Black Panther (Poesque; Lovecraftish)

(Note: I've made some slight edits to the story above (minor changes) but don't have time to post. Here's the next chapter, however):

Once Dorian had departed and the police had relinquished any aspirations they held concerning my imprisonment and punishment for what they believed to be several counts of murder -- once these tribulations had fully ended and released me, I immediately sold the abbey and moved to Romania, a nation toward which I felt an uncanny and eerily oxymoronic affinity.
There is something alluring about the familiar – though it be evil – that the strange and mysterious – though they be safe – lack in any proportion. For this reason man often chooses to remain in his current predicament with the possibility of death rather than alter his course into the unfathomable region of chance and thus the unknown. Not surprisingly, I – who still retained a vestige of human nature – was no different, and now sought to live amongst my enemies rather than continue in undetermined circumstances.
Once in Romania I sought the historical region of the Carpathians, which stood as the current dividing line between Moldavia and Transylvania, and in particular the area between the cities of Bistritz and Bukovina, which is where the original vampires were said to have emerged (although I knew this allegation to be false). What I found there astonished me: an ancient civilization virtually untouched by modern technology. Stylistically medieval buildings now stood on mechanically advanced foundations, and Romanians, clad in the garments of that bygone era, meandered through the city on foot, or journeyed by horse and buggy.
Initially nonplussed, I soon discovered the raison d'être for the phenomenon: an enigmatic gentleman whose visage had never been seen (save in the matutinal hours before dawn) resided in the mountains, and it was he who employed the majority of the town’s denizens in the production and distribution of his wine, Le Rouge. After a mysterious fire had consumed most of the town, this aloof businessman (who was a foreigner at the time) had poured millions into the economy, effectively rebuilding the entire city and employing its populace at his new refinery.
The local merchant who imparted this wisdom to me and whose own business rested entirely upon the munificence of the wine maker’s employees indicated the factory paid well and more than compensated for the loss of life that seemed to accompany the profession. As he explained it, several employees had met their untimely demise while engaged at the press, so that the owner had been compelled to raise wages to offset the associated risk and lure potential prospects into employment. When I asked him if these accidents were regular and ongoing, he informed me that at one time they were almost expected, but since the first of the year the number of mishaps had fallen to zero, leading even the most devoted cynic into reconsideration.
After thanking him for the information, I departed for The Raven Inn, the lodging that the merchant had recommended to me as “most historical”. As I walked I noted with piqued interest the cobblestone streets and the gothic cathedrals in the distance, their high, pointed steeples towering ominously over deep, shadowy myriad panes. Women in long skirts and men in peasant wear bustled about industriously, and young children – evidentially caught up at play – threw a ball in the square. The humdrum of the people’s daily existence soon began to soothe my agitated spirit, and I was just beginning to feel the first stirrings of an unfamiliar joy when I observed something peculiar above an entrance that abruptly jarred me from my thoughts and made my blood run cold. There, in a wood rotted with age, was the Latin word for “Nine”, and a pyramid whose three points intersected the diameter of the circle that enclosed it.
The emblem was exceedingly queer, for while it resembled the archetypal trigon representative of Trinitarian faiths, it was – alas – a pyramid with four points and the word nine. I studied it at length, attempting to access those heretofore hidden planes of existence whereby my new nature might grasp what it has never experienced itself (but nonetheless knows by virtue of my race’s communal memory) yet I could not evoke a single recollection. However, my interest soon stirred the curiosity (or was it concern?) of the shopkeeper, who exited through the doors to ask me how he could be of assistance.
“What is this?” I inquired, pointing to the strange symbol.
“It is a sign,” he stated flatly.
“Why of course, but what does it mean?”
The shopkeeper, who was an older balding gentleman with bushy dark brows and a mouth twisted in a sour expression, started hard at me. “Who wants to know?”
I looked within but detected no heartbeat within his chest. “I am...I am Lizzy Bathory...from Moldovia.”
The merchant’s eyes grew wide as his mouth gaped open with astonishment. “Lizzy Bathory – is it possible?”
“Why not? I took up residence for some time at Welbeck Abbey and even opened a school there.”
“The Duke – I’ve heard of you, but he wasn’t one of us,” the retailer protested suspiciously.
“No, but have you seen his underground estate? He lived in the lap of luxury as you and I know it,” I responded, emphasizing the word “know”.
“Indeed, but how is it you came to be here? And how could you possibly not know the sign?”
I coughed to clear my throat, aware that both humans and non-humans around us were listening attentively to our conversation. “There were some murders in the area,” I informed him, gazing intentionally into his eyes. “An investigation followed in due course, and I felt it was in my best interest to relocate here. As to your second question – I have been alone for quite a while. It seems I have forgotten much, and am unaware of much more.”
The merchant stared at me again, shook his head and sighed. “I can’t tell you what it means,” he nodded to indicate the circled pyramid, “but I will let the others know.”
I bowed gratefully to him, then took my leave and continued my journey towards the Inn. Word spread through the town like wildfire, and by the time I arrived at the motel, I felt strange eyes peering out at me from the darkness and heard the hidden creatures hiss “Bathory!” whenever I passed.
Up until that point, I had felt a certain smug serenity in the knowledge of the superiority of my race and my ability to successfully impersonate the most terrible and gruesome of all female assassins, but late that night, after the moon fell in the sky and I returned home for sleep, my confidence was broken by a dream. It was to be the first in a series of dreams – terrible nightmares – that were to plague me periodically for the rest of my life. In this dream a creature with nine angelic heads, each of a different hue – black, purple, orange, grey, brown, turquoise, red, white, and blue – melded into the earth, and creation was blessed with rain and sun, plant and animal life, and mankind was happy. But soon another creature of similar constitution came - likewise bearing nine heads of nine colors – but with countenances markedly different – malformed aberrations they were, bearing horrible twisted expressions – and this creature also melded into the earth, and darkness fell upon the land, the earth commenced to die, and so did animal, plant and human.

