❝ᴘᴀx ʙʀιᴛᴀɴɴιcᴀ❞ ᴱᴸᴵᵀᴱ ℒit

An Englishman's Breakfast:

A snack of savage beastie	7.4%	[ 35 ]
A tasty little fanged fiend	6.1%	[ 29 ]
A deliciously advanced roleplay	16.5%	[ 78 ]
Crumpets and tea	24.5%	[ 116 ]
Violence with a dash of chivalry	45.5%	[ 215 ]
Total Votes:			[ 473 ]

[SexThread]

Ire, a bubbling sickness, festered in the pit of Christa’s empty stomach. Had she fed recently, Christa was sure that the feeling alone would have curdled whatever blood that might have been present. Saying that Kestrel’s reaction to her report was unsettling would have been the gravest of understatements. She had accepted long ago that she was no warrior. That was not a game that she played at with anymore skill than to keep herself living. But to assume the incompetence of Eva and herself? It was true that Christa held no personal love for the now deceased vampire, but Lyle’s death was of his own doing. It was sloppy of him to not survey the area before lowering his guard. It was his own fault the sniper ended his sad existence.

That reflects rather poorly on my general…

Christa set her jaw, clenching her teeth so hard that the cool steel of her fangs clinked almost painfully. She couldn’t remember when appearances had ever mattered much to the king. Had he been so concerned, perhaps he should have limited the number of floozies he had allowed to prance about the mansion. Her eyes darted to the now blood soaked floorboards where one such whore had fallen. Ironic that a dead, careless vampire reflected poorly upon his general, but nothing was said about the body of the past lover. The cause of this, of course, was clear. Kestrel would be thinking more clearly if it were not for the presence of the Jackal. The canine b***h was clouding his judgment. Of this, Christa was most sure.

We will speak after I address our people.

The general nodded curtly. Oh, yes. Yes, the two of them would speak. There was much that needed to be said. Perhaps a reminder that the Beast Queen was still the enemy – no matter how many enemies the two armies might have in common. The were-beasts are their enemies.

Without even a word to defend her position, Christa followed soundless behind her king. The vampires gathered were a sad bunch. Those still with them looked weary and battle-worn. Christa, herself, still ached from being thrown to the ground repeatedly by rouge vampires and rebellious humans. The brightest eyes in the room belonged to their king who – Christa silenced her thoughts as the door opened to reveal one particular red haired rouge. I stand corrected. The brightest eyes belonged to Jack, of all vampires. Seeing the man in good repair was no surprise to the vampire general. Christa knew just by looking at him that Jack had been with the wolf this entire time. Seeing him in the room at all, however, was indeed a surprise. It irked her, seeing him stand there among the others as if he belonged. As if he were still one of them. Like he had not been betraying the whole clan for these past hours. How many secrets had he whispered in her ear as he defiled himself with the body of a whore? How more vulnerable was the clan now?

Her hands itched – ached – to reach for her pistol. There was no place for him to run. It would be a perfect shot. A silver bullet buried neatly in the back of his skull under a pillow of liquefied brain matter. It would be enough to force his body to crumple to the polished floorboards. Like Lyle. Her tongue darted, wetting her pale lips. Yes. Just like Lyle. Christa held a mere shadow of regret for the dark haired man, due only to having to see Eva mourn over the body as she did. Jack’s death would have no such mourners. Only the blond wolf would blink at his true death, and Christa would only revel in the woman’s pain. Yes. Jack’s death could only bring her joy. If only Lyle hadn’t been so careless, then Christa would readily end the life of the traitor. But, now with the new human threat, they couldn’t afford to lose yet another vampire. Cannon fodder. The first chance she got, Christa would be sending the devil man into battle, praying for the swift return of his body.

Long, pale fingers gripped the banister at her right. Her hand trembled, and holding onto the oak railing kept her from drawing her firearm. No matter how much good his death would do, Kestrel was within reach. She treasured her own life more than she hated Jack’s. Oh… but the first moment the two of them were alone… Henceforth, not only those who actively resist my rule but also those who are passively aware of such seditionists and do not report them will be punished alike, with a death not so fortunately swift as hers. …Or not. Christa needed only a moment alone with Kestrel. Jack readily fit under the new criteria of traitor – even if Kestrel were reluctant to see it before. She might not have to finish Jack herself. Her king would handle him.

Once Kestrel had finished speaking, Christa moved down the stairs. Her eyes met those of each and every vampire as she descended. These were her people just as much as they were Kestrel’s. Some days, perhaps, more hers than his. What, with his new mistress to attend to, Kestrel spent so little time with those of his own kind anymore. These were her people. Her family. Christa was not about to let a human thread, were-beast threat, or careless traitor harm those who have been loyal to her. Passing through the ranks, she nodded to Emmett, a broad shouldered man with a wide, honest face. Edward, who had been an accountant during his living days, offered a small smile from behind the thick glasses that he wore still just out of habit. A blond vampire stood next to James, his head bowed until Christa walked by – Jasper, too, looked up acknowledging his general. These were the people she wished to protect. Those who were loyal. Those who served the crown without hesitation.

Christa turned and looked at Jack. Standing so close to him, she could practically smell sin wafting from him. He either was ignoring her or simply not looking in her direction, giving Christa ample opportunity to study him. Jack certainly appeared to be a man pleased with himself. Christa wondered how pleased he would be when his animal lover was ordered by her queen to destroy him. Surely that would wipe that self satisfied smirk from his pale features. One way or another, Jack, you will die. If not by my own hand, then by your own traitorous ways you will die.

She left the crowd, stepping into the study. The fire that perpetually burned was the only light in the room. The last time Christa was in this room, Kestrel had confided in her – telling her of his doubts. His worries. How he felt he was losing his mind. Losing this war. Losing to Mercia. He had begged his general to keep him honest. Now, upon her return, he questioned the one person he could supposedly trust. Could Christa still trust him? The dark haired woman sank into the deep leather chair that faced the fire; the soft padding hugging her small figure. If Kestrel cannot trust himself, how could any other vampire trust their king? Kestrel… don’t let our trust in you be misplaced.

[Phoelidae]

❝ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴋɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ɴᴏᴡ...
ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴅᴇɴɪᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʏᴏᴜ
ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ ɪɴsɪᴅᴇ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜ..❞

The silence stretched. And stretched. And stretched. No one spoke – indeed, no one breathed, for none had to. The only sound that could be heard to sensitive vampire ears was the soft, almost background-noise click of dozens of mechanical hearts beating in hollow, undead chests. No one answered. No one spoke. No one stepped forward to rat out a traitor, or even a personal enemy. What was he to make of that? Did that mean that things had not, in truth, decayed to the point he had feared? Were his vampires truly still loyal? If that were the case … well, he would find that reassuring, certainly. And yet ... it seemed unlikely, this total silence. The vampires he knew, the vampires he ruled, were a backstabbing bunch, and they would not miss an opportunity to throw one another into the path of their king's rage if they saw even the slightest benefit to themselves, so why were there no accusations, not even false ones? Kestrel had been dealing with their s**t too long to not be suspicious at this silence. His eyes searched the crowd, picking out the faces of those typically most ruthless in seeking favor at others' expense, but the faces were empty of any telltale signs of their intentions. Was he losing his gift for reading thoughts and feelings, the talent that had so long ago given him the edge he needed to ascend to the throne? It was a talent that had always seemed supernatural to those around him, but in fact it was a natural ability, born to his human self and perfected over centuries of manipulative existence. But it seemed to be failing him.

And why? Why else? The Jackal was, as in all things, it seemed, to blame. Where she was concerned, he could read nothing. His guesses proved inaccurate, his predictions of her behavior were never realized. He could not for the life of him understand her, and there was that nagging paranoia that she was somehow deactivating the ability all together, not just where she was concerned. He was losing more and more of himself to her with every passing heartbeat, it seemed, and he could not seem to arrest his descent into her madness. The leech king could see it, when he looked from a distance: he could see the instability in his own mind. The presence of the Jackal, when she was near, overpowered all. He lost himself to her, lost himself to the raging desire and was consumed by his utter fascination. And then, as soon as she was gone, all of that passionate feeling redoubled in hatred. He was not seeing the situation clearly. He could not tell if she was losing herself the same way, or if it was all an elaborate game she played with him, and the uncertainty was driving him mad. Well, madder. He could not carry on like this. He was faced with a choice, and he had to make his decision before next he encountered his beautiful, dangerous, seductive enemy.

His choice was thus: give himself over to the feelings he had for her, and bend his will wholly and entirely not to killing her, but to making sure that she felt equally under his sway ... or destroy every last ounce of dangerous fascination, arousal, desire, admiration, and whatever else he felt for her. When he had spoken to Christa last, he had been resolved to the latter option. And look what had come to pass ... he had been all but seduced by the b***h queen's advances, and what's more ... he had killed to protect her. He had killed to protect her. And not in the mindset that she was his and his alone to kill, but with the active intent to save her. It was madness. But he could no longer afford to keep losing himself to this raw fury the instant she was no longer beside him. He could not continue to be so at odds with himself. And he realized, as he stood naked and bloodied before the crowd of his silent fellow monsters, that this was a case in which he might have to embrace that age-old adage: if you cannot beat them, join them.

If he could not in truth destroy the influence the Midnight Jackal had over him, there was no more to be gained from fighting it. Rather, he would embrace it, and turn it insofar as he possibly could to his own advantage. After all, he was far more well-versed in the ways of the heart and the body than she, and he knew, at a bone-deep, instinctual level that she felt at least something of what he did, even if it was only that same blazing lust that had ignited in his room, when they were naked and alone ...

That thought distracted him thoroughly as heat prickled again across his skin to imagine the way she had touched him, and the things they might have done were they not interrupted. He did not know what it was that he found most enticing, whether it was her beauty, her ruthlessness, her elusiveness, or simply the collective force that was Mercia Addison, but he wanted her as he'd never wanted anything else. And not just physically - although oh yes, he wanted her physically, he wanted to press her against a wall and ravish her mouth with his, scrape his fangs down her elegant neck, run his hands over white satin skin, own her body with his own - but it was even more than that. He just ... wanted her. He did not know how else to describe it. He wanted her near, wanted her his, wanted her away from all others. Wanted her blood-gold eyes on him, and wanted to have her always in his line of sight, just for the sheer thrill of seeing her. And for all it wounded his pride and yes, frightened him to admit it, he accepted now that he could not fight this feeling. Not without ripping himself in two.

And so he would master it. He would consent to having these feelings, and he would be lord over them instead of allowing them to undermine him. The lesser of two evils and, a sly part of him grinned, the more fun. He was his own master, and if need be, he would master losing control to Mercy and enticing her into the same sin that had ensnared him. If he was going down, Satan help him, he would take her with him into the darkest pit of hell.

Somehow, he felt better having resolved that. Probably it was the greedy, enchanted part of him that just wanted to freely and openly pursue her, but all the same, he was glad to no longer be at war with himself. Some of his typical sardonic humor returned, and he straightened a little and lifted a brow. He would let the silence stretch as long as need be, until finally he received an answer. He had issued his vampires an order, and until he was obeyed in one way or another, they would wait here. He knew the power of silence and was more than happy to exploit it. He waited while Lolita’s blood pooled at booted feet, waited while the vampires began to shift uneasily.

And then finally, at long last, a short-haired brunette vampiress stepped forward and knelt in the empty space beside the severed head, the blood staining her skirts as she bowed to her king. “My lord, we are grieved by the whore’s betrayal. And those who knew her thought her malcontent was that only of unreturned ... desire. We never imagined her capable of such a crime as this, toward our people as a whole. But she was not one of us, for we are your loyal subjects and soldiers, my king.”

Kestrel scrutinized the vampiress for a long moment. Bold of her, to step forward into the silence, especially when he was clearly in a very murderous mood. As it was, she was fortunate he'd made up his mind while waiting, or she might well have been dead on account of simple caprice. ”Very well, Alice. Heed the words I have said here tonight, and I will take your word as the word of all the silent here assembled. I commend your courage, and would hope that the rest take you for an example. I am your king. All will answer to me, and sedition will no more be tolerated now than it ever was. That will be all. Stay near and await my orders – we will move soon.”

And with that he relaxed his posture, and released that compelling sway which he held over his vampires. They began to shuffle off and break into hushed conversations, and as they did he watched Christa move down the staircase and through their midst, studying her as she studied them. He could not blame her for the hesitations he sensed – or at least he wouldn’t if she were any other vampire. But as his general, she owed him absolute, unwavering, unquestioning allegiance, for he could not have his right hand doubting the orders given. And he could not have her appearing weak in this time of uncertainty – they had to present a strong front that promised the vampires that their movement was not disintegrating with this temporary alliance. Christa had long served him well as his general, for her dogged devotion and exceptional ability to follow orders with precision and nothing else were qualities he normally appreciated. But he grew more and more unsure of her ... especially since he did not know how she was going to take this latest decision of his. Instinct said she would not like it and would not see the wisdom in it, which was going to create a very substantial problem. Because if Christa did not like his new strategy, she would doubtless see it as unforgivable weakness on his part. And though he had never before had cause to consider it, he reflected and realized that if push came to shove, his general's loyalty would be not to him, but to whoever could protect her best. And if she felt that he was no longer in a fit state to lead, that would no longer be him.

This situation would have to be addressed with the utmost care. Kestrel supposed he could lie to her, and keep her out of his new plan - after all, it had nothing to do with her, but that would be difficult to do. She knew him too well, he suspected, after all these centuries of faithful service. Damn it all, perhaps he should have let her die all those years ago. He would be most displeased if now after everything the trouble she caused would turn out to not be worth the years of faithful but unexceptional service. He was about to follow her into his study when a platinum headed vampire caught him and offered up a cloak and a question: “My lord … the beasts have taken the guest mansion, and it is supposedly on your orders. Can this be … right? Are we allowing them – “ But Kestrel raised a hand and cut him off, draping the cloak around his broad shoulders to hide his nakedness. ”Those are my orders. I am keeping my friends close, and my enemy’s closer. Let Mercia have her way with the side mansion for the time being, and let the weres come and go as it pleases her. This is a decision, Carlisle, and you will not question it, nor will anyone else. Am I understood? One of the best ways my subjects may serve me now is with absolute, unfailing obedience. We will show the beasts how right they are to fear us overrunning their race and destroying them utterly.” His confidence was effortless and flawless, even as he said what an hour ago would have made his gut twist with fury. All part of the game now - perhaps he could twist it so that Mercia understood the side mansion to be a courting gift ... one which she would have to reciprocate for, sooner or later.

