A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

September 18th 1862, three months after the Accord Council’s vote.

Madrigal’s expression is more solemn than usual. I cannot help but draw a parallel between him and Luther, the Erenwald ambassador I had met during my short stay in the Parisian catacombs. While Luther was haughty and distant, Madrigal adopted a more debonnaire persona. Different styles, I suppose. The Mask envoy still wears his usual long black jacket over white shirt. His dark hair falls around his hawkish face to his jaw.

We stand in one of the manor’s upper rooms, repurposed from personal quarters to an official reception room to accommodate our increasing administrative needs. Constantine sits on a throne-like chair while a handful of Wardens form a small assembly around a long table. A gesture from the Speaker, and we all sit down at the same time.

We consider his words in silence. Madrigal used the turn of phrase ‘give my word’, which qualifies as an oath. He has engaged his own essence. Unless a Mask leader duped him, which I consider unlikely, he is reporting the truth. More importantly, he has made a candid show of things. Simply put, if Mask had been directly involved, he would have played a blame game, deflected, and resorted to the many other tools in the arsenal of the consummate diplomat.

There is also the matter that only a madman would have done such a thing.

Madrigal must have perceived the mood, because he resumes his argument.

By that he means that she is too busy worming her way into the dizzying mess that is current Mexican politics.

If Madrigal is offended by Constantine’s words, he does not show it. As we all expected, he has shown the carrot and now takes out the stick.

I am not surprised that Madrigal would have gleaned enough information to come to that conclusion. We have made no secret of it within our community.

The Speaker leans forward on his chair and glares at Madrigal.

Or, in less polite terms, they are a bunch of old farts who have no idea what they are talking about.

Thinly veiled insults and to-the-point arguments. This is diplomacy, just the way I like it.

The ambassador falls silent, his pleasant facade still in place.

A little later, I sit across Constantine’s desk in his office, now turned into a retreat of sorts. He had to delegate a great number of tasks out of necessity. Now, only the most vital of memos find their way to the sanctum while the rest awaits his perusal in the intelligence center. We are building a whole new antenna to the complex down in the valley below where fields used to be. There are even talks of purchasing more land.

I funded a lot of those projects. My military investments are bearing so much fruit that I do not know where to push all of that money. Following Melusine and Isaac’s advice, I have started to save for after the war, when I will need to diversify, and the destruction brought about by the conflict will require a period of reconstruction.

Constantine brings my attention back to the present by tapping lightly on the polished wood.

I grumble about timid generals in a war where indecision leads to six thousand dead in a single day.

Constantine’s expression is intense now. He usually remains aloof, but it has not been the case recently.

Be in his shoes, I mean.

September 25th, 1862, Washington.

“For two years, our great nation has been engaged in a civil war of unprecedented ferocity, a struggle to determine if the vision that all men are created equal, that all men deserve a fair chance at happiness holds true, or if the purity of this truth must be stained by terms and conditions. And yet, in this dark hour, God has seen fit to test our mettle with a greater challenge yet. Indeed, what you heard is true. We are beset by strange creatures the likes of which we had never seen before.”

The crowd before the District of Columbia City Hall sways and rumbles like an angry sea. The human horde covers every step, every inch of free space in front of the classical building. Only a thin line of guards separate them from the Doric columns of beige stone and, possibly, an avenue of retreat for the speaker. The faces are grim. Some people pray while others mutter angrily. But the orator is not done.

“When the conflict flared, the people of the Union rose to the challenge. Brave men flocked to the banners to defend the nation against those who sought to destroy it. So it was then, and so it is now. Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow Americans, it is my pleasure to introduce Reginald Chester Lewis.”

I watch from a rooftop, away from the populace. My dark armor adds an additional safety against being found out, not that it is much needed. Humans are apex predators in their own way. They never look up.

Reggie steps forward confidently. He wears a full suit tailored to remind the attendants of an officer uniform, up to the deep blue color. The gas lights catch his handsome profile and the virile beauty that many painters would love to draw on Apollo or Theseus.

“Be not afraid, people of America. Be not afraid, for where you see a new darkness, so shall you see a new light. For centuries, my family and others have struggled in the shadows to fight the horrors of this world. For centuries, we have shed blood, for centuries, we have fought with faith and steel and unyielding will, and for centuries, we have kept you safe. And we will keep doing so until our Lord returns to install the Kingdom of Heaven. This, I swear to you.”

You could hear a pin drop.

“For what you face is not an unstoppable force, but creatures of flesh and blood that prey upon the weak and the isolated. Scavengers that we will bring to light and smite to ashes. In this time of division, in this time of strife, we have been summoned by the government of this Great Nation to bring our war to the light, and with God willing, we will finish it.

