotions, but she was there to remind him of the human element in every equation.

“Without her, I would have devolved into a mindless, killing machine,” Marc said. “She’s my moral compass.”

They were linked to one another. Marc ingested a few drops of her blood, opening the channel both ways. Both were incapable of dealing with the unfiltered mind of the other, so they carefully selected what was passed along.

Warning, oxygen levels at 17.3% and steady. Nominal levels restored.

Marc’s fingers returned to normal, and he pulled away from the bulkhead. What had once been a pristine, white wall was now filled with etchings of his life.

He wanted to leave something of himself behind, and he accomplished just that. His story ended where Evelyn’s began… It’s up to her now…

“End of the line…”

PART VI

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 94

OUTSTRETCHED ARMS

Now that the station’s automated systems believed the atmosphere was breathable, Marc was free to leave. In cases of oxygen deprivation, the station sealed off and pumped out the atmosphere from non-essential spaces… which includes maintenance and machinery spaces…

Until the lockdown was lifted, accessing any sealed door would trigger an alarm. Marc may have been dead, but the security drones they used were effectively miniaturised tanks… What a shame that I left my arsenal on Earth…

The cold benefited him. Ambient temperature this low made motion sensors ineffective, and thermal imaging could not distinguish him from the environment… These systems were never designed to work in an environment hostile to humans…

Every move he made was slow and deliberate at first. He acclimated to moving in the bitter cold. His knees and ankles protested every motion, but he ignored the pain… It’s only temporary…

He pressed a button on a panel by the door, but nothing happened. He pressed it again, several times, without results. Having met the definition for insanity, Marc slammed his fist into the panel, shattering the cover, before clearing out the debris. Behind the panel, there was a handle, which he pulled towards him.

The doors opened to the width of his thumb. He slipped his fingers through and burned some of his blood reserves to pry the doors apart. That’s when he noticed a piece of crystal jammed into his left knuckles… Without concern, he pulled it free, and let the cold stem the bleeding… One mustn’t waste…

The scene before him was as horrific as it was graphic. There were nineteen victims on the ground facing the door. The one closest to the shelter had his arms outstretched, as though striving to accomplish in death what he failed to do in life.

They were all covered in ice, but the holes made by large calibre projectiles were a clear sign of what brought about their deaths. About fifteen steps beyond the last victim, there was a security drone. It was disabled, leaning unnaturally to one side.

Marc was the one who disabled it. He tore away the access panel and ripped out its central processor. However, he was too late to prevent the deaths of those caught in the line of fire… At least, it was quick…

Overall, the passageway was similar in style to the shelter, designed for function, not aesthetics. White dominated the landscape, so any oxidation, leaks, or flaw would get noticed early.

He took a step into the passageway, his boots compressing the dry ice. It sounded like walking on the thin frozen layer that covered puddles after a frost. While making that much noise was normally problematic, the security drones were not designed for rough terrain… they won’t get far in this…

From memory, there were two-hundred-and-forty-two steps to take before reaching the access point. From there, he would have to climb five decks to reach the station’s hospital. That would be his first stop, because he needed to fill up…

The short distances were not the problem. Marc grew up on forced marches. The difference was the cold; every movement was like rubbing crushed glass into his joints… Is this how it feels to get old?

Marc’s jaw muscles bulged, and his eyes narrowed. He had to remind himself that he had a mission to complete… none of this will matter by the end of the day…

“One step at a time…”

CHAPTER 95

ICE AGE

The station hospital was fitted with an independent reactor. There was also an atmospheric processor attached to the complex, which kept it isolated from the rest of the station. The moment Marc popped open the access panel, humid air from the hospital rushed into the void space.

Given how cold he was, Marc froze the humidity flowing over him on contact. Even as ice accumulated, he managed to grab the outer edges of the hatch and pull himself through. Because of the intense pressure differential, Marc ended up pinned against the bulkhead, forcing him to wait out this storm.

The accumulation of ice happened so fast that the frost distorted his vision. Through the ice, Marc made out several bodies riddled with holes and blood splatter.

Like other utilitarian spaces, the hospital was sterile and white. The spots of crimson stuck out, hinting at the scope of this massacre… The ruling class didn’t like the medical staff treating both sides…

In the distance, there came the whirring of electric motors. The atmosphere here never sublimated, which gave security the advantage.

Marc would have ducked behind a panel, cabinet, or biobed, but he was fused to the bulkhead. Without realising it, he was encased in ice.

