A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

The following two months see me alternating between keeping an eye on Richard, cursing all the deities I can name and a few I cannot for the prolonged war, and taking Sheridan on Hunts. We find two more cult hideouts before the rest figure out that someone is after them, rescuing a few more mortals from ending up as hound chow. He is only slightly disappointed when it turns out that the second group of rescued captives is made of Comanches.

“Well, they don’t deserve to be eaten either, I suppose,” he gruffly admits.

Jarek later requests that we track down an oversized jackal. We end up covered in guts when the creature inexplicably explodes.

“I wish I could say this was unusual,” I tersely remark as I remove a piece of intestine from my hair, “but that would be lying, Mr. Sheridan.”

The ranger ponders on an important revelation while cleaning shredded liver from his hat.

“You know,” he finally replies, “given the circumstances, I think that you may call me Marshal. If you wish.”

I still call him Sheridan.

I should not compare the two. It would be unfair.

Late September finally brings a change. The temperatures lower to merely ‘oppressing’ from ‘one of the circles of hell’ and the hostilities resume anew. The American army moves south and assaults the Mexican troops in Monterrey. Follow three days of hard-fought combat during which Richard makes a name for himself through decisive actions and a cunning understanding of tactics. His stance also shifts. From mentioning the strategic reasons of the conflict and justifying its existence, he progressively comes to talk more about his squad and leading them. Responsibility and duty catch him by surprise between two bouts of patriotism and it soon becomes clear that my nephew has a bright future in the army.

To my dismay.

I cannot simply drop a large group of bodyguards to defend him then scurry back north, because it would go against my oath. I promised Achille that I would take care of my nephew until he returned, and I must do so in person or risk my essence fracturing if he dies a preventable death.

I am thus forced to handle all my affairs remotely. Fortunately, I have extremely competent allies in the persons of Merritt, Melusine and, surprisingly, Urchin. My presence near the army also means that I conduct a great deal of spying for my faction within the Accords and Constantine himself. There is also diplomacy. Mexico has an active population of mages with several competing traditions, a population that we are eager to establish contacts with. Fortunately for me, most of them are rather fragmented with little sympathy for their own government, making my task easier than it could have been.

It also helps that I am polite and peaceful. Most people with any knowledge of my kind as well as two brain cells to rub together prefer to keep it that way.

Texas, early October.

My rented room inside of the Natalis safe house is cozy and warm. Red banners decorate the ochre stone and the lack of windows only makes the setting more intimate. My sarcophagus lies in the corner, its top open.

A silvery mirror occupies one corner of a room. I sit down in front of it and focus on the engraving around the frame. The surface shimmers when I activate it and a man I recognize greets me with a smile.

His image wavers due to my distraction. Fortunately, the mirror is a powerful focus, specifically designed for this task. It also cost a pretty penny. Isaac looks good with his intelligent brown eyes and carefully combed dark hair. He appears more predatory now, less a competent civil servant and more a sharp investor.

Oh wow.

A drunken muse could not salvage this conversation.

I remain silent as Isaac stands there, looking very proud of himself.

I pause.

Then, after a while.

Hmm.

We need to finish this quickly. My focus is wavering, as shown in Isaac’s increasingly blurry profile.

Well, Richard’s squadron is still encamped for the foreseeable future and it looks like the next offensive will be by way of the sea. I will arrange for a light protection detail and see what this entails.

One night later, off the coast of Texas.

I lean against the railing of the tiny sloop and watch the shore as it passes me by. Beaches, cliffs and rocks succeed each other in a slow revolving canvas that has not yet grown monotonous.

“It’s my first time aboard a ship,” Sheridan finally admits, “besides canoes and small river crafts.”

“Is it? How do you like it so far?”

“It’s very calm.”

“Yes, there should be no boarding actions this time,” I assure him.

Ah, perhaps it would have been better not to mention this at all.

“Boarding actions?” he immediately replies, horrified, “could it be that you have engaged in piracy?”

Dread Pirate Queen Ariane the Bloodthirsty, scourge of the Atlantic!

“No no, just a little bit of privateering.”

The ranger submits me to his inquisitive glare, one that led to the confession of many a ruffian.

“I had a genuine lettre de marque, I promise,” I reply innocently.

It might have been slightly illegal and crafted in secret by an assistant after a torrid night with the world’s most rakish Likaean. I could not say.

“Right. And you committed state-sanctioned banditry too?”

“State-sanctioned banditry is merely lawful asset retrieval,” I observe.

He does not look convinced. His brow furrows and his ample mustache quivers with suspicion.

“You have seen how I operate, Sheridan. Do I strike you as a vulgar highwaywoman?” I finally say.

“No… I suppose not. So, tell me about this auction of yours.”