“I henceforth declare the creation of the Department of Supernatural Affairs, an entity dedicated to the handling of any creatures of phenomena that science alone cannot explain. Those of us who secretly worked to protect the land until now will be able to do so in the open, with the power and might of our institutions and industries at our back, and, I pray, your support as well. The task before us is a daunting one, but we as a nation have proven time and time again our ability to stand up to any threats, both internal and external, and to push them back from whence they came. Today is no different. We, the people, will pick up our swords once more and return to this land the peace it craves, no matter the cost, for the ideals of freedom and safety that we have built our nation on stems from the natural inclination of the hearts of good people. It cannot be quelled by terror or by complacency or by the forces of darkness. From many, we are now one. It has always been my dearest wish, and I will fight to the death for our future, on my honor.

“And now, I would ask you, my fellow citizen, and regardless of your creed, to join me in prayer.”

Drums roll and trumpets ring clear in the evening light, coming from behind the small platform where officials stand. Voices rise from the crowd, few at first, then more and more as the song picks up and the timid song turns into the tempestuous, unstoppable hymn it was created to be.

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.”

I set it up. I made it happen, and now I find myself buffeted by the powerful winds of divine censure. My essence frays under the roaring faith now spreading throughout the crowd. This deep belief that they belong here when others do not, and that at the end of days, only they will remain. I crawl back with a hiss under the torrent and cling to the core of who I am, one who has endured much and still lives.

For one moment, I am terrified by the warning I feel in that tide. The humans outnumber us by hundreds of thousands to one. We are few, so very few. A dedicated search would end us in a matter of days.

And yet…

As I retreat into the darkness, the voices become dimmer and the shadows spread. And I am at peace. All those humans praying with Reginald Lewis are here because I willed it. This unity they showed will only last until the danger is passed.

And then, greed and ambition will return, as they always do.

Through the cracks in the pavements and from the top of spires of metal and glass, we will watch and direct, because we are from them yet not them and THE NIGHT IS OURS.

Up on the dais, Reginald answers questions from the press. I move back, then away. There is still much to do.

October 10th 1862, Virginian Wilderness.

It occurs to me that there is a certain hypocrisy in presenting the Scourge Hive as the most dangerous threat to mankind while simultaneously killing some of those who oppose it.

But I am a vampire. Calculated, bloody measures are sort of our thing.

And so I line the rifle and shoot the head off that Confederate politician. He falls dramatically.

The officer by his side mechanically wipes the blood off his shoulders and contemplates a piece of brain stuck to his white glove for an amusing half a second, then the entire bivouac explodes in motion.

“To arms!”

Men jump from around campfires, grasping for sabers and pistols, widened eyes searching the forest’s edge. When no more gunshots ring the officer whistles and rushes for his horse. I see his greying mutton chops quivering with shame and anger. The small cavalry squadron gathers around him.

“You may engage,” I tell John.

My faithful minion directs his new Nightmare, Gorm, with barely a move. The proud beast snorts and stomps out of the darkness, one step at a time.

I believe that, besides Jarek’s mount, Gorm has to be the largest and most monstrous Nightmare I have ever seen. The different temperament truly matches John’s own, and I have come to believe that we are not so much assigned Nightmares and they are assigned vampires. While Metis is a mix of the playful and aggressive, Gorm is half silent presence, and half unstoppable force.

And this is what he demonstrates now.

Gorm is the only Nightmare I know of that not just tolerates, but enjoys being covered in armor. Only his crimson eyes and a hint of black hair can be seen under the enchanted steel barding.

The men pale at the sight of the duo, a black knight from some grim fairy tale, the kind that ends with sliced toes. John wears full plate with helm, a shield, and a cavalry lance.

“Shit. It’s one of them,” a sergeant whispers.

I love this moment when mundane mortals realize that they have stepped out of their domain and into our own. To their credit, they close ranks around their leader.

“Gentlemen, blades drawn! Charge! For Virginia!”

They roar, a defiant sound that reverberates across the clearing. The sound trembles under their hooves.

John salutes and rides to meet them.

His voice is almost devoid of emotion. Just as when he was human, his reality remains simple. I ordered it, and so it must be done.

The two forces race to each other, one yelling, the other silent, an excellent metaphor of our situation.

If things were fair, there would be hundreds of soldiers to face him. They would shoot relentlessly to take him down. They would sacrifice their own to chip at the Courtier’s armor, then at his prodigious endurance. Little by little, they would harry him until, eventually, the lion would fall to the pack of hounds. They would win through numbers and this peculiar altruistic behavior that allows humans to die fighting in the name of a cause.

If things were fair.

But we do not do fair.