Without a choice, he watched as three drones turned the corner. They stopped and scanned the room, but did not engage. Marc imagined himself tied to a poll, blindfolded, and facing a firing squad… Why haven’t they opened fire?

The centre-most drone got within a metre of him. He looked on helplessly, only to watch it conduct an all-around scan… They can’t detect me through the ice…

Like the oxygen sensors, these drones were not designed to function in an environment hostile to humans. The ice distorted his humanoid form, and he had no vitals… I may as well be invisible…

Even with surveillance cameras, security personnel would likely presume the hatch popped open due to a pressure differential. The vampirecicle was nothing more than a buildup of ice brought on by the atmospheric leak…

To prove his theory, the robot closed and sealed the hatch. The air transfer ceased, which met their mission objectives.

There came muffled sounds of the drones whirring away, followed by a distant door opening and closing three times… That means I’m alone…

That was great news, but Marc needed to thaw out first… Patience is a virtue…

CHAPTER 96

RESTORING THE MAN

The effects of consuming blood were immediate. It was more than a case of satiating the thirst that nearly consumed him. Ingesting blood healed him entirely, including lacerations, and shredded joints, leaving a healthy glow to his skin.

Marc sighed after finishing his sixth blood bag. He slid down the bulkhead until he was seated and rested his head. The absence of pain was the only reward he wanted… I forgot how it felt to move without pain…

After fifteen minutes, according to the station’s chronometer, Marc was back on his feet and heading towards a hatch. This access point led to the central core, which meant a zero-gravity environment.

From there, Marc would access the maintenance tunnels to the only functional fusion reactor left on the station. The other two had been disabled during the conflict.

Strictly speaking, the path he planned to use was not an access point. The station’s builders sealed up the central shaft before activating the reactors. However, it was both the quickest and safest route for him to take.

Drones could not operate within due to the interference. Nor would he encounter anything living there, because the three adjacent, fusion chambers guaranteed a lethal dose of radiation… lucky for me… I’m already dead…

CHAPTER 97

REACTOR CORE

Marc triggered the bolt assembly on both sides of the reactor shaft. They went off in series, sending the ten-centimetre-wide bolt heads hurtling towards the deck, twenty-five metres away.

Given the reduced gravity, the massive lead-lined hatch fell slowly towards him. There came a loud thump as it indented into the reinforced steel deck… That would’ve left a mark…

Warning lights, embedded into the bulkhead, activated and flashed red. A visual alarm indicated radiation levels were beyond safety limits. Marc stood there, unmoved, waiting patiently for the ladders to extend from the tunnel.

The internal structure of the shaft was visible from where he stood, including several hatches they welded shut after construction… No one was supposed to see this for at least a century…

He grabbed onto a rung the moment the ladder locked into place and began his ascent. As soon as he reached a gap in the artificial gravity, Marc pushed off, floating parallel to the ladder using only his hands to keep him on course… I’m not going to miss my mark by an inch this time…

He traversed the distance in a manner of minutes, but his skin was red and itchy. Had he been human, large blisters would have covered his body. His eyes were also getting hot, so he healed them to prevent the fluid inside from going opaque.

At the three-quarter mark, he slowed to a stop and turned around. With a slight push, he resumed his course until gravity got a hold of him. Given that he was in a hurry, Marc slid down the ladder until he reached the deck.

“Manual control,” Marc said.

All systems on the station were automated by default, but manual control existed for emergency situations. With the doors blown off, the control room was saturated in radiation… That suits me just fine, no unwanted guests…

He found the controls and severed the remote connection. With full control at his fingertips, Marc was free to manipulate the power grid.

He first shut down all non-essential systems to reduce the station’s overall demand. Next, he ramped up power generation.

The station was never quiet, even if his mind filtered it out as background noise. With the generator dialled to one-hundred-and-twenty-five percent, the hum increased noticeably in pitch.

Warning. Charlie reactor operating at five percent over maximum.

As he waited, Marc cycled through the power distribution pages to further knock systems off the grid.

Warning. Charlie reactor operating at fifteen percent over maximum. Please restore automated control.

That was the tricky part. These generators had to channel their excess power somehow. For this station, the ground was an oversized heat sync, dedicated to each reactor. However, it was never designed to handle the generator’s full output.

Warning. Charlie reactor operating at twenty-five percent over maximum. Reactor failure imminent. Please restore automated control.