With that, he turned and made his way down the stairs, kicking the head out of his way and sweeping through the crowd, following Christa into his study. He could sense the tightly coiled tension in her, and it was with half exasperation and half belligerence that he went in to meet her. No doubt she would have sharp words to say about his liaison with the Jackal, words he would be hard-pressed to fend off, since he had now resolved to have many such encounters with the b***h. Ah, but he had sharp words for her too, about why one of their number was dead, and on an errand of no substantial danger. Something in that stank like wet were, and he would get to the bottom of it. There was also the question of Nathaniel and her curious attachment to him, but he would save that card for when it would be most advantageous.

His general was sunk into the oversized leather chair, dwarfed by it and looking even less intimidating than usual, for all the steely intent in her eyes. Kestrel would let her say her piece first, so that she might exhaust a bit of her ire. Christa was not, as a rule, a passionate person, and given a few moments to get over herself she didn't typically have too much trouble resigning herself to her master's whims. He circled her once, a predatory instinct reminding her who exactly was in charge, and then came to a stop before her, arms crossed over his chest bearing the marks of the Jackal's claws, and head cocked with a dangerous laziness to one side. He examined her head to toe, and finally lifted a brow and said simply “Well?”

[Pax Britannica]

"What do you do with a drunken sailor,
What do you do with a drunken sailor..."


Her voice was low and deep. The song was sung in the the dark, haunting tone of a smoky contralto that still retained a sly, deceptive femininity about it. The chords were mocking, the melody grinning. The full, smooth lips of the singer were curved at the corners, lifted in a secret bemusement. The coy Irish tune, bold and brazen and as old as time in memoriam hung in the air like the corpse of her Irish heritage. It was slipping away in the memory of men. The fetid stink of her culture dying was everywhere. The English had decimated her people. Ah, but that sort of politicking wasn't Mercia's forte. Or was it? Ironic, that, even now, a war was being raged between an English vampire and an Irish beast. The song trailed off, to be replaced with humming. The vocals were low and rumbling, half growled melodies in her throat. The singing picked up again as she walked down the cool marble stairs of the vampire mansion. Her body was a nymph's. Her voice a siren's. But this was no sweet, lilting song sung by a fainting English rose. This was a song of her past, uttered low as if it were forbidden, as if it was a trespass. Treason against the merry old queen of England. She was the queen now, the Jackal thought, eyes cool and perceptive, taking in all around her with the vigilance of a God. Look what the Lord hath wrought...

She was as fine as the marble she walked on, skin like a white rose petal, but eyes that bled with a love of death and battle. With a dash of irony, the most feared creature of ancient lore had the smallest feet, now bare of boot, revealed against the moonlight. She said this was a war of Attrition, an attempt to make it such that the beasts no longer had to fear themselves, wear their dreaded collars, make right the death of Time. But was it not something else, too? Was it not retribution and merry bloodletting that the Midnight Jackal took great pleasure in? Naturally.

"Put him in the hold with the Captain's daughter,
Put him in the hold with the Captain's daughter..."

An image of Kestrel, naked, bloodied, and glorious rose unbidden in her mind and her singing lips curved like the gleaming edge of a half-moon blade. Her breasts were outlined by the limp silk that clung to her body, as well as the deceptively delicate shape between her legs. And still, she walked with a single-minded purpose, in the gait of a warlord, rather than a lady. She felt the presence of her kind, gathering like storm clouds over the horizon. The air was ripe with the scent of beasts. It was a scent like no other. If moonlight could be captured in an aroma, that would be what her kind smelled of.

A blonde emerged from the mansion, blood on his body. He was tall and muscled and handsome, none of which was peculiar for their kind. They were rather magnificent creatures, by all standards. Mercia's nostrils flared and she was greeted with the scent of moonlight on...feathers. It was an Avian beast. It was a rare treasure to find a winged warrior, their aerial skills of great use. Her golden eyes slid to the side as she took in the feel of him. Power whispered against her skin. Keen ears analyzed the way he walked. Young. Cocky. Strong. Raising her brow, the Jackal's eyes returned to the path in front of her. An elaborately decorated mansion, of no small size loomed ahead of her, candlelight winking from gas lamps. And army of fangs and claws were gathering. She allowed him to dog her steps, continuing to sing the Irish relic, not feeling the need to demonstrate her power to one of the younger soldiers, like so many warlords were wont to do. In fact, more time than she could count on one claw, her own kind mistook her for a little she-b***h, instead of the bloody queen of their race, and tried to take her. Their end had been as noble as their beginning. Still, this blonde youth might be of use to her. Mercia could remember the days when she rode atop the wings of a great death-angel, dropped from the sky to deliver pain and hell upon the surmounting vampire armies of the old days. Perhaps she could use such wings again...

It was sometime after William began to take an interest in his queen that a sly prankster cartwheeled out of the dense forested area surrounding the mansion. In fact, there were beasts of all shapes and sizes, slinking out across the lawn, into the large white mansion. Some looked at her curiously, most did not, and only the few looked upon the all but naked, petite blonde with something akin to fear. Those that did were stronger, wiser, and older. They could feel her power, could see past the mask of her morphology, and into her deep eyes. A few young males, wolves all looked upon her with sexual interest. The beasts were primal, and naturally felt strong animalistic urges, as was usual of their race. Dark haired and reckless, Mercia sensed their untried power and found it paltry despite their huge bodies and rippling musculature. They were but peasants in the face of her kingly power. Their attention was immediately directed to the prancing, lithe, and deadly jester figure who joined the Exodus. He had said something to her...my queen. A greeting. A low rumble in her throat sufficed as an answer and acknowledgement. Mercia could not keep from feeling pleased that he had recognized her power. Perhaps she had an affinity for the mad ones. They certainly had a way of keeping things...interesting.

Mercia's nostrils caught the scent of yet another Avian. "Wings of death..." she whispered, lips curling capriciously as she once again brought life to her haunting, jaunty tune. The smell of his feathers was white and more delicate. William smell of talons and Abraham of a fragile, deliciously snowy neck. And yet, she seemed to make no special note of the two winged beasts casually following her toward the mansion. Briefly, she wondered where her general was.

"Throw him in the longboat 'til he's sober,
Throw him in the longboat 'til he's sober..."

Wild curls shimmering silver around her body as she moved with, not a queenly or royal step, but the crafty step of a sovereign who had come from nothing and risen through carnage to the top. The three dark-haired wolves, brothers, she could smell, shrugged off the jester (who, Mercia knew was too dangerous and probably far too mad to be shrugged off lightly), and returned their attentions to her. Their eyes raked over her body. She noticed nothing until one of them, in no more than a whisper, which, to her kind was as good as a scream said:

"Hear it? An Irish whore is one of us" the tallest said to his nearly identical twin.

"We could give her a whore's welcome..." the other, slightly thinner, leaner, and more cadaverous one hissed, eyes gleaming with a perversion and hatred that was intense.

Mercia, for her part, took less than even the vaguest notice. If they tried, they would die. It truly was that simple. It was, however, a touch disturbing that members of her race were, apparently, so easily disposed toward raping a, seemingly weaker member of their species. Mercia didn't care out of sheer morality, but instead out of what it said about the loss of tradition. A female beast was rare, and when one was found they were treasured because it meant that they possessed a mate and were capable of carrying young beasts in their womb like any other creature could not. For the sake of the race, Mercia lifted a brow and narrowed her shimmering, molten gold eyes. The Irish in her cried out for blood, but that was an old, old part of her...Even as the three began to plot, in hushed, dark whispers, Mercia was suddenly called, like clawed hands reaching out of the blackness of time, toward someone else...

Her mind was brushed with a feeling and scent she hadn't experienced in a very long time. It was him. Her blood rushed through her veins as she recalled the splendor of his claws, dripping in blood. It was always the first thing she remembered about those she knew--how they killed. Magnus was an efficient killer, and she could, in some way admire the restraint. It was a mark of the old and powerful. Her secretive smile grew just a fraction of an inch wider.

Returned to me, have you?

She recalled the days of when they fought together, side by side against a mountain of fang-gnashing vampires who desired nothing more than to skin them alive and siphon from their necks. She remembered the long strip of dark hair whipping in the air as they ran. So, too, did she remember the crystal clear call of his lonely howl. The sensory images were enough to excite her once more. The prospect of fighting side by side with an admirable, powerful ally was nearly as thrilling as sex was for other...perhaps more balanced individuals. The Jackal growled at Magnus, allowing him to feel her delight...and displeasure. Was he still loyal? A thousand questions echoed in her mind...she snarled at him, but the intent was clear. Where the ******** have you been?

"Excuse me little Paddy..." one of the young, hungry wolves growled...

[SexThread]

Christa didn’t bother paying attention to her surroundings. Not right now. At the moment she was safe. Her vampires were in the mansion, and the enemy wound, no doubt, be gathering outside. She was safe inside the mansion. It was almost an odd feeling. It had been quite some time since Christa had honestly felt safe. A part of her knew that the blonde beast was only a short jaunt away in the side mansion, and if she truly wanted, she could slash through each and every vampire that stood outside that door. But for this one moment in time, there was nothing that could touch her. Christa reveled in the thought. She had shrugged off her coat, letting it hang over the arm of the large chair. Her pockets were typically filled with a number of hand grenades, and this was a rare opportunity to finally set them down.

Her eyes focused on the fire before her. The yellow and orange flames danced in the hearth as they did any other day. The fire knew nothing about vampires or werebeasts. The fire knew nothing of war. The red-hot fingers that spread from the cinders continued to dance no matter how near the enemy may be. She used to be very much like that fire. Christa remembered days when she would lock herself in this very study. She could place herself in that corner. She wouldn’t speak to anyone for days. Christa could remember days when she would be dragged out because she would forget to feed. Those were the days before they came to New Londontown. The war had always been. The war was a fact of being. But there were, once, sweet days of almost peace. The general wanted to wonder if things would ever return to that previous time, yet she knew they never would. As soon as the human threat was eliminated, Mercia, the Midnight Jackal, would return to her murderous ways and hunt down each and every person Christa considered friend or family. The vampires would be easy enough to hunt down now, as well, seeing as Kestrel had summoned vampires from all over greater Europe to his side. Mercia would only need to swing one clawed arm, and she would kill half a dozen vampires. No. There was no peace in sight. Now or ever. Stepping outside the mansion would be asking for a human rogue – or rogue vampire for that matter – to kill her. Once they fall, the war would be back on. And with their greatest warrior at the mercy of the beast queen?

Disrupting her thoughts was the opening of the study door. She knew Kestrel was coming toward her; she could sense him. Bloodlust still coursed through his tired, dead veins as he circled the chair she had perched upon. Christa would see this just by looking into his eyes. He wore only a cloak, as if he needed to prove his masculinity to all who looked upon him. Like most vampires under Kestel’s rule, Christa had decided that, despite her living dead nature, she was still human. Her humanity was still very much about her. Clothing was not something that was optional. She did not kill for sport. This fact is what had always set the civilized vampires apart from the beasts that swore to end the vampire race. Christa thought back to the blonde werewolf that had arrive to the sight of a battle wearing nothing more than what she may have been born with. It disgusted her that such abominations would expose themselves that way. Neither human nor beast. Animals.

Christa looked upon the form of her ruler. A cloak hung from his shoulders, but he wore little else. The beast queen’s hold on him was very evident. Despite his heightened healing abilities, Kestrel sported claw marks on his forearms that could have been from fighting or fornication. Christa very much doubted the jackal knew the difference. Seeing as both were weaknesses of the vampire king, Christa knew she, and every other vampire, had reason to worry. Humans were banding together to attempt an assault on vampires and beasts, alike. They had handed over the only beast hostage they had. Half of the vampire army was either sleeping with the enemy or simply mutinous. No. She had absolutely no reason to worry.

Dark brown eyes traveled up the tall frame of the king. His eyes were narrowed, glowering down at her. It was obvious to Christa that Kestrel meant to intimidate her. He wanted to remind her who was king and who was subject. What had she to fear? Death at his hands? Being turned over to Mercia to meet her end? The vampire clan knew Christa, as their general, had their best interests in mind. For years, Kestrel had lead the war effort, using Christa as a buffer and liaison to the rest of the vampires. If Kestrel were to kill her, he would most certainly lose the support of a good many vampires. Where would that leave him? No. Christa needn’t fear death. Not right now, at least.

”Well?”

Oh, where did she want to start? The fact that she had all but lost all respect for him? The fact that he had broken many of his own laws within the past week? She looked away from him, holding her chin in her hand. ”The vampires are concerned, my lord.” Her tone wasn’t angry or harsh as she had expected it to be. No. She was cold and despondent. Christa was tired. This was a battle she no longer wished to fight. If Kestrel were planning on handing each and every one of his followers over to the beasts as soon as the humans were eliminated, then he surely should start now. There was no doubt that she would make a wonderful wedding present to his flea ridden bride.

”Grant me a request.” She said simply, standing from her too comfortable position and stepping away from Kestrel. He reeked of blood and sweat. Vampires didn’t sweat. She could only imagine how that got there. Christa moved closer to the fire. Her hands were clasped behind her back. The fire reflected in her eyes, shining off the monocle she wore. She wanted, more than anything, to be locked in an office, someplace where she wouldn’t be disturbed so she could examine those papers she and Eva and procured from the cathedral. Christa wanted to know what they wanted with Nathaniel. That wasn’t just torture. It was deeper – more involved. It was almost as if they were testing the boy and recording the reactions. Experimenting.

She turned, angling herself to face Kestrel. With the fire beside her, half of her was cast into shadow. She was divided – half in light and half in darkness. She felt divided. Christa wanted to trust Kestrel. She wanted to say that she was loyal to him. Completely without question, she would follow him. But, as she said, the vampires were concerned. She was concerned. Was he thinking of his vampires? Was he only thinking of power? Was he thinking only of her? ”Kestrel…” She bit her tongue, thinking how best to word her critiques. Christa had not been struck blind. She saw the headless body. She witnessed the massacre – the head rolling down the stairs, almost as a master presented his dogs with a new toy. She was sure Kestrel, while he may not kill her, would not hesitate in…. punishing…. her if she spoke ill of the vampire king.