“Ah yes, the Hell’s Gates.”

“I beg your bloody pardon?!” he bellows. A few of the sailors watching over the deck decide to keep their distance.

Ah, damn.

“Ariane, you have insisted that you were not, in fact, made by the actual devil.”

“Yeeees?”

“And that you do not lust after the souls of sinners.”

“Indeed not?”

“And that your aversion to all church-related symbols was merely a, and I quote, side-effect of not truly being native to this world.”

“Yes.”

“Because your soul is bound to that big thingamajig in the sky that only you can see.”

“I did say that, yes.”

“And your auction is called, the Hell’s Gates.”

“Errrr yes. I did not choose the name myself.”

Sheridan masticates his mustache in contemplation.

“Sometimes I feel that you are making a fool of me.”

“Listen, my dear little mortal” I reply with fangs bared, “I have been nothing but forthcoming with you. The term merely alludes to the temporary contact between mages, who are mostly humans, and us who are not.”

“Right… Right. So what happens then? What will we do?”

I sigh.

“The auction will take place in a large building in the old quarter previously used for administrative matters and duels.”

“Duels?!”

“Yes, duels are an integral part of vampire politics. I had one duel there, actually.”

“Did you win?”

“No, my blood sister stabbed me in the heart so I could feign my own death. Anyway…”

“You survived being stabbed in the heart!?” he interrupts with a cry.

“I did mention that we were resilient.”

“Have you already been shot, then?”

“Yes.”

“Stabbed?”

“Yes.”

“Exploded?”

“That too.”

“Set on fire?”

“Yes, that was horrible.”

“Frozen to death?”

“I was frozen, but it barely affects us at all. I could still move. Being set ablaze was the worst thing by far.”

“I find it eerie that you would be vulnerable to fire.”

“For the last time, Sheridan, we are not demons from hell!” I complain for what feels like the millionth time.

“Could have fooled me…”

“Sheridan,” I interrupt with a serious tone and he stares at me, sheepish in his duster with his Colt and star.

“Why are you still here, by my side? If you truly thought we were abominations, you had ample opportunity to leave.”

“Hrm. I don’t know rightly myself.”

He avoids my gaze.

“Either you think me a monster that needs to be erased, or you consider me a person. You tiptoe around the issue instead of choosing,” I scold.

“It’s not that easy!” he yells. Then, in a softer tone:

“It’s not that easy. All my life I thought I knew how the world was. God created it in seven days and he made man in His image. He made all the animals and all the plants for us to use. And now I learn that there are other worlds? And species? Magic? Giant creatures? I never asked for this. I only wanted to live a right and peaceful life upholding justice, not getting in shootouts with madmen calling hellhounds from beyond the veil!”

I let him finish. When he does, out of breath, I keep quiet for a few seconds to mark my understanding. I can appreciate that his circumstances are delicate.

“Then you must decide if you want to return to your peaceful life. If you do, I will not blame you. You are free to go. But you must decide.”

“What is there to decide? I am already here, ain’t I?”

“Your heart wavers. Tell me this is not true.”

He would not meet my eyes.

“You will have to make a choice, and soon,” I finish.

The arena where I fought in is also the siege of vampire politics. I visited the old, square-building only once and the experience was disheartening, so to speak. I remember that it was a building of yellow stone with a strong Spanish influence at the edge of the Vieux Carré intentionally left decrepit to avoid undue attention.

I drag Sheridan through the streets, still warm and wet from the day. He tries to stay composed and dignified, but I can see his gaze drift from richly dressed ladies to darker-skinned beauties in exotic garbs of reds and yellows. His attention wanders to the gamblers and musicians filling the air like a discordant orchestra of life and sin. We stop at a stall and I buy him a few skewers of chicken dipped in red sauce. The scent of cayenne and paprika fill my heart with nostalgia, even more so than the familiar architecture.

We then must stop to get a cold beer because Sheridan has no tolerance for spice.

Eventually, the crowd thins, and I must admit to some surprise when our destination comes into view.

Gone is the non-assuming edifice, the new center has been repainted and redecorated. Gas lamps shine on every corner and cast a deeper shade of beige on the walls, darker as they climb up to the third story. Guards in the white uniform of the Rosenthal mercenaries patrol in pairs of two, holding lanterns and poorly concealed pistols. They salute me as we pass by.

“Welcome, Lady Ariane.”

I return the greeting.

“They know you?” Sheridan asks as we make our way to the entrance.

“They know of me. I have worked with their company before.”

“And they are all normal people?”

“Yes. Professional soldiers trusted for generations, well-trained and well-paid. Such families form the backbone of our entourages.”

“Do you have families like that?”

“Not yet.”