He pressed against the panel and opened the circuit to several heavy users from the grid. Atmospheric processing went offline for this section, as did hydroponics, and the weapons array.

All that excess power was redirected back into the grid. The first casualty was lighting, which sent showers of sparks raining down from the overhead lights.

Second was security, which fried cameras, sensors, and any drone that was under maintenance or charging. By the sounds of it, several drones cooked off their ammunition.

Lastly, the magnetic locks overloaded and failed to open. There came several loud clicks throughout the station, most notably on both sides of the control room. He smiled, and realised that his cheeks had the consistency of cooked meat… all from the radiation…

He reduced the power generation to thirty percent of normal and closed the circuits to atmospheric control and hydroponics. That would maintain nominal life support. While he could very well freeze them out of existence… they should see the face of their executioner…

“It’s time…”

CHAPTER 98

HOME IN THE CLOUDS

So, this is how the elite lives?” Marc asked.

The bulkheads were covered with rich, wood panelling here. At first, he believed it may have been simulated, but the distinctive smell of oak brought up fond memories… I’d almost forgotten…

What was wood panelling without oil paintings, sculptures, and fine art? He recognised several pieces, some of which were from Aelred, and Evelyn… these are priceless…

The trouble with wood and oil on canvas were their tendency to burn. Anyone familiar with space stations, or operating in a pressurised environment like a submarine, knew that fire was dangerous. Paper was rare on this station, and books were nearly unheard of… The last thing we need is an ignition source…

That spoke volumes on how much wealth was wasted on this lavish home… Thousands of people could have been evacuated from Earth instead of hauling these luxuries into orbit…

He turned a corner and came upon an expansive lounge. Wooden furniture, leather couches, rich carpets, and a collection of antique books that would make librarians drool. Despite having blown out the lights, the emergency lighting illuminated the space. That orange ball they orbited also added a rusty tinge to the view… that’s not what I remembered the Earth looking like…

Marc made out four silhouettes. They were armed, fitted with tactical gear, and wore night vision glasses. All of them were focused on him, and the pale green glow of goggles gave them an inhumane appearance.

“Freeze!” the lead man ordered.

Marc disappeared, only to reappear behind the speaker.

“Or what?” Marc asked in his dead voice.

Before the man could react, Marc twisted the head until the neck snapped. He let go of the corpse, watching it topple over like a felled tree.

A man wielding a shotgun fired a round, which impressed Marc. The slug missed Marc who responded by grabbing the barrel and driving the weapon straight through the man’s shoulder. Blood poured from the hole, followed by screams of agony. With a quick strike to his throat, Marc silenced the man.

The remaining ought to have run, and Marc would have left them to die from exposure. However, they both trained and fired their weapons, using short, controlled bursts… That’s the mark of someone who’s seen combat…

They were good, but unaccustomed to engaging a foe that moved faster than the eye could see. Marc used his speed to draw their fire, until they were in each other’s kill zone.

Even with the Kevlar vests, several rounds tore through one man’s chest… dead before he hit the floor…

The remaining guard was not about to let off the trigger, but Marc knew the universal truth to projectile-based weapons… they have limited capacity…

There came a click, and Marc vanished, only to pop up behind the man. Quick as a viper, he buried his fangs in the man’s neck and drained him entirely. The taste of fresh blood, straight from the vein, made Marc moan as he fed.

He used the blood to heal, but the radiation damage was extensive. His skin became covered in blisters that oozed pus and scabbed over. What would have taken months of intensive care, happened in minutes. However, visible scars remained on his skin… I still don’t quite feel like… myself.

“I need more,” Marc said before going on a hunt.

* * * *

The first he found was a woman. She had been hiding under the bed, and judging by her scent, must have pissed herself. He grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her out from under the bed in one fluid movement.

She screamed but was silenced when he bit into her. She died with a smile on her face, and by then, his skin was nearly free of blemishes.

The next woman he met took the fight to him. She stabbed him in the back, piercing his right lung. He turned around slowly and pinned her against the wall.

While it was clear that Marc had the upper hand, this one would not yield. He hesitated after getting a better look. That blonde, curly hair, blue eyes, and round face reminded him so much of Émilie. The sight of that traitor’s eyes sent him perilously close to the maelstrom.

Instead of feeding, he tore out her throat, and watched her bleed out as she tried in vain to hold back the flow.

“I should’ve left you in a shallow grave,” he said to the doppelgänger.