”Kestrel, I have served as your general for many years now. I know it is this privilege, alone, that has kept me alive this long. That… and I have the trust of your people. Even in times that you may stray, or your vampires may not understand you, as your general I have kept your vampires loyal. Over these many years, I have come to call you friend. A title neither of us bestow lightly. Hardly a day ago, you called me friend. You confided in me of your weaknesses. Your uncertainties. Your doubts.” Eyes, amber colored from the flames, met the mismatched orbs of Lord Kestrel Paradin. ”Now, Kestrel I ask the same of you. Hands still clasped behind her back, a picture of harmlessness, she faced him completely, mere inches from the man.

”Allow me permission to speak freely without fear of reprisal from you or your beast queen.

Christa stood silent for a moment, testing Kestrel's reaction. When the vampire king didn't scoff at her proposal or strike at her, she proceeded to speak. "As I said, Kestrel, the vampires are concerned. We feel that you're spending far too much time with the beast queen. Treaty or no, you have been by Mercia's side longer than you have been in the presence of any vampire. We, your vampires, fear that we are fighting the humans only in preparation to be later handed over to the werebeasts by our own ruler."

"Your still loyal subjects fear true death at the hands of our king. We feel he has forgotten himself. That he has forgotten who the enemy is." Christa bowed her head, no longer looking at the man. "I know you doubt my loyalty to you, Kestrel. There are times, when I see you dressed as a werebeast, marked by the queen, that I doubt my sanity in being loyal to you. But know this, Kestrel Paradin, I am your general. I am still your man." Her eyes grew sharp, her tone losing it's tired feel. "So stop crossing your arms like a petulant child and prowling around me like some animal." She took a breath, not to breathe but to steady herself. Now, she pleaded. "Speak to me as if I am your comrade and as if you are not the familiar of the furred witch.

[Sanguine Pomegranate]

Misha had heard the call so vividly it was almost...painful. Resting in the corner of a decrepit bar, cigarette smoke drifted through the chairs, soaking into the walls it was almost slick with grunge in the small tavern. Smells, touch, sounds, this was all Misha had, but it gave him so much more. He smelt the black of cancer, coughed from a mans lungs as he sat on a stool, smelt the grime between the bartenders hands, as he wiped crumbs and condensation rings from the wood surface of a table. He heard the whimpering, quickened breaths of a waitress, as she made love to the bus boy in the back kitchen, heard the scuttle of rat feet as they made their way through the floorboards, the wall-space. Most sane people would abhor coming to such a place, where the room smelled of piss, alcohol, and smoke. Misha reveled in such atmosphere, he himself smelling, and looking much, much worse.

Misha smelled, looked, and spoke as if he were death itself. Thin, bony cheeks, glazed-over, unfocused eyes, ragged would-be white hair (though for rather gruesome reasons, Misha's hair was a more brown-copper color). His clothing was hardly form-fitting, a black hooded cloak, torn and frayed at the bottom, that went just past his knees. Underneath he wore olive-colored tights, hardly enough to keep one warm, but the cold never seemed to bother the phantom-like man, his pale, bony hands always cooler than the air they occupied. The clothing he wore seemed unwashed for weeks, some could even argue months. It was true, his clothes were rather....unclean. Dark red stains on his sleeves, the bottoms of his pants. Not from murder of any sort though. More like, opportunistic feeding. Misha came across a corpse, he tore into it's pallid skin, teeth tearing into blackened, putrid tissue. He was of course, a scavenger at heart.

Misha didn't drink, didn't eat, didn't smoke, as he sat in a chair at the far corner of the room. Misha didn't drink or smoke as it was anyways, and he knew from smelling the plates brought out as the aromas drifted past him, that the cooks spit in the food. He simply....sat. For what reason? He didn't have much of any. It was just a warm place to think, quieter than most pubs around New London, though certainly not clearer than any. Most of New London resembled this small tavern these days, dirty, dark, decaying. It was one of the sole reasons Misha remained within the city. it was filled with death.

What was it he thought of? Well, before his thoughts had been interrupted by the loud, urging summons, he had been thinking of many, morbid, ghastly things. Of how wonderfully the still warm remains of goat had tasted, how good it had been before time-stopped, able to go off for one night of the month and just...feed. Of course, never anything he'd killed of his own, no. Flying far above the rooftops of New London, casting a terrifying, winged shadow on the ground below, searching, feeling the cool air of the night between his feathers, flying was oddly easy for one that was blind, there was much, much less to run into up above in the sky, landings though, were never quite perfect. Misha had been thinking of the one night in particular, the night when night became eternal. Misha had different reasons for being bitter with the state that the world was in. It meant remaining grounded, remain flightless, or risk being stuck as a beast for years. Unlike before, taking off the anklet he wore, meant one thing, truly becoming an animal, unable to rely on the rising sun to bring him back again.

The voice that had resonated within his mind, the call to arms so to speak, urged him to act. He stood shortly after, gaining attention from only two or three people that occupied the run-down bar. all but one instinctively looked away though, lest Misha's meaningless, cloudy gaze lay upon them. Something about the blind unsettled most humans it seemed, the way they just...stared, unknowingly so in most cases. Or the way they would look just to the side of where you stood when speaking with you, unable to detect your exact position before them. The one man that continued to stare at Misha, was quickly startled, as Misha's ghostly-orbs landed on his face. Misha heard the sudden rustle, as the man quickly averted his stare to some woman instead, "Staring is as bad for you as the death that spreads through your chest." Misha commented, his voice startlingly ragged. It sounded like one would think a dead man would, raspy, cold, attention-pulling. His voice, was as if he were trying to speak in a whisper, but at the same time, shout across the room to someone. The resulting words sent chills down the humans spine, hair standing on end, the natural response to such a terrifying sound, sight, and smell.

The man understood fully, suddenly looking rather sullen, reminded of the cancer that grew through his lungs, he turned to ask how Misha had known...but the figure was gone, all that remained was the door, shutting closed behind him.

The Sightless Siren. A name so confusingly fitting it was just that, fitting. Sightless, yes, Misha was, this much was obvious, but a siren, the name had come to him from the many witnesses of his mannerisms. The way he walked, carrying himself on silent, almost as if walking on air itself, but his voice, nothing like a sirens, so paralleled that the irony of it just made the nickname seem of more suiting. Even now, as Misha's pace was quickened (as much as a blind man could quicken his careful, sensing pace) he stepped silently, so much so that few people became startled by his sudden presence, as he turned corners, or made his way through alleys.

Misha knew the city well enough, having lived in it longer than most humans had lived. It meant not constantly asking for assistance, something the man despised having to do. Misha sensed he was nearing the location of the call, it was in a part of the city he didn't frequent, he began having to rely solely on his hand to feel the walls, the fences, he felt an entrance, and knew for reasons unexplainable to any but a were-beast, that this was the meeting-place, the location they were all called to. Misha had expected himself to be late, hence the quickened pace to be there, but now he found himself exceptionally early. He sensed others coming though, close-by, some more-so than others. He slipped inside the side-mansion doors, deciding it was better to wait within...

He heard then, the singing, and humming of a rather charming voice, deep, womanly, if Misha had such interest in woman, he might have gone back outside to hear clearer the sound. Though, as it was, Misha stood just within the door, off to the side, as to not be in the way of anyone entering soon. He didn't roam around, didn't explore where he was, all he knew of the room as it was, was that there was a wall to the right of the door, and he was leaning against it silently. Listening. He heard once again the humming, the pleasant tune of a woman in power, the gruff voices of other, less refined were-beasts, and...bells. Misha raised a brow, only a slight hint of curiosity in his brow, eyes of course, were the main factor of any true expression, and the eyes of Misha, were anything but expressive...

There were multiple bells, small, jovial, ringing sounds. The rhythm the sounded to was like that of a person's steps, a hat? Misha was hardly entertained by the idea, the first thing coming to mind a clown, jester. If this was the type of crowd that was to be brought with the summoning of all his kind...Misha would come to regret his impulse to arrive so early. He didn't fare well with mad-men. Of course, never willing to admit that it was because simply, he himself was said to be a tad bit off the rocker.

[Pax Britannica]

O Captain! My Captain!


by Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

[Phoelidae]

In a boat docked on the Thames, silhouetted by moonlight streaming through a small cabin window, a tall figure sat silent and alone, tilting in her hand her dead brother’s sword and watching the light leap to and fro upon the blade, like silver fish. It was, she thought, an elegant weapon. Silly of Kestrel to conceal it in a cane, but so like him to make even his talents look pretty but useless. The sword itself was of fine craftsmanship, a good length and weight for her, tall as she was for a woman. Perhaps she would keep it. After all, she had used it already to kill the king who had owned it last.

Oh, but he was no king, or at least not a good one. He had let his people fall from grace, let them fall into the claws of the were-beasts, and had let himself fall into the hungry maw of the Jackal. It was disgusting. She had not known him save for those first few years of their lives (and in the moment before his death, she supposed) but she felt like she could feel his lingering presence. And she felt no respect for it at all. He been a strong man, a strong vampire, but not a strong king. He had always been too impulsive, too vain, too captivated by his own ability to charm and awe. Kestrel had been the sort of man who must of necessity burn bright and briefly, distracting all those near him for a time before fizzling out and leaving only a feeble stream of smoke for a legacy. He was, in her opinion, lucky to have lived as long as he did. She wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed that. By making his enemies his bed-fellows, she supposed. By selling his soul (however tattered and pitiful it might have been) to the devil, by forsaking every principle that might have made him worth respecting, apparently.

Her stomach growled audibly into the silence. Thirsty, she was always thirsty now. No matter how much blood she drank, no matter how many she killed to slake the hunger, it never disappeared. Especially not when she was healing. Not surprising, she supposed, considering how long they had starved her. Until her papery skin could scarcely stretch over her endlessly broken bones, and she looked like nothing that should still be able to open blazing eyes. And oh, did her eyes burn with the fires of hell then, as though all the life that had gone from the rest of her had taken refuge deep in the black pits of her skull. She had taught her dear brother that vampires, if strong enough, could not in fact be killed by being blood-starved. But oh, had they tried.

She had given Kestrel a far more merciful death than he deserved for his betrayal. He had been alone, moving through the empty streets of London with purpose, perhaps on his way to commit high treason with the Midnight Jackal, if the rumors were true. As if she needed any more reason to despise him, as if betraying his own kin weren’t enough, he was a traitor to his kind, too. Pathetic. And a sad excuse for a vampire to boot. He’d not even heard her approach, hadn’t even looked up until she dropped like the shadow of a cloud before the moon into his path. He flinched – she saw it with the darkest flicker of humor – and then for a long long moment he simply stared. Stared as a mirror image of himself gazed back out of the shadows: the same blood-dark hair, the same sharp jaw and high cheekbones, the same long, aquiline nose. But the eyes, the eyes were different – two matching chips of amethyst, pure and uncorrupted, not like his mismatched deformity that seemed to reflect the pitiful, two-faced division of his soul, neither one thing nor the other, but the b*****d mix of whatever he needed to be in a given situation.

It took him several mechanical heartbeats to recognize her. Not surprising, considering that the last time he’d seen his twin sister, she had been chained to a wall, wearing nothing but tatters, drenched in her own blood (which was almost indistinguishable from the filthy strands of her long hair), her skin the cold lifeless gray of granite, her face jaunt and bruised, her eyes sunken deep into her skull and shadowed with pain and black hatred, and her frame utterly broken and emaciated. No, it was not surprising that at first he did not see the reminder of that corpse in her face. Now she looked serene, pale as moonlight, her lips returned to fullness, her form once more strong and erect, her hair pulled back out of her way in a clean bun.

She had waited. She had waited until she saw realization flicker across his face, then shock, then the briefest moment of fear. She had waited until it hissed across his lips, until he had loosed his sword and breathed it into the night like the last sibilant gasp emptying from dead lungs …

“Ataraxia.”

And then she had killed him. He had fought, but he could not win. Not against her. She was trained to assassinate the mostly deadly creature on the planet, and Kestrel had never before encountered the likes of her. Not that he didn’t fight well – she would give him that. He was swift, he was skilled, and he was strong, and his was the desperation of a cornered animal. His blade sank into her flesh again and again, he struck her and forced her back, he drew blood blood and more blood from her skin. There was something glorious about the way he fought, with the speed, grace, and deadly precision of a great predator. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t even flinch when he nearly took her eye and opened a deep cut down her cheek. She watched him grow more baffled and more desperate as she showed no reaction to her wounds. He drove the blade straight through her stomach with a triumphant hiss, pulled back, and swung for her neck, but her wires wrapped around his sword and wrenched it from his hands. Her fist collided with his jaw when he tried to get in close and best her with his strength. A mistake. His fangs sank into her arm, and she registered it visually, but with no other sense. None of it had anything to do with adrenaline – she simply could not feel. She could not feel any of it. She could not feel the steel fangs in her flesh, could not feel the cloth against her body, could not feel the pain of her wounds, could not feel the cool evening breeze, could not even feel the warmth of the blood that gushed out when she drove his own sword up beneath his ribs to pierce his metal heart. And it was because of him. He brought this upon himself when he looked at her, utterly at his mercy, and told them to resume torturing her. It was because of him that she would never again feel. They could have been allies, but no. He had betrayed her … and he had died for it.

She took some black pleasure in the look of surprise on his face when she removed his head from his shoulders with one swift stroke of the sword. He had not expected to lose to her, for all he had been warned that she was incredibly powerful. And he was surprised to be at last on his way to meet Death, whom he thought he had cheated so long ago. Fate was cruel like that, always taunting, always laughing. She would know.

Ataraxia had looked down at him then, like a broken doll in a pool of blood on the cobblestones of New Londontown. Strange, how humans thought death so fearsome – didn’t they look at bodies like this and see how pitiful every being is when its living, animated mask is shattered to reveal the blank emptiness residing within? The Jackal would not be so pathetic, she thought to herself. The Jackal would be glorious in death. She was a creature born to die, so surely she must die magnificently. Her blood would be the splendid red of roses, her hair the color of cold golden coins, her skin white as virgin snow, her body draped upon the ground as elegantly as a fallen dancer. Yes, Mercia Addison’s death would be beautiful. She felt sure of it.