The two sides collide. The shock is tremendous, and men and mounts collapse in great heaps of struggling limbs. John is through no worse for it. Two bodies dangle from his spear.

He turns Gorm around and, slowly, almost respectfully, allows the dead to slide to the ground.

“Let’s go greet them,” I tell Urchin. He nods in his light leather and mail and we ride out to meet our victims.

I wear my armor sans facemask. Urchin rides his own new Nightmare, Shale, a lithe and agile creature. I designed Urchin’s armor to be form-fitting and host the many knives and daggers he uses in combat. A cowl masks his angular traits, but there is no mistaking our identity.

The officer survived the impact, and he and the others are helping their comrades extricate themselves from the heap. A few horses and men have broken legs. The men may recover.

They gather in a small circle, weapons drawn and aiming outward. Normally, I would have to use Charm or a few tricks to make them feel fear. Not those men. They know of what we are. I do not believe that I will ever get used to it.

The officer takes a step forward and lifts his chin. I think that it takes a certain amount of bravado to serve in the cavalry, for I have never seen a meek officer.

A bit of foolishness as well.

“No games, foul monster. Face us in battle, and you will not find us wanting!” he exclaims, addressing, of course, Urchin.

I mean, I have the prettiest armor by far. But can they envision warriors led by a woman? Nooooo. And Urchin as a military leader? Come on. The light must be too poor despite the lanterns and fire.

“I fear that you are mistaken, sir,” Urchin politely allows.

“You are dealing with me,” I say, and move Metis a few steps forward.

“We will not surrender our souls, demon. You will have to take us to the last,” he says, but I can feel the hesitation hidden behind the veil of temerity. It does not take Sinead to know what scares him. Like a lot of people at the front, he genuinely cares about the lives of the people around him.

To die is one thing, a pointless last stand is another.

“You could do that… or you could take your men and carry a message back to your superiors.”

Surprise. Hope.

Distrust.

“We were warned about your kind.”

“And what kind would that be?”

The man hesitates.

“Vampires.”

“Indeed. Let me guess,” I add in a mocking voice, “we steal souls for lunch and bathe in the blood of puppies and whatnot? What else?”

The men exchange glances, brains frozen by the surreal situation, perhaps.

“Hmmm. You summon new members in massive orgies?”

“We do?!” I exclaim, “Urchin, how come I was never invited to such fascinating events?”

“I do not know, mistress. Perhaps you should kidnap more babies?”

“Indeed. As for you, officer, the situation is a tiny bit more complex than what you were led to believe. We will not hold it against you. You may leave and carry the message I mentioned.”

“What about the dead?”

“What about them?” I ask, frowning.

“May we take them with us?”

“Yes, yes,” I wave dismissively, “I told you that we have no interest in souls. You can pack up and leave. We have more business to attend to.”

The men step down. It looks like many of them would die fighting if the order was given, but the possibility of a retreat still calls to the deeper part of their survival instincts.

“And that message?” the officer asks.

“The message is simple. We know what you know. We see what you do. Work with our foes and be considered one of them. We will be in touch.”

“Is… that all?”

“I believe in clarity. You may leave now.”

Urchin and John lead their mounts by my side. Our little victims scurry back to their encampment to pack it up. Two maimed horses are shot out of mercy. The bodies of the fallen are recovered while the wounded are placed on stretchers. It takes fifteen minutes for them to disappear.

Only the campfires remain. Now, we wait for our visitors.

A group of men on foot cross the woods, somewhere west of our position. They move through the undergrowth with the light steps of accomplished forresters. An old man, completely bald with a long, flowing white beard, is the first to appear.

He and the few men behind him wear a leather uniform in brown hues, with a visible crucifix and a plethora of weapons hanging here and there in so many holsters. Some of those look positively ancient.

He raises a fist and the men by his side kneel.

“It’s useless, Gabrielite. I can hear your heartbeat from here,” I lazily say.

The man stands up. I taste the delicate touch of terror and grief, the harbingers of the Hunt. By my side, John rolls his massive shoulders and the plates click and shift to accommodate the gesture.

“Double file. Check your weapons,” the man orders in a low voice.

Two dozen Gabrielites form a battle line with commendable speed. Hands find ancient pistols and rusty revolvers awkwardly inscribed with crosses.

There was a time when I would not have attacked them for all the gold in the Rosenthal coffers. This time has long past. The force arrayed against me are relics of a bygone era. Sixty years ago, hundreds of soldiers of god had assailed the vampire fortress where I changed. Now, only fragments of squads remain. We are responsible.

We went after the money.