That blonde turned out to be a hellfire. The position of the knife made it impossible for him to reach. Without hesitation, he slammed his back into the bulkhead and drove the knife straight through his chest.

Marc grabbed the protruding blade and tore it free. It was a tactical knife, likely taken off one of the guards. He tossed the blade casually onto the body and refrained from healing just yet. Not a drop was lost from this gaping wound.

He came across another two women. One fumbled with her weapon and accidentally shot her partner in the head. That gave Marc ample opportunity to erase the distance between them and drain the shooter. With fresh blood flowing through his veins, Marc was mostly back to normal. Healthy skin shined through the holes in his bloody outfit.

“I’d forgotten about that detail,” Marc said.

Only one person remained for Marc to find. This man was a certifiable genius, and certifiably insane. Someone who reportedly exhausted his fortune to build an underground bunker fashioned after a video game he became obsessed with.

Braxton planned to take hundreds of women with him into this vault. They would serve as vessels for his seed to repopulate the earth. It was a cult, one focused on him as Adam to his many Eves.

As luck would have it, the technology he developed to make the vault viable turned out to be critical for living in space… That was his ticket off the planet…

He squandered the rest of his wealth on these quarters and that blonde, who was presumably his daughter, along with a small cadre of chosen Eves.

“I think it’s time we finally met face to face, Braxton…”

CHAPTER 99

END OF THE LINE

Marc pushed past the heavy oak doors and found himself in the inner sanctum of a madman. The floors were marble, as were the Corinthian-style columns at the four corners of the room. The bed was a mess, and it reeked of sex. It seemed that Braxton had been busy while everyone else was dying from exposure.

Braxton held a gun in his trembling hands. To further confirm Marc’s theory, he was naked except for a lavish bathrobe. The man had not shaved in days. His sandy-blond hair and fair skin further reminded him of Émilie, although those dark brown eyes, nearly black, were his, which sent a chill down his spine… It’s like looking at a funhouse mirror…

“Who are you?” Braxton asked.

Marc slipped his signet ring from his pinky and tossed it casually at the man. Braxton fumbled with the catch, and confusion set in once he set eyes upon the ring.

“How did you come by this?”

“It was passed down from my father as it had been passed on by him,” Marc lied since Bertrand was the one to pass on the ring.

“That’s impossible!” Braxton said.

He dropped the ring casually onto the floor. It bounced several times before settling near Braxton’s feet.

The man’s trigger finger trembled, and Marc hoped the old-style revolver did not have a hair trigger. It may have been an antique, but there was still plenty of killing left in such weapons.

“Why?” Marc said in his dead voice.

“I have one just like it,” Braxton countered.

“Of course, you do,” Marc said. “I had your ring commissioned.”

To further bring home that this was not a joke, Marc extended his fangs until they protruded from his upper lip. Braxton caught the sight of those pearly whites and gasped.

“T-that w-w-would make you—” Braxton stammered.

“Nearly five centuries old?” Marc said.

“W-w-why—”

Instead of finishing his question, Braxton pulled the trigger. The shot hit Marc square in the chest and tore a hole on the other side… Well, that was a waste of good blood…

Marc rushed the man, grabbed the forearm near the elbow with one hand, and struck it hard with another. The fractured bone tore through the skin. The combination of protruding bone and pain caused him to release his revolver. It fired another shot on impact, which ricocheted off a column and buried itself into the mattress.

Before the wretch could scream, Marc clamped his mouth. The blood-curdling yell, while muted, resonated through Marc’s hands.

“Shut up,” Marc said.

His dead voice might have no emotion to it, but Braxton would not calm down… a petulant child…

Tired of these games, Marc punched him hard. Braxton’s head violently snapped to the side. With a bit more strength, Marc would have torn the jaw clean off. As it stood, the fresh dose of pain shifted Braxton’s focus away from his arm.

“There’s a legal term called Fruit of the Poisoned Tree,” Marc began. “You’re a distant product of that whore’s poisoned loins.”

Marc pulled away and circled the man. Blood was pooling beneath Braxton’s arm as he held it close to his body. While pain was visible in those tearing eyes, fear ensured he would listen.

“I had the best man I ever met help raise her son. Insisted that he instil in him a sense of right and wrong,” Marc said. “Émilie whispered her venom from the shadows, which made my father’s reign look like a walk in the park.”

He should have returned home with Evelyn and killed them both. However, he chose to focus on his protégé instead.