Kestrel’s death had not been, she thought rather resentfully. He had lain in the street like a broken toy as the rain began to fall, and across the city there rose a howl of the most horrifying pitch imaginable, the sound of fury and death coming on wings of rolling thunder. It was a howl that hung in the air like the toll of the last funeral bell, hovering, waiting, stretching, distorting, taking root in the mind until the sound echoes eternally in the ear, agony without end, calling emptiness and despair into the hopeless streets of New Londontown. It was more agony-ridden than a banshee scream, more furious than the most deadly war-cry. And it wrenched at something deep, deep within Ataraxia, pulled at her in a way that made her feel as though she might be sick. The sound … the sheer misery of that sound awoke some answering emotion in her own gut, a sort of sympathetic resonance like the tinkling of a crystal glass when the loudest thunder clap sounds overhead and rattles all the world. She felt some shadow of that emotion stirring in her own heart, a raw, brutal, untouchable grief that wanted to kill. An agony that could only ever be soothed even a little bit by rivers, no, by seas of blood. A grief so poignant the only outlet for it was violence, because no fleeting sound could give it true life.

The Midnight Jackal was coming.

Ataraxia could feel it like the tension before the lightning strike, like the way the ocean recedes before the crashing wave comes back in. It tingled like anticipation of a storm, and made the mouth water like the promise of sour fruit. Her pulse throbbed in her temples, and her eyes burned as she turned, instinctively, to face the coming of the Jackal. Already she could almost smell her as she inhaled so deeply – and caught the scent of her own blood.

She looked down. She was covered in blood, and far too little of it was Kestrel’s. She lifted her arms and examined her body, pressing fingers to wounds to gouge how deep they were and how serious. A drawback, a serious drawback to feeling no pain – she could keep on fighting until the death without flinching, yes, but she could also overtax herself accidentally quite easily. Her body lacked the usual feedback loop that told most fighters their limits. That had been a hard lesson to learn when she first escaped, and thought that feeling no pain would surely make her indestructible. No, she still had limits, and she had to be that much more aware of them. And she knew, as much as she loathed to admit it, that she was not ready to fight the Midnight Jackal. His sword had pierced her middle, gone all the way through the soft flesh of her stomach and emerged from the other side. That was a serious wound, never mind the various other deep cuts and gouges. Her brother had been more opponent than she’d expected. And she would have to be at her absolute prime to defeat her target, the one she had been trained to kill. But right now she was weakening, even if she could not feel it. She took a deep breath, reminding herself that there would be other chances. She had not come this far to fail her ultimate mission because she had rushed into it rashly. She would wait, and heal, and kill her another day; there was still that delicious anticipation to get her through a few more weeks. She could wait.

Ataraxia knew she had very little time before the Jackal arrived. She turned back to Kestrel’s body and knelt beside him for a moment, taking his sword for her own and staring one last time into empty jewel eyes. But they had been empty in life, too, hadn’t they? Some small, deadened part of her felt a sort of nostalgic regret that he was dead, the last of her kin, the only creature left on the face of this planet that had shared her blood. But she had given that blood up long ago, hadn’t she? She had given up the blood they shared along with the name, and now they might as well be no relation at all. But no, he was still a vampire. He had still been old, very old, and very powerful. Kestrel had been a king long before she was ready to face Mercia, and she had to respect that he had achieved that on his own. Yes, she hated him, but some small part of her did have to respect him. He had, after all, gotten all he’d ever wanted out of life. If only he’d aspired to a bit more, if only his heart had been a little nobler, they might have worked together and achieved extraordinary things.

But he hadn’t been. His part in the bloody history of New Londontown was over, and the curtain had fallen on his final performance. Her violet eyes were unreadable as they looked once more upon the dead face of her twin brother, but what was done was done, and could not be undone. The vampiress turned her head and went to straighten, when all at once a scent hit her. Not a scent carried on the wind, but a scent that wafted from the dead body beside her, a scent that had somehow overcome the stench of blood to reach her sharp nose. Her nostrils flared, and her head whipped back around to take another sniff. Impossible … but it was true. It was a rich, dark, heady scent, like alcohol, darkest chocolate, smoke, blood, cinnamon, ice wind, wood, and something else, something thick and creamy and musky and evocative that she could not quite put a name to. But far more important was the reaction she had, the way it seemed to wrap around something deep within her, the way she knew instantly that she would never forget that scent. Feeling exploded deep within her, a strange, thrilling, giddy sensation that brought with it a curious hunger. The whole world seemed fresh and new.

Mate. So many of the vampires had forgotten the old lore that they too were vulnerable to that trick of fate, but Nihilo had educated her in everything and anything that might one day make her weak to the Jackal. And the mate bond could, under certain circumstances, be a vampire’s greatest weakness. If her mate was here, in New Londontown, that would need to be … addressed. She would have to find this individual, and keep it in a safe place where the Jackal could not kill it to kill her. She sniffed again at her twin’s corpse – he had been in close contact with her mate, and quite recently. Most likely a vampire then, so at least that would narrow the search. But it would also put the mate more in the Jackal’s line of fire.

”What a bloody pain,” she hissed under her breath as she straightened again. Ataraxia had no interest whatsoever in finding a life mate. She had no interest at all in romance, and especially not if it was going to get in the way of her goal. Still … no. She would not think about how enticing that scent was, or how much she wanted to inhale it again. She would not.

It took a shocking amount of will to step away from Kestrel’s body and that scent. But she could feel the pressure of the Jackal’s approach, nearer and nearer. She needed to get out of there before it was too late, so she took one last breath (she could not help herself), turned on her heel, and raced away from the scene of that bloody battle, disappearing into the shadowy streets of New Londontown.

She might have been the only soul in all Britain as she streaked through the streets, until she came quite abruptly onto a larger street alive with vampires, fleeing disjointedly like rats before lamplight. Baffled she turned, and turned again, her mind bombarded with telepathic cries. King is dead … treaty destroyed … death … mansion overrun … the Jackal will kill us all …

No, no no no, this was not how it should have happened! Yes, there king was dead, but where was their general? Was there no one else among them who would step to the fore? As soon as one man fell, did the vampires scurry away from danger in an undisciplined mass? It was disgraceful! And yet that seemed to be precisely the case. Who leads us?! she shouted into the minds of the mob around her, and the answer was a resounding, horrifying NO ONE. She did not know how that could be, and did not know how she had gotten into this situation, but she did know that she had a duty to these vampires. She had killed their king, and apparently endangered them all, and she owed it to them as her kin to protect them if they had nowhere else to turn. Damn it all, this was the last thing she needed.

But she sent out the call all the same, closing her eyes and sending a mental scream across the city, rallying the vampires to her. Those nearest her stopped running to stare at her, to stare at the strange, woman bleeding freely from so many brutal wounds, with the intensely burning eyes and features eerily similar to those of their king. No one knew who she was or where she’d come from, and certainly not her purpose, but she had an aura of power around her, something of the strength and the charisma that Kestrel had had, and she asked for the reins of power … so she received them.

Ataraxia led them to the London docks, where their scent would be disguised by the stink of the Thames and they could hide within the boats, which would be defensible in the case of an attack. In any case, it was an easier place to draw the vampires together than to try to overrun some other manor or building. They needed to run, regroup, and lay low, until she could figure out who was supposed to be leading them, and could give the power over to them.

Ataraxia was a simple woman of simple desires: she wanted to hunt down and kill the Midnight Jackal. No more and no less. But all the same she had a duty to her people to protect and defend them since she had left them without a sovereign. And she fully expected someone to come forward as soon as the hysteria had died down … but no one did. Kestrel was dead, and apparently no one knew what had become of the general. Most likely killed by Mercia. It seemed her brother had been jealous with his power, for from those few she asked she could discern no further ranks worth mentioning. Ataraxia was trapped. To take the throne had not been her intention, she had only wanted revenge. But duty to her people was something she could not lightly brush aside. As it turned out, it was not something she could brush aside at all.

And now, sitting in the empty captain’s quarters of a small freight vessel, she couldn’t help but think that it was cruelly ironic, how escaping one set of chains imposed by her brother had caused another set to drop around her shoulders when she least expected it. For surely she was as fettered now by expectations and politics as she had ever been in that black pit of hell. It made her sick, watching the vampires scramble over each other to take advantage of a new leader and a new pecking order – but none of them would step up and take the responsibility of leading in war-time. Where was the nobility, the ancient wisdom and cruel subtlety? Where was the refinement, the culture, the splendor that should have come with immortality? They were like squabbling human children! Or they were like Kestrel, full of themselves and glutted on their gross, arrogant luxuries. This was the race she felt honor-bound to serve? They did not know the meaning of the word.

Ah, and yet. And yet centuries of pride and determination could not be so easily tossed aside. No matter that the vampires had fallen into such a pitiful state – just one more thing that could be remedied by the Jackal’s death. Was it so strange, after all, that the vampires should behave like mortals when that scourge made them feel their mortality so keenly? She would set an example of nobility and honor, and she would destroy the Midnight Jackal. And with those two things, she would rebuild the vampire race into the grand society it ought to have been, and they would create on this earth, right here in New Londontown, their own bloody kingdom of heaven, as enduring and magnificent as the pyramids of Egypt and as overwhelming as the unfathomable depths of the sea. They would not be monsters but gods, as was their right!

Ataraxia shook her head slightly, returning to the moment. Her hair was loose today, tumbling around her shoulders in auburn waves, and beneath her plain tunic she was heavily bandaged to prevent the loss of any more blood. Kestrel had taken a toll on her, and thought she had escaped her imprisonment months ago and rebuilt her strength in the interim, she realized that she was still not as strong as she had been when she was betrayed. She was aware of the weakness in her body, the way her limbs were leaden and would not move with the swiftness or the grace they normally had. She was too freshly healed from her centuries long ordeal to endure a fight like she had and not feel the full, crushing brunt of her wounds. And her body had lost some of its regenerative ability during the torture – she healed far more slowly than another vampire of her caliber would. But the wounds didn’t hurt, they just made her feel weak and lethargic. She had to feed. She had to satisfy her thirst so that she could heal, and be ready in truth for when the Midnight Jackal came. For Ataraxia doubted that it would be long now, as she slipped off the ship to go find some unfortunate humans amidst the docks. She would not even have to hunt. The Jackal was coming to her, and she would have to be ready …

[Hamletmaschine]

He blinked, and she was gone. The reflection looking back at him was simply only an image of himself. And how he did look awful. He had not slept in 4 days, and it clearly showed. Eyes sunken and lips a lighter shade of their already pale kiss of blush. Suppose he had not taken blood in about the same amount of time, and that caused his usually sculpted features to deteriorate. The eyes that peered back into his soul were empty, heartless as he had been before he ever laid eyes on her. With the very thought or mention of her, his lips instantly inverted like a horseshoe hung unlucky, and his eyes would narrow, gut knot, head ache... and then would as quickly revert to as he was before, dispersed in a puff of smoke. Jack didn't feel anymore. Not after he found her.

A swift blink and his eyes unglazed and returned to studying his face again. Jack was not sure what he was looking for, and hadn't been for the last few days. But he was sure he would find it if only he looked a little longer. Sure, anyone would say he didn't look any different than before, but in studying his features for so many hours, he noted these changes, no matter how subtle they were... or perhaps seen only by his eyes. If he stood here any longer, a knock at the door would bring him back out to the real world.
Quickly, his hands brought up another bout of cupped, cool water to his face, and then to his hair. The burning was enough to signify he had spent enough time with the bleach. He had had the idea while Bernardo rambled on about his appearance, and that he needed to freshen up. It wasn't difficult to find the hydrogen peroxide, simply because Bernardo was a maker of clothes, it would have been stupid of him to not had it to bleach fabrics. The ammonia he added didn't help things for his eyes, but after the last half hour it didn't bother him much.
Jack proceeded to lather his head with soap and water in the small basin in front of the mirror. When he glanced up, suds and water slithering down his cheeks and neck, he noticed a white devil staring back at him. Much to his surprise, he looked just like him, but so very changed. Jack's jaw slowly slackened and his fingertips found their way to his scalp, feeling it tenderly as if it were glass shards. It was different. It was what he wanted: To become unknown. How many would recognize him upon first glance. Jack was a changed man...and he was not going back.

Out of the corner of his gaze, a faint glimmer wafted in the lamplight. A figure of white. Eyes wide, air catching in his throat, he turned swiftly around, but found nothing there. His hand went for the doorknob and he twisted and jerked it open in a swift, single motion, revealing nothing but harsh, cool air that smelt of lingering moister. A shudder rippled over Jack's bare torso and he peered behind him as he closed the door once more, slowly. She had been following him since that night.

It had all started, of course, not long after the meetings 2 weeks ago. Jack recalled leaving the mansion to sit in the courtyard. And they met not long after, himself and Bernardo. He had come back as he said he would, slightly shaken, but nothing that Jack didn't notice wrong. He didn't know him that well then. To be honest, he didn't know him now. But together they returned to his home where drinks and chatter consumed them for a while.
Until they heard the scream. Together, off the streets, Jack and Bernardo knew little of what happened, until all the flooded minds of London's immortals shattered all silence. Kestrel, the Leech King, dead. Bernardo and Jack remained in the safety of Bernardo's home, lamps out and shutters and doors locked tight as the city streets were filled with immortals running scared and viscous alike. The truce was broken. And there was little reason for Bernardo to not have killed him that night, and Jack tiptoed cautiously around that for the days that followed, but Bernardo seemed illusive to the thrilling thought of Jack's demise by his own hands.
In the days that followed the initial killing spree and fear over Kestrel's death, Jack remained cautious beyond the front door, but together they walked the streets, the smell enough to make any common animal gag. Death littered the city's streets, and mortals ran from place to place, their shutters and doors shut tight. If there had been a war before, it was not clearly displayed until now. There hung a constant sense of impending in the air, like something was coming.
Jack learned from a few overheard discussions that Christa had yet to be found... This alone disturbed him. And that most of the vampires that were alive were residing at the docks. The night he went to investigate was the night he found Adelaide.
Jack had been avoiding it, just from the memories of when he fled here as she intended to end his life. But there he was, walking the boardwalk between the shadows and memories. He didn't know why he had walked the direction he did. He had been following it for so long, and the only thing telling him to keep going was his stomach, like it knew something more than him... and so it truly did... If he hadn't tripped over that last broken plank and caught his balance before gracing the water with his delightful presence, he wouldn't have seen her there. As Jack fell to his hands and knees, his gaze slipped between the wooden planks to the black waters of the Thames and gazed upon Adelaide, swollen with water, her eyes open and mouth parted to whisper to the fishes. Her once angelic body now treading the whole of London's water supply, stuffed under the boardwalk between a post and an anchor. Her eyes looked into his very soul, empty... but a single name whispered with her voice against his ears, Ophelia.
Jack still didn't remember the rest of that night. Bernardo told him he came running to him, pounding at the door hysterical and unable to speak anything but that name. Jack hadn't been to the pier since. He hadn't even went to see if it were all a dream, but by now it was very possible all evidence to prove it would be gone, vanished... Like her. He didn't ask why. He did not want to know how. She was gone. He looked at the face of death and the Devil whispered a name. That was enough for Jack to know if he was going to Hell, he was going on his own terms, and for a reason. Adelaide, was not this reason.
So he hadn't slept because all he saw was her corpse in the water. He was paranoid, because she haunted him in corners, and he saw her face in everything. Someday he was sure she would leave. Get tired of this game and leave. But readily, he wasn't so sure.