“What about traitors? Can they not strike you when you are the most vulnerable? Bring your enemies to your doorstep? Unless you have a way to control them.”

“We have multiple redundancies as far as security is concerned. It would take a convergence of factors for an attack to be successful, such as when we travel. Even then, we have ways to escape and fight back. We are also quite good at reading the emotions of those who surround us, including duplicity.”

“Hrm, hrm, really? Then what am I thinking about right now?”

“You are scared to learn that I can read you like an open book.”

“Devilry!”

“And here we go again…”

“Sorry, sorry. Surprised me is all. Hrm. Ah, we are here.”

The entrance stands before us, brightly illuminated with lanterns of stained glass. Their armatures of crystal and brass reflect a smooth light so that the monumental entrance appears more inviting, like the manor of a rich relative opened for festivities. Guards in exquisite dress uniforms stand by it and they bow when we enter.

The palatial hall greets me again in all its glory. A wide mosaic of black and white depicting a tragedy mask decorates the entire ground. A massive wood lobby lines the left wall with a few attendants idling behind. The large gate to the arena where I first experienced having my heart damaged are currently closed, while the double stairs leading to the second-floor promenade lie empty.

The perfume of vanilla and scented candles replaces the squalid stench of humanity. The subdued lighting, the red drapes, the sober clothes all serve to welcome the guests in an intimate setting, and helps them forget the nature of their hosts. It will be our role to subtly remind them of that fact, should they become rowdy.

We have barely stopped when Isaac steps out from a side corridor with a sharp older man in a white officer jacket and a morse mustache. The Rosenthal Master wears a black ensemble of exquisite make with a white shirt that seems to radiate from within. Somehow, I reach with my hands and he takes them. The intimate gesture — and the implicit show of trust — create an unexpected effect. All eyes land on us and I hear a few gasps of surprise.

Isaac and I are united by bonds of friendship and shared suffering. I do not see myself getting involved with him, though now that I am once more celibate, the idea does not shock me as it used to do.

“A pleasure, madam,” the officer says with a nod.

His name is familiar.

“I fought alongside a Venett thirty years ago.”

“Yes ma’am, my grandfather. He spoke highly of you in his correspondence. I am honored to work alongside you.”

“Likewise,” I reply, pleased. And it does seem that my good reputation precedes me. I catch more furtive glances sent my way, all of them respectful. It feels… oddly pleasant to be considered an ally. For once, I am not the unknown quantity, or a valuable investment.

“And you must be Sheridan!” Isaac continues.

The presentations are short, and we quickly leave the lobby. Isaac and I dismiss our respective mortals so that they can compare notes and facial hair, then make our way up the stairs and through the largest door directly in front of us.

We end in a lodge, much like an opera one. The circular arena where I fought is the same and private viewing booths line the walls on three sides. The sand has been replaced by a red carpet of massive proportions, as well as a pulpit and a small platform.

I refrain myself from showing any reaction at the outrageous sum so as not to appear as a bumpkin.

I just glare at him.

John took the vampiric name ‘Doe’ because his patronym is currently used by a Lancaster lord. Calling him after a skittish beast feels like strapping a cute party hat on the head of a lion.

The mood turns from pleasant to deadly serious in a mere instant. I school my aura too late. Isaac’s inquisitive eyes pierce into my mind.

It would sound promising if the details were not so sketchy

I am stunned.

Huh.

I say nothing for a while. The claw of a dragon? Due to the highly symbolic nature of magic, such a blade could cut the best armor including the hide of the creature itself. It could also put a stop to Nirari’s undoubtedly massive regeneration.

It could kill him.

It could work!

I am taken aback by his pessimism.

Isaac taps on the railing with two fingers, amused.

I consider the question for a moment.

Except Jimena. My sister is just too pure for this world.

I watch the plain of roofs from my temporary office on the building’s last floor.

John looms, arms crossed across his prodigious pectorals. The ever-loyal man has raised looming to an artform, of which he is the master. No one can quite match the careful mix of polite disinterest and understated threat. Being turned has changed him a lot. He is no longer so ugly now that his cleft lip has closed into a scar, and his gaze is too sharp to be considered simple anymore. Our change has made predators of all of us.

John remains silent. I do not mind. He will speak when he is ready, he just needs time to order his thoughts.

The silence this time lasts long enough for me to hesitate. Did he lose the trail of his thought? Eventually, he makes his point with a slow, soft voice.

He speaks with conviction now, not the affected tone of the politician, but the unwavering certitude of the zealot. It almost scares me.

And there it is. Under the placid tranquility of his mind lies a belief as unfounded as it is strange.

John picks a steel candelabra and presses it between his large hands. He maintains eye contact as the decorative metals bends under his power as if it were wax, until only a tiny ball of twisted scrap remains.