“Despite her influence, I steered our family on the right path,” Marc said. “I convinced Émilie’s great-grandchild to seek out opportunities in the New World. They made a fortune on the fur trade and avoided the guillotine.”

By that time, Marc had already settled in la Nouvelle France and watched the colony fall into the hands of the British. Still, there were whispers from his agents that France was a powder keg waiting to blow.

“I passed on advice that benefited the family, hoping that Émilie’s sins would wash off in time.”

The man could barely look up at Marc, let alone speak up. Braxton was a coward hiding behind the power inherent to wealth.

“I even opened doors for you,” Marc said. “Why else would they overlook your obvious insanity and bring you here?”

Marc wanted his line to live on. Safe in the knowledge that a part of him would make it through the apocalypse on Earth… It was nothing more than selfishness…

“You should have been humbled,” Marc said. “Instead, you surrounded yourself in the trappings of a god and behaved as though this was your ascension!”

Marc’s fingertips turned to talons, and he swiped the back of the man’s head. The attack left deep gashes that bled profusely… he’ll live…

“Do you realise how many you killed?”

The man did not respond, so he slashed him again.

“Well?”

There was a long pause. When Marc raised his hand for another swipe, Braxton cringed before relenting.

“Yes,” Braxton whispered.

“Pathetic,” Marc said. “I offer you the chance to help your distant cousin.”

A family tree became an impossibly complex affair after twenty-two generations of descendants. Many branches died off due to war, revolutions, disease, and infertility. Ultimately, Braxton was the last male heir…the end of the line…

However, a branch lived relatively unnoticed. In a case similar to Evelyn’s father, Braxton’s great-great-great-grandfather had a weakness for maids.

Out of that dishonourable union came a daughter, who in turn, begat a daughter, creating a long line of hard-working women who never sought to cheat nor subjugate anyone… They simply wished their children had a better life than theirs…

“Cousin?” Braxton asked, his voice so very faint.

“Why, yes,” Marc said. “Unlike you, she can’t escape to the stars. But, I know your secrets.”

“Secrets?”

“I know about your personal communications array,” Marc began. “I want the codes…”

“…and?”

Men, who believed themselves to be important, always weighed their responses against a balance sheet. It did not matter that everyone else on this station was dead… Information comes at a cost, and he expects this to be a business transaction…

“I want the location and access codes to your bunker,” Marc said. “Or, as you call it, your vault.”

Braxton’s eyes grew wide. The vault had been his biggest secret, but no one could conceal the astronomical demands in resources needed to build it. Marc knew it existed and where to look, but the vault’s security measures would deny Evelyn access.

Braxton gulped, but the throbbing in his arm served as a reminder of who he was dealing with. Still, those eyes showed the depth of the conflict raging within. Then, one glance at Marc’s taloned hands…

“You’ll let me go if I tell you?” Braxton said meekly.

Had Marc been human, he would have missed it. However, his descendant’s heart rate, breathing, and perspiration were all clues that Marc broke the man. He flashed a twisted smile, which chilled the air, causing Braxton to cringe.

“Oh, you’ll die,” Marc said. “The difference is how slow it’ll be…”

CHAPTER 100

THREE LITTLE WORDS

Marc left Braxton’s bedroom after stepping over the corpse along his way. Marc let every drop go to waste, because he had no intention of letting that polluted blood flow through his veins.

Marc had everything he needed, which was confirmed when he gained access to Braxton’s personal information store. He sent an encoded message down to Evelyn, who was trapped on a dying Earth.

It was up to her to save what was left of humanity. He knew what he needed to do, and that meant surrendering to sleep until she reached out to him.

There was much to do before he could rest. Tasks that would mercifully keep his mind occupied. Besides, there was a ready supply of blood left on this station to keep him going until key systems were repaired.

The station would never again support human life, but it would serve him well. He was now the steward of a nuclear arsenal that rivalled the greatest nations on Earth.

“I humbly accept this role.”

On his way down to the reactor control room, his thoughts went naturally to Evelyn. He beamed with pride at what she became.

Evelyn was the one who noticed the unexpected family line and made contact. He wondered what part Tessa Nelligan, the last descendant from his line, would play in Evelyn’s story.

“It’s a shame I won’t be there to see it till the end.”

Linked or not, they were too far apart to communicate. He truly missed peering into her mind.