The skin on his arms rippled in a cool shudder that ran to the back of his head, the base of his head tingling. Jack cleared his throat and quickly grabbed the shirt behind him and dried his damp hair, slowly leaving the bathroom uneasily and heading down the stairs to the kitchen where he hoped his heart would stop racing.

Bernardo's home was lavished and large. He was a man of the finer tastes, rooms coordinated for functionality and style. Not a single fabric wasn't without a compliment to it, and not a motif was repeated. Obviously either inherited, or something else... Jack did not know. He didn't ask. He had sold his shop and home to the bank two days ago, for many reasons, and began to live comfortably with Bernardo. He had the room, and hardly denied it when Jack was here for nearly two weeks. He figured Bernardo wouldn't much mind.
The oak stairs creaked under the weight of his feet. His hands slid the shirt over his head, despite having just used it as a towel for his hair, and hit the bottom step. His eyes closed and he took a deep breath. Something was changing, he felt it upon the winds. It was nearly winter and the cold frosty air seeped through all cracks in the house, curling like ribbons around their limbs only to be shooed out by the fires they kept.
Jack slowly opened his eyes and breathed out, moving to the kitchen. It was large, open and inviting. It held a wine cellar below, and a bench seat beneath the large paned window. Conveniently placed just near the window and it's seat was a table, meant for breakfast. But there, greeting him with his back, sat Bernardo, laid back in the chair, a book in hand, clearly taking notes again. If there was one thing he admired about the man, it was his precision and attention to detail. Jack smirked to himself, going to pass him for the cabinet above the sink, reserved for some liquors, but slowed, noting the brandy glass sitting pretty across from Bernardo, along with the chair openly awaiting for his relaxation. He stopped and let his eyes trail to the man across the room from him, lifting his chin slightly as he spoke quietly, "Evening."

[Blitzkrieg_Baron]

Fig ① Regere 1840+++++++++++++++

He came to awareness slowly. He swam upwards lethargically through a muggy haze of red pain–

Blood. He’d gone to look at the blood where the leech king died, gone to taste the Were’s triumph…gone to get away from the Jackal. And…

And…there was a sharp bark, muzzle flash, and hot lead, and–

His knee had shattered, dissolved into blood and fragments of bone and sickly lurching angles. And now there was a boot in his face. It was a woman’s boot, all elegant curls of pearl buttons and viciously pointed heel and it was forcing his face down sideways into the filth of the dockside streets. It ground crushingly into his cheekbone and he let out a choked wheeze as the heel stabbed down hard into his windpipe. A cold voice came from above.

“You are badly out of place. Arrogant little puppy. Don’t tell me your Jackal has grown so wild now that even you fear to stay close” The Jackal. Despite the crushing pressure on his throat, he whimpered. “Oh, don’t waste your fear on her, she’s not here. There’s a whole mansion of the dead for her to play with. You don’t matter at all. You’re just a sick little stray.” He could taste the soot and scum caking the dock beneath him, could taste his own sweat and fear. He strained with every fiber of muscle in his body to get his feet under him, but it was no use. His only reward was a white-hot bolt of agony roaring through his shattered knee. Then again came the voice, bitter and harsh.
“Do you know what happens to rabid dogs who go sniffing about where they should not?” He could not breathe and his fingers scrabbled in the dirt, panicked and desperate. He heard a hammer pulled back, click and then

Bang!

“They get put down.”

It was disgusting, really. They were pack rabble, barely worth the cost of the bullets, or even the seconds it took to shoot them. Nonetheless, they kept coming. They were fools, skulking scavengers made bold by Kestrel’s death, fancying that that now, now it was safe to challenge a vampire. Absurdly easy to kill, all of them, but god there were so many. The winter wind was cold, bitterly so, as it wafted across the back of her neck. But the air reeked so much of smoke and dying, was so heavy with the charged threat of war that it nothing to cool the hot, stolen blood pounding through her veins. Frost painted the windows of New Londontown with glittering cold, and yet she felt none of it. Julienne had hate to keep her warm, burning in the pit of her stomach and the candle-flame blue of her eyes. There so many of the Were, and now, after the slaughter than rampaged in the wake of Kestrel’s death, so few left of them. It was exhausting. Julienne kicked the corpse aside carelessly with an uncharacteristic savagery as her foot drove into the dead man’s ribs. She sagged wearily against a wall. There was blood and mud and grime and God only knew what else spattered across her skirts. The artful disarray of her short curls had lapsed into mere untidiness. Her blouse gaped open well below her collarbone, offering a faint glimpse of the bare, pale curves of her chest, and the neat, cruciform scar over her left breast. In the flickering gas-light her skin was shockingly white. Only her gun remained everything it used to be: meticulously clean, always loaded, always primed to fire. Whatever uncertainties she may have held, Julienne knew one thing very well: this was war. You took good care of your gun. But still, she was a finishing-school girl, trained within an inch of her life to a near-painfully correct decorum, never less than drawing-room perfect, no matter what the circumstance. That she should go about looking as disheveled as she did spoke volumes.

Kestrel’s death had come like a tangible blow. She had been at the mansion, waiting to deliver news and he had come out, but brushed right past, had not seen, had not spoken to her. It had been disturbing. So she followed, venturing into the streets, but could not find him, and then—
She had felt him die. Raw, blinding agony and shock ripped across her mind, and Julienne had bent double with the pain, mouth stretching around a silent scream. Then there was the vision of the woman, a woman crimson and beautiful like blood and breaking and cities on fire. They were calling the Red Death, and they feared her, but huddled around her all the same, like children before a fire, equally terrified of burning and of the darkness which lay beyond. Immortality and uncertainty could not exist together. Forever was far too long a time to be plagued by doubt. Kestrel had been king, and while he lived, everything was justified because the king was right. Now he was gone. And she hated him for it, Julienne decided. She had been loyal. She had never questioned. She’d given him her obedience and her fealty and she had trusted him.

Then he died. He had died, butchered like a lamb. No, she did not grieve for Kestrel Paladin. Julienne was furious, seething bitter, wounded rage at the man who dared betray all that she gave him by showing himself weak enough to die. She pressed a hand over her scar and dug her nails deep into the flesh of her breast. Pain was good; it cleared her head. This was no time for remembrance. Julienne jerked herself upright. “The King is dead. Long Live the Queen.” Yes. Julienne strode off briskly, swishing through the darkened streets.
The very city seemed to be reeling still in the wake of the killings. The dockside tenements leaned drunkenly against one another. Ships bobbed anxiously on the Thames. Somewhere behind her, a window slammed shut and Julienne snapped her head up at the sound, eyes wide and breath quickening out of half-forgotten habit as one hand flew to the revolver at her hip. Nothing. It was nothing, only some foolish human trying to shut out the cold and the war in the streets. Julienne exhaled slowly.

“It’s never that simple, you know. Never. Whatever it is you’re so afraid if, it will find you anyway, locked windows or no.” She whispered at the darkened window. Julienne snorted. “Tch. And just what are you so afraid of finding, Julie?” She needed to find Atraxia. Kestrel had not heard her, or the news she carried. And since Atraxia had taken his place….
She would be out tonight. Atraxia had been wounded severely. Surely she would still need blood. At the very least, surely she would be out after the Jackal’s scent. It could not possibly be so hard to find her. It wasn’t. But Julienne was afraid. It was ludicrous, she knew it, but she could not help but fear such a sudden appearance of so great a power. It changed things.

New Londontown seemed to be laboring now under a surfeit of powerful, bloodthirsty women. It was really quite beautiful, in a way. Julienne straightened her spine deliberately. Enough was enough. She drew nearer to the water’s edge, flicking her gaze across the boats docked there, searching for Atraxia’s. “My Lady?” she called out across the vampire’s mind link, brutally forcing her thoughts to stillness. It would not do to quaver before such a queen.

Tab XLII.Eq.Ach.Z
Tab XLII.Eq.Ach.Z

[Tummeh Fiend]

▁ ▂ ▃ ▄ ▅ ▆ ▇ ℬ ▇ ▆ ▅ ▄ ▂ ▁

ℬ ernardo could admit it: everything had suddenly changed, and this change, he wasn't sure what to call it. Part of him wanted to embrace the events of the past few days, take the present into his arms and clap it on the back like an old friend. To an extent, that is what he had done. Perhaps not as sweetly, but he had not fought against this change like was so in his nature to do. Still, another part of him lingered, festered and bred by time washing over him; that wanted to rip apart the fabric of earth just to prevent the shaking of his comfortable life. Wasn't that so like him, though? Bernardo struggled with the sides of his conscious, mostly because he was exceedingly prideful and selfish. His selfishness would always beckon him towards its glorious destination, until his pride forbid treading that path. And it was his pride that usually won out. This time, however, was different for some reason, and his selfishness would hear no persuasions. Bernardo would spend many nights awake, as was his custom, brooding instead of killing. There could only be one answer, and he knew what it was before he proposed the question, he just refused to believe it was valid. Obviously it all rested on the shoulders of this Jack. This Jack Fletcher.

Even now, as Bernardo carefully pulled out a crystal brandy glass from the cupboard, he could hardly believe that his life had been uprooted and planted again. He had gone from being alone, unwanted, forgotten; and suddenly there was somebody else to share his ideas with. His passions, interests, crazy fantasies... when had been the last time he had been able to say them aloud? That is why he had no problem succumbing to the selfishness inside him that insisted he keep this vampire, and keep him close. Not to harm him, but to foster something between two beings that had scarce existed since the war. He could no longer deny the companionship he found in Jack, could no longer hide to himself that he needed somebody. The worst though, was that he actually liked Jack's company. No, he would not believe that. His life was the exact same, it would continue on fulfilling its bloody purpose as soon as his debt was paid. With exact precision, he placed the glittering glass exactly across from his chair and could only think one thing: liar. He understood that now things had gone beyond a debt. Of course, it had started there, a seed in fertile ground that had been laying in wait for water. There was something growing in the depths of Bernardo, and it scared him. None of this would have happened under normal circumstances, but times were anything but normal. These past two weeks had been so overwhelming that the shock seemed to waft right over his head, till now there was just a peace. A peace that came from who knows where, because he had not the slightest clue. It astounded him how extremely calm he seemed to be, though, for all appearance, everything had been flipped upside down. He was simply waiting for the day when it all came in at him, rushing like a mighty wind, intent on destroying him and his sanity along with it.

It had been exactly two weeks ago, and he had wrestled the two opposing internal sides of his soul, so typical. Fighting as if one had to die, had to be conquered, he internally considered his selfishness and pride. The cause of his battles: a solitary key that he had kept safe within the lining of his coat pocket. Bernardo would admit it, he was a selfish creature, like most beings were. He was no exception to the rule, he couldn't deny the nagging at his mind, the small voice that was begging him to keep this tool to himself. For who knows the mysteries and the wonders that it could unlock? He had wanted to rip open his own wrist, dig it between the tendons and veins and watch as the skin formed back over that metallic key. It would be inside of his flesh, kept safe and protected against wandering hands and malicious minds. Like a hoarder of shiny objects, this one seemed to draw his interest until all he could envision was the outline of the bow. He had traced the clover bow around behind his eyes, down the shank, imagined each little notch of the bit. So he had let that selfishness take over him. The key, he couldn't part with it. The more he saw the glint of it's craftsmanship, the more he idolized it and made it an obsession, and he wanted it. It was Jack's key, and how dare he give it to such an unworthy woman, for no betrayer could ever be worthy of such a heartfelt gift. Bernardo was not allowed to think for long, nor did he have time to turn back around and change his course, and maybe Jack's, forever. A voice had suddenly sparked his attention. Before he even lowered his eyes from the melancholy sky, he knew the source of the voice. Not because of its intonation, or tone, nor because of familiarity; it was something he felt deep in the marrow of his bones. An uneasiness that started in his gut and rose into his throat, until he was sure he was going to choke up vomit that night. Looking back on it now, he remembered thinking that he would spew blood from his mouth... no doubt he had consumed enough death with the blast of his pistol and the beast in his skin, and that evening he had glanced to the ground in the fear that his eyes would see red. This did not happen, instead he glanced to a naked figure beside him. No, she did not impress him. Her beauty was impressive, the way that she carried herself with such confidence, and immediately he could understand Jack's infatuation. In the moonlight she seemed like a lithe goddess, able to bring you fantastical pleasures but also able to hold you so closely she would end up strangling you like a kitten. Instinctively, his hand had went into his pocket to curl around that key, his prize, for even then he knew that he would not be surrendering it.

Even as she addressed him, class in her voice, he was turning on his heel. His eyes went wide, so frightened at the apparition that she was, and he was sure that she could see his fear behind the brown of his irises. She bared her fangs at him, though now he was sure that this had just been his imagination, and he fled. Fled with the key that he was going to steal, it was his. He wanted it, but he didn't... oh, how undecided he always was. Even now, the burden was on his lungs, watching each breath he took. The key: a burden, and a gift. Before the meeting, he had run like a madman until he had found a dark alleyway. How he wanted to die, apparently, by running into the same shadows that had tried to claim his life only hours before. Bernardo did not think though, he only ran until he found another shadow to consume him. And there, in the safety of the darkness, he laid in his own little world. Against his back, the bricks had bared cool tendrils through his jacket where he sat panting. She would come for him. She would find the key once she found him. To hide it, that was his goal, so that is what he did.

That is when the red had dripped to the dirty earth and metal kissed his collarbone.