In Europe, vampire hunters depend on ancient orders and the Vatican. My European kin cannot face those odds. Here, the religious communities are fragmented and split by a profusion of creeds and the occasional schism. We have uprooted every major source of funding, destroyed every training center we could get our hands on. We struck their ability to recruit and rearm, and it has worked.

Those arrayed against us now are old men and a few of their grown-up children. They wear ratty armors and wield obsolete or poorly made weapons. I see a lot of grey hair. Scars adorn their faces. There is even a man missing an entire arm, though he still wields a blunderbuss as if it did not matter.

As for me, I have two warriors with me and I am well equipped with spells and guns. The power of faith does not block bullets. Neither do their armors.

There will be no battles here.

The old man speaks loudly in the line with a roaring voice that only breaks on occasion.

“Gentlemen. It has been an honor. It might be that we face our —”

I use a spell to make my voice louder.

“Why do you Gabrielites have to be so dramatic?”

“Face, errr, our death, but —”

“I have seen less pretentious Thespians after the premiere of Lucia Di Lammermoor.”

“But we will face it as soldiers of Ggod—”

“By the way, a thespian is an actor or actress, in case you were wondering.”

“Who go to our end without fear and without—”

“Lucia Di Lammermoor is an opera by Donizetti.”

“Will you shut up, woman? I’m trying to speak here!” The man finally bellows, out of patience.

Urchin snickers.

“You could make your stupid last stand, or you could enter into a truce to hunt the Scourge Hive. A more urgent priority, don’t you think?”

The man stops. A few of the soldiers mutter about not listening to me.

“You were going to enter an agreement with the Confederate government, seeing that our side was already working with the Union. We cannot allow this to happen. But if you wish to die heroically against drones, we can send you in the right direction. I can even provide you with the rations to go there.”

“You mean, the ghouls?” someone asks.

“We call them drones, but if you are referring to horrid pale creatures that reproduce from human corpses then we are talking about the same foe.”

“What do you devils care about that anyway?” Aanother bellows.

“They taste bad,” I reply.

No need to sound reasonable with those folks. They would not believe me.

I hear dissent in the ranks now. Gabrielites do not discuss with vampires, and vampires do not discuss with Gabrielites. Except for fringe elements, the two sides usually kill each other on contact.

“We have no reason to believe you. We will not work with monsters, ever.”

“Not even for those you left behind?”

Half of the Gabrielites freeze where they are. Those who left their relatives behind, I suppose.

“I know that you brought everyone together for that last attempt at relevance, including your families. They are currently going away, but they are quite slow and the night is still young.”

“Dammit, I should have known that it was a shit idea to meet at night. We should never have agreed to this!” a man with a long dark beard laments.

“A bit late for regrets,” I reply, “but my offer still stands. A truce, while the drones threaten mankind. After that, we can go back to ruling from the shadows and you can return to fucking each other’s cousins in a desperate attempt to increase your numbers. How about it?”

Angry mutters fuse between the men. A few of the older ones spread hatred and bile, while others, especially the youths, cast glances back and wonder what their lives could be if they lasted the night.

“What truce? We cannot trust demons!”

“No compromise, George, you swore the oath like we did.”

“I don’t want to die for nuthin’”

And so on.

Eventually, the leader raises his voice again.

“Are you serious?”

“I never joke about deals, Geooorge,” I answer amicably, “the life of your men and family, locations of hordes sent by telegram to your contact Luther Mason in Richmond, in exchange for a truce until the danger is passed. I am even willing to share food and ammunition. No guns though. You louts do not deserve to wield my beauties.”

“Situation must be worse than we thought,” the black-bearded man mumbles.

“No, George. Do not do this,” another begs.

I simply wait.

“Go then, coward. Go, oathbreaker. See how real men live and die,” another old man utters through gritted teeth.

It was the signal that they were waiting for.

The group splits. Half of the men, the old guard, walks forward. The other stays back. A young man tries to join the fighter but one of his relatives socks him, pushing him to his knees.

The men walk in the clearing to face us.

No matter how much Charm I am willing to use, or how many blackmail levers I have, there will always be men like these. They cannot be threatened. They cannot be bought. They cannot be persuaded or negotiated with. They are the unyielding rock upon which entire factions build themselves.

The important thing, when dealing with them, is to recognize them for what they are.

And kill them.

“Do your wor—”

I use spells and guns. Urchin displays the strange dance that we have been working on, all deception and knives thrown from unexpected angles. All the blades that find their marks soon reappear back into the hands of their owner. As for John, he throws his spear through the leader.

There was no fight.

Thirteen men are dead.

I do not drink from them. This was a more… elegant sort of Hunt.

“And a goodnight to you, gentlemen,” I finish.

We climb back on the saddles we had left to attack, turn around, and leave in a cloud of darkness.