“I never had the… chance… to tell her that I loved her…”

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

Evelyn Chartres is the nom de plume for a self-published, Canadian author. The writer of nine Gothic fantasy novels, Evelyn released her debut novel, The Portrait, in 2016, and her latest, Man of War, in 2024.

A fan of the phrase ‘live to eat’, Evelyn shares her recipes on evelynchartres.com. These recipes have a loose focus on French-Canadian cuisine, featuring deep-dish meat pies, seafood, and desserts that are rarely seen outside of La Belle Province.

Evelyn is currently living in Ottawa, Ontario, and is busy laying the foundations of another book in the Adventures of Clara Grey series.

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ALSO FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

THE PORTRAIT

“A vision from the past becomes a writer’s deadly obsession.”

The Portrait is a Gothic fantasy about Victoria Frost, an author who develops an unhealthy obsession for her character. As events unfold, her infatuation sours, forcing Victoria to question her sanity. Is she simply slipping into madness, or is there something else at play?

The Portrait features a mixture of contemporary and historical scenes brought forward as Victoria explores the world of her muse. Using both prose and art, every scene yields a new piece of the puzzle, providing insights on the origins of the portrait’s commission and its featured model.

Discover how a vision from the past becomes a writer’s deadly obsession.

THE GRAND

“Even things that go bump in the night need a place to unwind.”

You will find the Grand nestled atop a cliff that overlooks a cursed valley. Surrounded by foreboding mountains, this ritzy French palatial-style hotel is a place where a roaring party’s success is measured by its body count. This hotel does not cater to the rich or famous. Instead, its staff and facilities serve a clientele with a more discerning palate.

The Grand is a collection of Gothic fantasy stories with an overarching storyline that incorporates supernatural themes. The Roaring Twenties serve as a rich historical, linguistic, and cultural backdrop.

Centred on the victims, each story brings a unique perspective to the hotel, the staff, and their esteemed guests. At the Grand, it is best to remember: Even things that go bump in the night need a place to unwind.

THE VAN HELSING PARADOX

“A gal has to look out for herself, after all.”

Clara Grey’s parents once said that the world was a dark and dangerous place. There was more truth than fiction in those words. There were things that lurked in the shadows which defied the laws of nature: perversions that fed on the dead, terrorised the living, or escaped the chill touch of the grave.

Clara is a member of the Tower, a religious order of hunters who work outside the confines of the Church. As keepers of the arcane, her order takes an active role in countering such threats. Alas, the life of a hunter can be short, and many go missing before they are ready to serve. So, what does it take to succeed against all odds?

Explore Clara’s origin, a child born before the dawn of the twentieth century. Witness her rigorous education, how she faces adversity, and how she fights in the Great War to become the derringer-wielding flapper she is.

Throughout her tale, keep in mind: No matter the threat, a gal has to look out for herself, after all.

THE VAN HELSING RESURGENCE

“While the Roaring Twenties are long gone, a heroine’s work is never done.”

Clara Grey was a hunter and part of a secret organisation known only as the Tower. During the Roaring Twenties, she sacrificed herself to destroy a powerful vampire. As a reward, she joined the ranks of Heaven’s army, and for ninety years, Clara yearned to take an active role in the mortal realm.

In an attempt to alter the course of history, scientists trigger an experiment with devastating results. The effects are felt not only on Earth, but in other realms as well.

Clara and an echo from her past are sent to Earth to investigate the case of a stolen soul. For this transgression, Heaven could go to war, but they choose to send Clara—and Edith. They fall to Earth, focused on their mission.

Both had been isolated from the mortal realm for generations. In their lifetimes, monsters were on the decline, but learn how much the modern world has changed. While navigating this alien land, will they adapt to their surroundings to fulfil their mission? Or be swallowed up by the evil that lurks in the shadows?

Before reading on, be sure to remember: While the Roaring Twenties are long gone, a heroine’s work is never done.

THE VAN HELSING INCURSION

“Hunting things that go bump in the night is child’s play when compared to juggling relationships.”

During the Roaring Twenties, Clara Grey hunted things that went bump in the night. On her last mission, she paid the ultimate price to rid the world of a powerful foe. As a reward, she ascended to Heaven and joined its ranks as an angel.

Ninety years after her death, Clara fell to Earth, intent on saving a soul. While successful, killing an old god in self-defence barred her from returning to Heaven. Lost in the modern world, Clara was forced to seek unlikely allies to navigate through these uncertain times.