How long had he just sat there, waiting for his hearing to finally catch the click of Jack's shoes? He simply rested against the alley's wall, staring up at the sliver of stars between the buildings, turning the bloody note in his fingers. When the small padding on the cobblestones became noticeable, and he could feel the vampire's presence outside the mansion, he finally stood to his feet. The note was folded up, carefully, precisely into a ball and then it was ingested. Bernardo could taste the sweet metallic blood soak through the paper before he forced it down his throat. Nobody would know, and maybe in time, even he could forget. That is what he had hoped. The slit under his collarbone had stopped bleeding, and he had buttoned his shirt closely shut to hide the evidence before he continued on his way, continued towards Jack. The rest of that night was spent drinking, both of them with the one desire to forget what they knew they couldn't on their own. They sat at the booth, Bernardo with a glass of wine to drown out the scraping of that key inside of his skin. Opposite him, Jack gulped down glass after glass of brandy; he had more to forget in any matter, so his glass was refilled. They talked, though somewhat distracted by the own events that weighed heavy on their hearts, still the chatter was pleasant. They had talked about simple things... their backgrounds a little, though making it painfully clear to steer away from the forbidden topic of Adelaide. Both of them understood that it was ground they rather not walk and water they did not want to tread. Everything had seemed warm and claustrophobic, but alas, things hardly stay so wonderful for long. Bernardo had just finished his thought when a cry rose up. The city wept, and neither man knew what for until they heard the ticking of the hearts flood into the streets, sweeping everything away in the flood of their hurricane. And just as they thought the eye of the storm had arrived, the swell became even greater. So afraid was the Were that he immediately dashed to the door and bolted the opening tightly closed. He fumbled on his face for his glasses, which he took off to violently massage the bridge of his nose. All they could hear in their ears was the cry, “He is dead!” That was when the nights had just started to blur together...

Now, things were finally coming back into focus, but in bits and pieces only. After the vampires had gone mad, after Kestrel had been murdered, Jack was ever so weary of him. He would walk just a little too close to the walls, just a little too quietly against the hardware floors. But Bernardo, oddly, had no desire to harm him. He had no motive, and he had still not paid his debt. He was an honest man, he prided himself on that especially... this was not Jack's time. He started to remember the names of the streets they had walked on the way to his shop. He remembered very clearly, however, waking up in his chair to the vampire's absence. Tempted to howl into the emptiness of his kitchen, to walk through the forest of bare manikins on the other side of the kitchen door, and though he wouldn't admit this to himself, he wanted to go running in the night to find him. But he didn't. He kept his feet firmly planted on his floor, staring forward with his fingers steepled until he found a reason to move again. That reason was a knock at his door. Releasing the bolts from their homes, he cautiously pulled on the doorknob, not quite ready for the sight beyond the frame. There stood a terror-stricken vampire who he supposed was Jack, his expression was so changed, the contours of his face distorted in ways he didn't believe were possible. He all but fell into the studio, flinching away at the manikins and uttering again and again, “Adelaide.... Adelaide....” He screamed at the windows, eyes flicking back and forth in a frenzy until Bernardo was fearful he would end up hurting himself. That was when he had pushed the man's arms down at his sides, holding him in place until his own hands ached from the efforts. He felt the energy slowly drain from the vampire's limbs as they became limp in his grip, and he guided him towards a chair where he just sat weeping. It would only be later that Adelaide's death would be explained to him, pardoning the troubles of the night before. Drinks were served.

When Jack moved in, Bernardo didn't want to protest; he didn't even want to consider them as enemies any further. The idea of having a vampire in his vicinity still made his skin crawl from time to time, but him and Jack... they were of like minds now. Both of them had lost love, and now both of them had a grudge to beckon to. Somehow, he could not bring himself to pick up the pistol from his bedside table and creep to the spare room. He would not lower the barrel and end this broken man's life, though sometimes, Bernardo could swear he wanted it. He had sat awake while the other slept that first night and knew that if he didn't fulfill his grudge that evening, he would never lay a hand on the vampire to harm him in the time to come. But that night had come and gone.

___________

That had been then, and this was now; and once again, the present included a round of drinks. This had been a sort of ritual between the two since Jack moved in, but while Bernardo only drank his wine, he always knew to pour something much stronger for his companion. Upstairs, he could hear Jack's footsteps, their pacing back and forth as he did God-knows-what. There was one thing that could be said of Jack: things were never really boring when he was around, he was always doing something unexpected. Talk to him, and Bernardo was probably the same kind of room mate in all honesty. His life spun uncontrollably and sometimes he couldn't even keep up with it. But while he waited for the vampire to emerge from upstairs, he opened the cellar door to travel downstairs. As was custom for most gentleman of finer tastes, he kept an assortment of beverages in the cellar, most of them alcoholic. The stairs creaked under his weight as he blinked to try to ward off the blackness, his hands groping the railing before finally finding the first shelf on his right. He knew right where those bottles were, they had been getting much-needed attention lately, and he grabbed both of the cool necks. He could hear the sloshing of the red wine, his personal favorite, and the echoing waves of brandy. The light from the kitchen filtered through the doorway above him, and he made his ascension carefully as to not drop the fragile glass. Once again, he blinked in the light, trying to adjust to his new surroundings before closing the door behind him with his heel.

In front of his chair sat an empty wine glass which was quickly filled with rich liquid, not even half full, but still full enough. The glass across from him was greedy, and to that he filled it with brandy almost to the brim. He knew it would be swallowed thankfully, graciously, and that the gluttony of the glass was not going to be quenched tonight. Bernardo sat but for a moment, listening to the footsteps continue their patterns before growing restless again. How he hated to wait. What he wanted was something to preoccupy his mind, anything to stop him from analyzing and tapping his foot impatiently. Immediately, his need to sketch, to create, started to itch at him. In the old days, that was the ultimate relaxer, the stress-reliever. To tell the truth, it had been far too long since he had designed anything for someone other than himself, and he certainly did not want to become rusty. So he stood up, his lips curling into a small smirk when he realized how childish he was acting. Patience is a virtue, he had to remind himself. Still, he pushed on the exit to the kitchen and his shop peeked at him through the doorway. Across the room his desk beckoned to him and he was immediately drawn to it, his master. Neatly organized on the top was his sketchbook and a few pencils, which he snatched up to tuck under his arm. When he turned around, he was faced with the huge three panel mirror, his sharp face gazing back at him. He was wearing one of his navy blue vests, the one with the chains looping out of the pockets; with the background of a black shirt tucked into his matching trousers. He looked absolutely dark this night, perhaps he was mourning in his own way, though he knew that he remained indifferent. He looked down at his Oxfords, polished as usual, and was reminded to grab some swatches of cloth to reference.

On the eastern wall, huge spools of fabric hung, begging to be used in a masterpiece. He sauntered over, fingered a few of the lush cloths in rich colors, some of his personal favorites. But he knew these by heart, by their feel and their stitch. So instead of pulling out the familiars, he reached beneath the spools and grabbed a wooden chest. Clicking open the lock, which resisted for a moment before offering up a resistant click, he swung the lid up to look at all of the scraps he had collected over the years. Out of these swatches, he picked up three. The first; a cream silky fabric, slightly more pink than he would have wanted. The second; a rich emerald fabric, diamonds dotting the surface if only you looked close enough... this one reminded him of the color of Jack's eyes, it would compliment him. The third, a satin black that glowed in the moonlight with a silver iridescence. These were his selections, which he was very pleased with, enough that he stopped his searching. The chest retired back to it's hiding place and Bernardo returned to the kitchen, spreading out all of the fabrics on the table top. Finally he was content, taking up his seat before opening the drawing pad and starting to sketch a series of outfits. Bold, elegant, fitted... these were all things that needed to present in clothes, especially clothes that would be worn by a gentleman like Jack. He had been promised a wardrobe and a stunning one he would get! Upstairs, the water rushed through the pipes.

Then there were the footsteps coming downstairs, and he crossed his ankle on his knee to rest his sketchbook before a very blond figure entered the room.

"Evening..." was all Jack said. Nothing about why he had bleached his hair, or what would possess him to do so. Nothing about the huge wet spot on his shirt. All the vampire offered was this simple greeting, and it was sufficient. Bernardo could not help but chuckle a little to himself as he replied, "I see you have found the bleach." He motioned to the seat across from him, setting down his pencil for a moment to rest his chin in his palm and his elbow on the wooden table surface. "If you were going for different, you have definitely accomplished it." Not that the new change didn't look good. Blond was not a bad color for someone with a fair face, such as Jack. Bernardo, on the other hand, did not think he could pull that off. He would always be a brunette, with dark hair edging towards black. But as he stared across the table at the stunning blondness of his hair, he couldn't help but believe that it suited him. It was white, like his pale skin, until all that really glowed on his face were those green eyes. They were the color in this statue of ivory. He picked up his wine glass, twirling the liquid around and around the cup before taking a reserved sip. And then he asked a question that he already, at least for the most part, knew the answer to.

"How are you...?

▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂
❝ A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night
May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright... ❞

[Pax Britannica]

The Tragedy of Innocence

"T-There were no...god, there were n-no survivors..." the cracked voice of a man stuttered.

The tavern was dark. The firelight from a dingy, soot-covered fireplace was the only source of light, and even that seemed to lap against the walls, coating it with a slime, a filth, a hatred. As if whatever the men now whispered about in horror had followed them and was now caking the walls, junking it up. There was filth and sin and hatred and sorrow everywhere. They stunk of fear. Blood splattered the tavern floor, but it was old and looked like black ash on the scuffed wood. People, no, creatures, were bundled up, hunched over their respective tankards, some just staring into space, some whispering. There was no laughter in a place like this. There was no laughter, perhaps, in all of New Londontown. The city was quiet, like the hush after a death knell. It was as if all of England was in a state of quiet shock, fearful, respectful of the deaths that occurred, but in the way one was respectful of vengeful gods. Like the way heathens looked with trembling lips and fearful eyes up to the heavens so they might supplicate the wrath of such gods.

All was quiet.
All was soft.
The sky was still.
The world was paused.

It was the deep, deep breath before plunging into icy black waters. It was the great inhale before the storm. Three men and a woman were close together, eyes twitchy, breathing irregular, heartbeats rapid. "So many dead. So much death. I couldn't b-believe it..."

"Did you--"

"See...see her?" another soft voice asked. They exchanged looks, the dirty firelight every now and again highlighting the face that all of them had been injured in one manner or another. A cold rush of wintery air blew through the door as another person entered. For a moment, all eyes were on the stranger. He was tall, gaunt, his face haggard, eyes dead. Blood was on his coat. He belonged. He was one of them. They allowed him in with no further disturbance. The talking had died off for a small while. They drank. And then, a thready voice said from the murky corner, a tone almost too soft to make out, "I saw...I saw...I saw her." The men paused, a fine tremor passing over them. Their gnarled, work-calloused hands trembled, but they raised the scum-caked tankards to their mouths anyway. They drank because in times like these that was all there was. When God and the Devil were both against them, come down to earth to have their final Revelation...mortal men drank and died. Drink and die. Drink and die. Drink and die.

"Was she...a monster? Was she as big as they say? With daggers for hands and shark's teeth, and covered in fur and blood, and as b-b-b--" the frenzied, reedy voice broke. A strangled laugh. The others were too much with their own sorrow to comfort their friend. Silence ate up a few more minutes. They looked to the shadowed, feminine figure in the corner.

"She was beauty incarnate."

One of the burlier men nodded, his thick lips glistening with drink. "I 'ave heard that."

"Beautiful. The most hideous, horrifying, sickeningly repulsive thing I have ever seen."

The man nodded again, his eyes older than his body. The words didn't need to make sense. They made all of the sense in the world to them. A short nod. More silence. They need not fear any others listened. The shell-shock had blinded and gagged all.

"She looked like...a little girl. Before the death, she looked just like a little girl. They could not have been the same creature. It was...one moment she...all in white...her lips...that face...and I--"

When the female voice broke, no one attempted a word of comfort. No one dared to. Unless the the gods could hear. The clock, an old grandfather clock had once stood off to the side. A swash of blood covered the face of it now. That old grandfather would never dare speak out against the gods either. Even he was silent. She began again, and her story was an artwork. It was a vision, a nightmare. No one in that tavern, listening on that night, that cold, black, winter's eve would forget the words. Those words would haunt their dreams. They must be heard.

"She was just a...a...little girl. She was wearing nothing but this shirt, a long shirt like what a man wears, but it was silken, the rain had began sometime ago and made the color a richer, deeper, darker blue than anything. I think it was bluer than the sea. Yes, yes, it was. She looked like an angel. She was so little. Her hands and arms and legs and feet--she had such small feet. I remember that. I was hiding. But I remember how petite her feet were. So pale and tiny. This was an angel, I remembered thinking. The cobblestones were red with blood. You know how they say that rain washes the blood away? It-It didn't. Not this time. The rain made it spread. It was everywhere. It was a sea, yes, no, do not mock me, it was a whole sea. A whole sea of blood, and she was in sea blue. The battle before had been over. I had glimpsed out of my window to see what had happened. Her h-howl--"

At this juncture, she took another long break, a convulsion passing over her body, a twitch, one, two, another, and another, and then speech again.

"The Sound. The Sound was filled with fury." One by one they nodded. They knew. Oh, yes, they knew.

"She came, following the Sound with the fury in it. She came for him. I thought, I thought, yes, the thing was going to be taken to Hell where it belonged. It was the Reaper come for him, but, no. When she saw it, lying in the street--it was a him, it was a man once, or perhaps never a man and only a monster. When she saw it, I saw something I think no one has ever seen. I saw nothing but a girl. A beautiful girl. She looked no older than eighteen standing out there. A girl in the bloom of her youth. Her eyes were sweet and filled with a sadness, an innocence. I had never seen such sweet innocence. Not the innocence of these naive girls, but the innocence of tragedy. It was something I know I will never see again. An innocence born out of blood and death, an innocence earned, not bestowed. An innocence more than what our Lord can give us. I cried to see her. Her eyes burned a divine gold and her face was fallen. Lucifer would know the look of agony on her face, as he was the only one cast so brutally from heaven. She fell upon his body then. Those dainty white arms were outstretched, pleading, fingers curled as if trying to harken back the soul that had left the corpse. Her mouth was etched with torment, open for a scream that was too loud to even be heard, a scream that never came. There is, no where, a sadness in all that is heaven or hell like what I saw in that small, young girl's beautiful face."

The winter creeping through the cracks in the old, wooden tavern was the only sound in the world. None spoke, all heard, none drank any longer.