Four months later, Clara has settled in with Elizabeth, a young woman she saved shortly after descending to Earth. For a gal who had sworn off anything that hinted at normalcy, Clara learns that being average takes more effort than she suspected.

Alas, repercussions from choices made on that fateful mission have not been idle. Her enemies trigger a chain of events that force our fated femme fatale to act. Is Clara prepared to deal with the fallout? Will her allies come to her aid? Or must she stand on her own?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: Hunting things that go bump in the night is child’s play when compared to juggling relationships.

THE VAN HELSING IMPETUS

“While she failed at normal, she's still a force to be reckoned with.”

Clara Grey is a fallen angel, one who tried her hand at having a normal life. That experiment came to an abrupt end when werewolves kidnapped her gal. While victorious, tales from that fateful night became the stuff of legend. Now known as ‘the Valkyrie,’ she is a wanted fugitive.

She has been on the lam for months, using a nondescript persona to evade the authorities. All the while, Clara is tormented by voices from a goddess she thought long dead.

Clara has never faced an enemy that can strike from the shadows, forcing her to align herself with the things she hunted in life. Even with an army at her back, does she have what it takes to defeat her foe?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: While she failed at normal, she's still a force to be reckoned with.

HIGH WATER MARK

“When humanity has been driven into the sea, what lurks above the waves?”

Anna is a humanoid mermaid who spends her days with the local timekeeper until a podmate comes to her with a proposal. They hatch a plan to head out into the watery ruins of humanity in search of lost technology and materials. For a young mermaid living in the dredges of society, the promise of riches from such a find is too good to pass up.

Armed with nothing more than an old map and some rusty road signs to follow, they are soon reminded that adventure often brings forth more than its fair share of rough waters. Her friend gets captured, leaving Anna alone in a world where mermaids are nowhere near the top of the food chain.

Follow Anna as she makes landfall and learns why her ancestors abandoned the surface. Lost in a world that is perpetually covered in a thick fog, Anna must navigate through what remains above the high-water mark. What will she find? An ally? A foe? Or will she find nothing but death and destruction?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: With humanity driven into the sea, what lurks above the waves?

DARK HEARTS

“She may look like the Little Red Riding Hood, but she really is the wolf!”

Julia is a werewolf who turned against her pack and saved an innocent life. As a reward for her good deed, she ends up in prison, but thrives while others like her waste away.

On the eve of a full moon, an unknown benefactor arranges for Julia’s release. Faced with the prospect of returning to the city that nearly killed her, she opts to disappear into the surrounding woods.

This is the opportunity she needs to find herself and reconnect with the wild. As her past resurfaces, the supernatural and dark elements within humanity take notice of her.

Before reading on, be sure to consider: She may look like the Little Red Riding Hood, but she really is the wolf.

LICENCE

Man of War is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations, and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblances to reality are purely coincidental. All images and text herein are copyrighted:

Man of War

Copyright © 2024 by

Evelyn Chartres (Nom de plume)

theportraitofawoman@gmail.com

All rights reserved.