"That's why this mortal place is worse than heaven or hell. That youthful girl was experiencing a special sort of pain that belongs to something greater, fuller than hell or heaven. We are damned, us mortals. I saw the damnation of our race in that lovely, pale, soft face...as she held tight to the decapitated head of a cold corpse...There was never a Lord. There was no God that day, in those bloody streets. If there was one, she was there, suffering more than us all. She was crying...I could almost see those tears as if they were silver and not water like ours. She cried and screamed that screamless scream and held the head to her breast. Her gold hair plastered down her slender shoulders, streaming over her tortured young features. I wanted to go to her. I...I was once a mother and I wanted to go to her! I would. I would have. I would have braved the monsters of the night, the angry gods to go and bring this lovely youth into my home and hold her...she was not...and then she turned into something neither of hell nor heaven."

Tick tick tick tick tick....to-to-ck

"She swelled, became an evil demon, giant wings, claws, fangs, she became a nightmare, she became the devil...she...did not change at all, actually, no. It was her eyes. I could see it in her eyes as they flashed the bloodiest red I have ever seen. She was the angry god. She was the thing that had done this. All of it. She had killed him. If not, then still, she did. She was the terror and the horror and the murder...and...then...she--"

"Killed a man, first thing as I heard it. Killed him because she could. He was trying to kill her, seeing her wounded-like, and...dead. Dead. D-Dead! Ha ha! HE WAS DEAD--" the panic entered the interrupting man's voice and his throat choked on anything else he might of said. The wind was quiet, too now. The woman was done, everyone knew it. Everyone knew everything she had to say without words. It was the silent fear of animals that allowed them, in this divine crisis a moment of seeing into each others' souls. The last words were on the tongue of a woman who had been slowly bleeding out, the drip drip drip coming to a halt.

"Yes...my son...he was dead. But the girl...that poor little girl...she--"

The sound of an old woman's body hitting the tavern floor evoked nothing but a crazy giggle from the lunatic then a silence that spanned a width of forever and towered to the heights of eternity. No one said anything to the dying-dead woman's story. They just...drank and...died...

--The mansion was quiet. There was nothing but the occasional sound of a soft womanly voice. Inside of a room that had once belonged to the great Vampire King, a lone, petite female was curled under the sheets, the silk garnet sheets of the dead king. She wore the tattered, filthy blue shirt. His shirt. She was curled around something, hidden from view mostly.

"Would you like some more of my blood? You must regain your strength...to fight me. We...we...you...have to fight me...again. And again and again and--" she paused, her voice giving way to a low keen. She moved the sheets up over a larger body next to her in the bed. She stayed curled around the thing, her hair filthy, the smell not as bad as one might think. The winter was approaching and the cold had a way of fending off the smell of rot. But it was there...just as surely as the rotting corpse of her dead lover was there beside her, headless.

As the slight female shifted, it was possible to see what she cradled so close....dead, sightless eyes, distorted and clouded with long dead death were open, the mouth closed, the skin of the decapitated head she held as pale as the driven snow itself. Blood shone on its mouth, as if someone had, many times tried to feed it. The female's wrists were torn, visibly, as if they would scar from how many times she had torn them out. The bed was covered in blood. She had tried to feed the head many, many times over the past week or so. She was caked with it. Her hair was matted around her face and she was nearly unrecognizable.

"You've got to be well enough to fight me....again..." it was almost the only thing she had been able to whisper in weeks. And for weeks after his death, his true death, she had laid in his bed with his rotting body and decaying head. Vampire bodies littered New Londontown, the humans too afraid to touch them lest the god who had done it wished their bodies to rot where they were slain. A trail of bodies, and more bodies in the mansion. The whole place stank, no, reeked of death. It was so abundant, it was hardly noticeable. She had slaughtered so many vampires. Some had attacked her, thinking it was she who had killed their king, some were killed simply because they were breathing and he...was...not...the vampires...like always...took everything from her. It was a vampire that had--

"I have to get up now. We must go find the dead man who has done this, Leech King. We will avenge ourselves of your death and they will die five thousand deaths and when I have been satisfied, you will remind me that I am not..."

It had been so long ago, but she could hear the mechanical, faint ticking of a single vampire heart. It was the only one she might suffer to live. And, of course, for a purpose. It had been so long ago since she had wrapped her hand around the vampire priest's head and dented that bone skull with her fingers, before smashing it on the ground at her small, blood-spattered feet. It hadn't been personal or intentional. It was no more intentional than tears were for sad mortals. She had found her and made her go away. She just...wanted...everything to go away...but a six year old vampire girl had dragged the thing, oozing its brain matter on the ground away and she allowed it. As long as they were gone...

Slowly, the starved-looking, half-dead specter; a ghost of beauty and death emerged from the sheets. With skill, a silk bag was fashioned out of the silk. Those golden eyes passed over the body and with care she folded the sheet over the decapitated, rotting corpse. Then, carrying the silken bag with an eight pound weight of blood and meat, she moved through the mansion like the ghost of a widow. Down, down, to the cellar. There, the things were kept. The one thing had lived. It was being nurtured from the other thing. The girl thing, the littler thing was dead. She looked down and saw her hands red. Oh. She had just killed? Of course. Then, passing those ghostly gold eyes to the other thing, the one thing that smelled a bit like her dead mate, she gripped the front of its shirt. She held it, eyes dead.

The thing babbled, a sick fascination with her, its tormenter, burning in its eyes. She spoke, she told her everything. She told her about the summons. The dock. And when she was done, Mercia let her drop, a crunch of a bone being broken resounding. Those small feet made not a whisper as they alighted up the steps...from the mansion altogether. She held nothing but that bag, every once and a while whispering something softly to it. There were no thoughts. She moved mechanically. No thoughts spared to the deaths of the vampires, or even to the death of the wolf who had called itself her General; suicide a coward's death--perhaps that is what she might have thought, if anything, but no, not now. Now there was nothing. She was emptied, drained like a cup.

...and never before had the Midnight Jackal been so deadly...

"Come my King...let us avenge with the wrath of angels..."

[Jencity]

How had it happened?

Kestrel… The man. The king. The friend. Kestrel was gone. Dead. The throne empty. The vampires hurting for a leader. No. There was the usurper. The pretender. There was the murderer.

How had she let this happen?

They had fought. She and Kestrel had argued – a heated disagreement. Kestrel had been so adamant that the Jackal wasn’t clouding his judgment. He had been so sure of himself; claimed he had his full capacities about him. These were lies. Christa had known these were lies. Kestrel stop this. I can’t ask you to undo what has been done, and I’m not fool enough to try. Simply take a step back and think about who you can truly trust. Would that be you, Christa? My supposed general who gallivants around instead of staying by her king’s side? My general who holds nothing but murderous intentions for my vampires and brings me nothing but more bodies? Kestrel… I will hear no more from you. The Midnight Jackal has been a better general to me than you ever had.

Christa had been dumbfounded. She had always jumped at his very command. She had been the only one he had ever confided in. And yet somehow she had failed him. As the general of the vampire clan, Christa had somehow failed Kestrel to the point where he stormed out of the mansion. He stormed out leaving his people behind. He left his vampires, weak and weary from constant battle, under the care of a monster who would prefer to see them all dead than keep them alive in the mansion.

All dead.

They were all dead. Every life that had been within these walls had now ended. And they ended violently at the hands and claws of the blonde beast. Every vampire who had sworn allegiance to Kestrel. Every vampire who had trusted the king and his general to keep them safe. Every vampire who had trusted their general when their king hid himself in his bedroom with the queen of the werebeasts…. Reaching out, Christa could still feel a few survivors. Among them, Jack. Despite her previous feelings toward the man, Christa was relieved to have a familiar face as an ally in these very difficult times. Christa could also feel the… She couldn’t tell if it were man or woman – nor did this really matter to her. The murderer was out there, and the murderer was a vampire. A vampire who was now calling her vampires… Kestrel’s vampires… to her side.

What loyalty did any vampire owe to this pretender of the throne?

Christa had felt it… when it happened… Christa had felt the blade pierce his flesh as if it were her own. The shock of it all had sent her clinging to the wall for support. Her legs all but gave out on her, sending her crashing to the ground. He was cut. He’d been stabbed. Yes, Christa – having been closest to the king, having shared the mental link with him for years – felt each parting of his flesh. And when his head parted with his body, Christa let out a scream as if it were her own death. The vampires, those who had gathered at Kestrel’s command, rushed to her side. Jasper. Edward. A man on each side kept Christa on her feet. They, too, knew what had happened. The general leaned on one, tears staining the white shoulder of the other. Tears brought on from pain and shock and misery. Then the call. Christa watched the realization spread over the faces of each vampire as the murderer screamed out for followers. Don’t answer it! Do not betray your king, even in death. This is our home. We must defend it from his murderer! Some listened. Others did not. Christa watched as friends and comrades, some relationships older than many, many years were broken that night as a handful of vampires walked out on the vampire clan of Kestrel Paradin. Jason had wrapped an arm around his general, holding her upright. Christa could still feel Kestrel’s death, even now.

And then it happened.

She roared.

Each and every pair of eyes turned toward the stairs. Standing at the top was the most powerful, majestic, luminous incarnation of death Christa had ever experienced. The grief that wracked her features was plain. As was the rage. Mercia had flown down those stairs as if she had sprouted wings. Kestrel’s shirt billowed about her thighs as she sped about the foyer. Her hands were no longer hands. Each delicate finger had lengthened and sharpened into a razor sharp killing tool. Without sparing her victim a glance, the werebeast queen reached out, removing the head of a vampire trying to make his way to the door. Her hips pivoted, arm stretching out like the carefully trained leg of a dancer, and her fingers – no, claws – slid into a nearby chest and removing the still beating heart with little to no effort. Christa watched all of this like she was taking in a play. They had to be just actors. These were props. Mercia wasn’t coming toward her looking like that… Christa was sure her heart had stopped beating. She could hear the calm breathing of the other woman as she removed the hearts of the vampires on either side of the general. Christa gripped the doorframe, her eyes never leaving Mercia. Don’t do this. She had begged. They’re innocent! Kestrel was our—

Christa woke with a bright, stabbing pain attacking the back of her skull. ”You’ve awoken, General.” Dark brown eyes dared to open, squinting even in the dim light a single candle offered. Dry, pale lips parted emitting an even drier rasp. ”Here, General. Drink this.” Christa could hear a man take a sharp intake of breath followed by a low groan as a wet wrist was pressed to her lips. The priest didn’t hesitate to sink her surgical steel fangs into the offered flesh and drink deeply. She could feel the human’s blood filling her belly and coloring her cheeks. Slowly gaining strength in her limbs, Christa reached out to pull the man closer. The basement chamber was filled with the audible gulping sounds that came from the brunette vampire. Christa drank of him. Finished him. She continued to drain him even long after he had died. Once she had her fill, Christa released his arm with a soft sigh of contentment. ”Are you feeling stronger, General?”

Christa turned toward the voice, trying to discern the face from which it came. ”Alice.” Alice was a rarity among the vampire race. Her father had been one of the engineers that brought life to the blood drinking clan. And she had been one such experiment. Dark auburn hair framed a small petite face that couldn’t be older than nine or ten years of age. ”You brought me down here?” The girl vampire nodded. ”How long have I been out?” Alice nervously chewed her lip. ”Almost two weeks, Christa.” The vampire general held her head in her hands. Kestrel had been dead for two weeks. She ran those hands through her hair, sighing heavily. The vampires, those who had survived, had been without a leader for two weeks. Or… The murderer has been king for two weeks time. Christa shook her head and instantly regretted the action. Her hand flew to the back of her head, only to be surprised by what she found. ”I’m sorry, General. I needed to cut your hair to see the wound.” Christa sighed, hearing the girl speak. ”I couldn’t save your coat. But I found this.” She held up the book and notes Christa had taken from the cathedral. A rare smile pulled at Christa’s still bloody lips. ”You did good, Alice.” The girl beamed. ”Now, we need to get out of here.”

Before Christa could struggle to her feet, the door leading to the rest of the mansion burst open and she stood there once more. Again, Christa felt her heart still in her chest. The werejackal was, certainly, a horror to behold. Mercia appeared as if she hadn’t eaten or slept or bathed in these past two weeks. Her hair was a wild mane that foamed around her face like a golden aura. Blood covered the warrior’s arms and legs and chest like war paint. Without saying a single word, Mercia entered the chamber like she owned it. Christa thought the blonde might as well. She was sure there was no other life in the mansion. She could smell death entering the room as if it clung to Mercia like a French perfume. Christa angled herself in front of Alice when Mercia stood there, eying the two of them. The brunette was sure, so sure, that Mercia had come to murder them as well – to finish off the last of the vampires.

Yet, she didn’t.

Christa let out a soft grunt as Mercia gripped the lapel of her shirt, lifting her to her feet. Her hands flew to the blonde’s, if only to try and balance herself. She knew what Mercia wanted, even before the beast’s pale lips moved to speak. ”The murderer has called all of the still living vampires to his side.” Christa quickly and willingly shared. She knew Mercia would go looking for the vampire who did this, and a part of her hoped the two would destroy one another. ”He’s taken refuge at the docks of the Thames. I know nothing else of him.” Seemingly satisfied with this, Christa was released only to land badly on her right side, painfully breaking her right tibia.

The vampire groaned, clenching her teeth. Though she knew her leg would be healed before she reached safety, the fracture pained her terribly. ”We have got to get out of here, Alice.” Christa leaned against the stone wall, trying to alleviate any pressure she may place on that limb. Trying to calm her racing mind, Christa reached out to the first vampire she could think of. Jack. ”Alice…” Christa looked over and her eyes widened, her jaw dropping. ”Oh, dear lord…” The girl’s death had been so swift and silent, Christa hadn’t even realized it had happened. Jack! I know you are near. Her heart beat faster, watching the little girl’s corpse bleed. Some part of her told her to reach up, taking Whitworth rifle that hung there. She cradled the rifled musket, hoping she wouldn't have to use it before Jack appeared. I’m still within the mansion. Bring your general to safety before Mercia returns to kill me.

”Though.. I very much doubt I am general to anyone anymore.”