Draft2Digital Edition — First Edition — 978-1-7386843-6-6

Table of Contents

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE – OMEGA MAN

PART I – JEANNE

CHAPTER 1 – DEATH'S WAKE

CHAPTER 2 – HOPE SKIP AND A SPLASH

CHAPTER 3 – LOST IN TIME

CHAPTER 4 – THE LONG ROAD BACK

CHAPTER 5 – BREAKING FORMATION

CHAPTER 6 – FACING DEATH

CHAPTER 7 – TIGHT SQUEEZE

CHAPTER 8 – LOST AND ALONE

CHAPTER 9 – HIERARCHY OF NEEDS

CHAPTER 10 – THE HIGHWAYMAN

CHAPTER 11 – CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THY SOUL

CHAPTER 12 – THE BARONY

CHAPTER 13 – THE WAY AHEAD

CHAPTER 14 – FOR KING AND COUNTRY

CHAPTER 15 – A PRELUDE TO WAR

CHAPTER 16 – A NEW POST

PART II – EMILIE

CHAPTER 17 – THE MAKING OF A GREAT EVENING

CHAPTER 18 – GIFT WRAPPED

CHAPTER 19 – THE MORNING AFTER

CHAPTER 20 – SOWING THE SEEDS

CHAPTER 21 – COMFORTABLY NUMB

CHAPTER 22 – THE HANGOVER

CHAPTER 23 – CHANGE OF PLANS

CHAPTER 24 – WAR AT THEIR DOOR

CHAPTER 25 – OUT FROM THE WOODS

CHAPTER 26 – CONTACT

CHAPTER 27 – CONSCIOUSNESS

CHAPTER 28 – REAP WHAT YOU SOW

CHAPTER 29 – DISBANDED

PART III – SUSANNA

CHAPTER 30 – DIRECTION IN EXILE

CHAPTER 31 – TEN PACES AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

CHAPTER 32 – A CHANGE OF PACE

CHAPTER 33 – A LONG WAY FOR A CLUB

CHAPTER 34 – LAVISH SURROUNDINGS

CHAPTER 35 – SIREN'S SONG

CHAPTER 36 – AN INVITATION TO DIE FOR

CHAPTER 37 – INDIGESTION

CHAPTER 38 – OUT FROM THE ETHER

CHAPTER 39 – REMEMBER, REMEMBER

CHAPTER 40 – THE PERFECT DRUG

CHAPTER 41 – WOMAN IN WHITE

CHAPTER 42 – THE FACE OF A PREDATOR

CHAPTER 43 – WHAT LIES BENEATH

CHAPTER 44 – THE ONLY WAY TO TRAVEL

CHAPTER 45 – INTO THE DEPTHS

CHAPTER 46 – THE OPPOSITION

CHAPTER 47 – UNDER STRAIN

CHAPTER 48 – WAKE UP CALL

CHAPTER 49 – A KINGDOM FOR A DREAM

CHAPTER 50 – A NEW COURSE

CHAPTER 51 – THE SHOW MUST GO ON

CHAPTER 52 – INTO THE EYE

CHAPTER 53 – THE END OF AN ERA

CHAPTER 54 – PARTS UNKNOWN

PART IV – GENEVIEVE

CHAPTER 55 – THE WORD'S A STAGE

CHAPTER 56 – A FEEDING PLAN

CHAPTER 57 – WALK IN ONE'S FOOTSTEPS

CHAPTER 58 – THE FIRST OF MANY

CHAPTER 59 – LE MONSIEUR

CHAPTER 60 – CARVED IN STONE

CHAPTER 61 – ALWAYS THE CRITIC

CHAPTER 62 – HEAT WAVE

CHAPTER 63 – HAPPILY EVER AFTER

CHAPTER 64 – A DINNER DATE

PART V – EVELYN

CHAPTER 65 – A DOLL NAMED MARIE

CHAPTER 66 – GIFT FROM AN ANGEL

CHAPTER 67 – THE PORTRAIT'S NOTEBOOK

CHAPTER 68 – THE PORTRAIT'S DREAM

CHAPTER 69 – THE MEASURE OF INSANITY

CHAPTER 70 – THE LINK

CHAPTER 71 – THE PORTRAIT'S COMMISSION

CHAPTER 72 – EVOLVING SITUATION

CHAPTER 73 – GOING HOME

CHAPTER 74 – NEW SURROUNDINGS

CHAPTER 75 – CONDITIONS

CHAPTER 76 – HOLDING A GRUDGE

CHAPTER 77 – A SIMPLE PLAN

CHAPTER 78 – THE WARM UP

CHAPTER 79 – THE PORTRAIT'S HEART OF DARKNESS

CHAPTER 80 – OUTGUNNED

CHAPTER 81 – OUTFLANKED

CHAPTER 82 – SCORCHED EARTH

CHAPTER 83 – SHALL EVER BE FORGOT

CHAPTER 84 – ASYMMETRIC WARFARE

CHAPTER 85 – PARTING WAYS

CHAPTER 86 – ASSAULT

CHAPTER 87 – BREACH

CHAPTER 88 – ONE GIANT LEAP

CHAPTER 89 – IN SUSANNA'S FOOTSTEPS

CHAPTER 90 – LAND OF HEAT AND SAND

CHAPTER 91 – THE WAGER

CHAPTER 92 – THE MONSTER

CHAPTER 93 – STORY FOR ANOTHER TIME

PART VI – EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 94 – OUTSTRETCHED ARMS

CHAPTER 95 – ICE AGE

CHAPTER 96 – RESTORING THE MAN

CHAPTER 97 – REACTOR CORE

CHAPTER 98 – HOME IN THE CLOUDS

CHAPTER 99 – END OF THE LINE

CHAPTER 100 – THREE LITTLE WORDS

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

ALSO FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

LICENCE