[Sanguine Pomegranate]

Misha had sat just within the doors of the side-mansion for a few more minutes before hearing a sudden shift in the events outside. A few beasts and wandered inside, most of them ignoring all to willingly the disheveled mess of clothing, bone, and grime called Misha. He heard the heavy footfalls of huskier men, sizable statures to match equally large egos. "The harder they fall...." Misha whispered into the space just surrounding him, his words catching the ear of only two of the many now entering the mansion. And of those two, only one seemed to be in foul enough of a mood to do anything about such blunt a remark as Misha's.

Misha remained standing where he was, unwavering in his blank disposition. The beast he had offended with his words turned with a sudden snarl, a curling of the upper lip in disgust at the small ghostly figure before him. "What was that, I could have sworn I heard the words of a worm wanting to be put in his place." Misha didn't budge, feeling the hot, moist breaths of the angered beast a mere foot away from his head. "I'm am speaking to you. Worm." Neither party at this point seemed amused. The were-beast, that had been looking for any excuse to release the massive amounts of anger their kind naturally held, and Misha, words falling from his mouth without hesitation, of course, what did someone who couldn't see their enemy have to fear? For most, it would seem that being unable to see just what you were facing made it all the more frightening, but for Misha, it just made everything so much....simpler.

The perfect example of such simplicity stood before him just now, surely itching to sock him in his blind, indifferent face. Anyone else would see a large brute, boiling over with anger from a simple comment, and rearing to engage in violence. But, what Misha saw from his senses, unhindered by sight, was nothing more than another unstable beast, with an even less concrete I.Q. level. The way his words sounded as they exited his mouth with a little bit of spittle, his heated breath, even the slight shuffle of his foot on the floor, from all these subtle factors, Misha gathered nothing more than stupidity, and confusion from the man before him. Misha's judgements were never hindered by the initial 'cover' of any book he was given to 'read'. And, in this way, he saw no threat before him, he heard the tone of an angered beast, one angered enough to threaten, but not angered enough to back such claims and insults. Misha himself, saw no need to speak again, he already knew the outcome of this small ordeal, the man would leave in a huff, and nothing else would come of this small encounter.

Just then, like clockwork, he heard the hissing scoff of the man, the stomping steps as he walked off with a snort to join the others, leaving Misha as he was, with nothing more than a "Whatever.", to explain his unwillingness to beat a blind man. Misha let his head fall back to rest against the wall with a small, hollow thump. He heard the echos of the hollow spaces within the wall, a vivid picture of within drawn for a fleeting moment in his mind due to the sound. Misha figured his time here, listening to their superior, the midnight jackal, would be short, concise, to the point, something was to happen with the beasts and the vampires, and it was to happen soon, though, what, and why, was unknown to even Misha's unnaturally keen sense.

Until something indeed did happen, before the Jackal had even spoken to them...

The sound pierced the ears of all that night, asleep, awake, living, even the long dead could have opened their eye in acknowledgment of such a sound. The beasts within the mansion cringed all at once, those with more sensitive of ears, were completely dazed by the intensity of the sound. A howl of everything but joy, warmth, a sound so cold, so hollow, even Misha had to wince at it's emotion. They ran then...a disjointed, clamoring mess of beast and vampire alike, rushing to leave the grounds in a panic, desperate to escape that sudden fury following the moan of death-like sorrow. In the mess of people rushing out the doors, Misha was jostled, pushed, trampled, spun and disoriented, Misha didn't know how long, how many people and pushed him out of their way in their desperation to get to the door, but as the last of the beasts left the mansion, Misha found himself a good ten feet from where he had originally been standing, at the side of the doors...

Misha felt on his hands and knees, trying to find a wall, a chair, a step, something, anything to aid him in finding his way around this unknown place...

That was when the smell came to him...blood, fresh, warm, pungent. As he let himself focus again on outside smells, sounds, feel....relaxing from the whirlwind, flurry of sudden activity that followed that cry...as he recovered from being stepped on, pushed to the floor, kicked as people blindly made their way to the escape...

It was then that he heard their screams, the slaughter, the movement of light, deadly footsteps just outside on the lawn. Vampires up to the chopping block, dead, dying....death. Misha crawled towards that smell, those sounds, his hands finally, minutes later feeling the cold air, the hard wood of the doors, he stood, and opened them, and was rushed by such vivid sensations, clearer now that no barrier of wall or door kept him from hearing, it was indeed as he'd thought, vampires being slaughtered by the dozen, running like insects, hundreds of desperate footfalls overlapping one another in their effort to escape the fury of the Jackal. So few succeeding in escaping...Misha stood in the door frame, entranced, awed, death, so much death.

The sightless siren, smiled then.

A smile, that should never be worn by such a man, such expression never crossed his face it seemed, should never cross his face. Misha was known only for his bleak exterior, his grimy, unkempt ways, his sinister air, to see a frown on his face, was hardly common, but no surprise would bubble up in anyone from seeing the man express himself in such a way, anger, equally expected from a beast, but to smile with such ferocity, no more a smile than merely a crack in his stony-exterior...it was unsettling to anyone that would have seen it. But, as it was, the only audience to his sudden grin, was the recently deceased vampires that littered the grass before him. The eruption of rage from the Midnight Jackal had ceased to exist here, she had gone then, off to carry her fury to the source it seemed....leaving Misha in safe enough standards to step down from the side-mansion doorsteps, and reap the spoils of someone else's battle.

And this was exactly how he carried himself for the two weeks to come...he had stepped quickly away as the Jackal returned with the body of the vampire king hours later, but after she had disappeared inside, the siren became bold once again, giving in to his scavenger ways, picking the bones of one corpse, before moving to another. Misha lived a simple lifestyle as it was, this, made it just that much easier. Rotting corpses, to anyone else, would be just that, rotting corpses, but to such a being as Misha, they were so, so much more. He ate, quietly, and only when his stomach told him so, for hesitation of overstepping his thin welcome, being in such close proximity to such a tragic, deadly force that lay inside, mourning.

His hands, his bare feet, his whole being now carried the pungent stench of death, as did the rest of the grounds before him. Misha moved slowly, slowly memorizing where he made his stay, slowly finding his way around, hands outstretched slightly, but only slightly unlike mortals, his handicap didn't rely on touch, he had honed hearing, smell, the sudden smell of bark warned him of a nearby tree, the sound of millions of rustling legs, warned him of the fire-ant pile hiding underneath the same tree, the buzzing to his side, warning of the wasps nest, forming within the exposed skull of a vampire corpse he had fed on merely days before...

Two weeks from the day everything changed, the Jackal emerged from the tomb-like mansion again...and Misha was all too aware of the danger that came with being in her presence...unlike those who might mistake her innocent, beautiful essence in her looks for weakness, Misha saw no such qualities, no, the truth was there, the smell of the king's corpse lingering with her...the mumbling whispers of her voice...Misha paused, standing as she exited, having heard the doors of the mansion creak open slowly, alerting him to her presence.

Slow.....hesitating....blind steps, Misha approached with caution, falling in step behind, not beside her, keeping a good couple of feet between him and the deadly presence he felt, but knew to follow, lest he risk becoming lost, trying to find his way off of the mansion grounds on his own, once the rotting flesh finally fell from the bones of the vampires...he didn't speak at first, like usual, the Sightless Siren kept thoughts to himself, reserving his opinion only for the most important of moments, this of course, being no such time to try and give his thoughts on the actions of others...he just followed, listening for each individual, quiet footstep of the woman, his own feet becoming practically silent as they moved to keep up. The vulture, following the true predator...

[Hamletmaschine]

Lips curled up into cute hooks upon his cheeks. Bernardo's first glance had been a priceless moment of surprise and confusion. It was everything Jack had wanted. He admired the man's attentiveness and appearance for the evening. His darker than usual shirt and vest was a nice change. The same couldn't be said for Jack. His clothes were pulled out of a trunk in one of Bernardo's dressing rooms. Baggy and woolen, but warm and that was what he wanted on this cool evening. Jack would have blended in well with the lower society class of New Londontown, however he only looked like a ragamuffin here against the ravishing brocades of Bernardo's frock coats and fitted suit vests. Luckily, his new friend was always working away on sketches and ideas for some clothes for him. Jack was eager to see them finished, but every day Bernardo spent little time creating product and more time drawing more and more concepts. Every evening, they would convene together at this table, talk and drink, and Bernardo would draw for hours while Jack usually sat quietly.

Tonight was no different. Jack slowly stepped forward and took Bernardo's offer. He slid down into his chair, opposite the man and laced a hand around the glass upon the table, waiting patiently for his pale lips to kiss it over and over again. Taking a well needed sip, Jack lingered in that moment of enjoyment, feeling the warmth and tingle of the alcohol slither down into his stomach, and at the end he sighed comfortably, "I suppose I was going for... 'unrecognizable'." Jack muttered quietly. His eyes looked into his drink and then closed slowly to take another large sip before placing the glass upon the table but not letting his hand wonder from it. He tilted his head and opened his grey eyes to land upon Bernardo. Studying his firm expression, he found intrigue, compassion, and sympathy. Jack's smirk slowly dissipated, returning to that thin line that had been his expression for days. He licked his lower lip at Bernardo's question and looked down at his drink again, "I am... fine." he replied gingerly. His eyes narrowed and he sighed, shaking his head lightly, "I am still finding it difficult to sleep, so forgive me if I am sluggish." Jack murmured more to himself than anything.

What he had really wanted to say was that he was suffering from severe paranoia, sleep, and a damned ghost of a fallen angel. But, he wasn't going to immediately admit that. Why? Well, because then he would worry, and that would make Jack worry that maybe he wasn't alright, just as he was beginning to convince himself hat he was. The more he told himself that this was normal, that this was all fine, the more he was beginning to believe it. And that things would numb away and her face and presence would go away. Only if Bernardo didn't pry...
A soft silence befell him and Jack could barely stand it. He cleared his throat gently and looked to Bernardo, smirking, "Still sketching I see. I am beginning to think you are slacking off. You've barely finished taking measurements." Jack noted and managed to finish his drink, getting more comfortable in his chair.

Beyond the closed up window shutters, Jack could almost smell snow. It had to be the verge of December. The wind was gentle but left bitter frosty kisses against the skin. And it was always moist. Perhaps, Bernardo could make him a coat? The thought propelled him into envisioning a long tweed overcoat. Oh how marvelous. He had so missed the delights of fine clothes. It was so curious how quickly he could go through a set of clothes.
But away from clothes, that were his own, Jack felt little moving on the streets this night. Bernardo's neighbors were fairly quiet. The little girl who's bedroom window looked down into his kitchen was peeking through the curtains again, watching and listening as if she were trying to find out if they were part of the damned. She had been doing so for the last few nights. Jack figured she wasn't used to the light from this window on a daily basis. Bernardo probably had a much different routine before Jack showed up.

And then he suddenly heard a different sound. A call -- a voice calling his name. Jack 's eyes thinned and his breathing slowed as his ears tuned in to that voice. He half thought it her ghost again and nearly dismissed it's begging tone. But there had been a desperation to it that made Jack rethink that notion and listen.
And the second time it hit him like a stone. Christa...
"She's alive." Jack blurted out. His eyes widened and he flicked his attention to Bernardo, quickly rising to his feet, "I-I heard her. Christa is alive!" Jack nearly began for the door but stopped, "Bernardo, I must go to her. She is calling to me for help." He thrust a hand out to his friend and watched his eyes, "I know you care little for vampires, other than myself, and you know this the same of me... But will you forgive another in this house this night? I cannot deny her..." It was a strange thing for him to say... Christa was little more than any regular vampire with a grudge now that Kestrel was gone... wasn't she? Well, regardless of rank, Jack needed to see her. And he would find her, "Come with me."

Jack spun on a dime and swiftly headed for the door. He slipped on his set of boots and swung a long trench coat off the coat tree. He didn't want to think of what was going to become of it's fine condition, because he knew little of what Christa had gotten herself into. But he didn't dare glance back to Bernardo. He only assumed, and hoped, he would follow.
The night sky was clear of clouds and the stars were bright. The moon was blazing, mirroring it's sun in comparison. Bernardo's house was across the bridge... the Mansion unfortunately on the other side. It was going to be a trek.
Luckily, their run to the Bridge was free of interruption. The street's were all stained, some more than others, in different shades of blood. Most of the bodies had been moved by now, littering alleys, or sidewalks. Jack's feet led him, while his mind was a flurry of thoughts.

Despite their previous history, Jack needed Christa. He was not willing to forgive any pain she caused him, and betrayals or torture. But, with Adelaide gone, even with Kestrel gone... he understood why it had happened. He understood why she did it and with what intentions behind them. He had hated her for all the wrong reasons. And now he needed to show his understandings by helping her now, when perhaps she needed it most.

The closer he approached the vampire mansion, the more the smell became rancid and voluminous. A hand over his lower face, he cautiously watched the shadows for others, but figured many would not be returning to this holocaust. Mercia's strong presence still lingered here, but did not hold the power behind it with her person. She had indeed left, but not long ago. Jack did not know how much time he had, but he would need as much of it as he could.
His feet lightly clicked against the stones, until he halted at the curb before the mansion grounds. The large estate home was in shambles, windows agape without glass, and doors unhinged. Bodies littered the once flourished lawn, and blood caked every surface. Jack glanced over his shoulder to Bernardo, then back towards the mansion, "I like what they've done with the place." he spit out under his breath, before taking a couple dangerous steps forward into the Hell, "Stay close to me." he looked back to Bernardo once more and smiled a grin on the verge of sanely wicked. It was the sense of adventure and unknown that quite strangely filled Jack with excitement. He did not understand where this came from, but it intrigued him enough to let it flow. He itched for a pistol, to shoot at anything that came at him. But there would be nothing here.

The inside was just as horrid as the out. Jack stepped over four headless bodies just to slide between the doors to the foyer, where only two weeks ago was filled with the same amount of bodies, though alive. He noted among the limbs and bones, and blood, many gears and springs... sprockets and metal. Broken hearts. A shudder snaked up his spine, but it would not detour him from his goal. He could feel her weakly beyond the Cellar door. He just had to get to it.
He remembered it like the back of his hand. It was where she had taken him to torture him, to bleed him and pull out his secrets. He led them down the west hall, heading down a flight of stairs and not even gracing the room that had been his here. Deeper down Jack took him, light on his feet. And before long, before him was the large oak doors, closed and locked tight. His hands went for the large double set of deadbolt locks and the log-like board in front of the door, cradled in iron hands. There was little light, but as he hulled on the doors, opening them, he heard her shaking breaths, "Christa..."