It was the sound of the giant clock chiming the hour of five in the morn that roused me from my disturbed slumber. Shooting up in bed, I discovered that I was profusely sweating – though I felt as cold as ice and the temperature in the room was mild. After washing my face in the bathroom I prepared to retire again when I heard a rustle in the corner, and saw two slanted eyes peering out at me from behind the curtain.
Only then did I realize someone else was in the room with me.

The city glowed with the incandescent red flicker of candle flames and bonfires, which raged in the alleyways between the dark or dimly lit shops. I noticed the departure of the sun had given rise to an entirely different population: the faces I had seen previously at dusk were gone, replaced by white, willowy visages atop wraith-like bodies cloaked heavily in robes of red, black and gold. From underneath hoods red eyes peered out at me, burning with a supernatural light that I attributed to the refraction of fire illumination, although some part of me knew I was in the midst of the damned, and these creatures were not human but those they call “the undead”.
I considered my guide, who likewise was heavily cloaked, though no eyes sought me from within the black hole of his drape. I had discerned that he was or had been male at some point, for the voice that had penetrated the shadows of my room had been deep and rough, not unlike that of a chronic smoker, and that he wished to show me some sight of importance, although I had not gathered where we were going or for what purpose. Indeed, I was still in a state of shock when I had acquiesced to follow; under normal circumstances my intuition, or what others would deem a “sixth sense” (most Noctor abilities deemed superhuman were nothing more than additional senses whose equipment lay in the regions of the brain), would have alerted me to the presence of another, but distracted and confounded as I was by my frightful dream I did not detect his presence. And now I knew not where or to what I was headed, and this mystery caused me great concern.
“Where are we going?” I inquired after a time
“Tonight….”
“Well I hate to ruin this excursion for you, but it’s morning. The sun will be up in an hour or so. I don’t know if this worries you but it worries me.”
“Tonight there will be a ball at the castle. You are invited,” the mysterious individual informed me.
“Ah. I see I’m not the only one stuck in the 19th century. Well-done. A ball. Bravo. The sun will be up in a half-an-hour. Are you planning on taking a tan, or are you going for the blazing conflagration?”
My escort did not answer, but evidentially intent on arriving at some goal, pushed onward until we reached the edge of town. Straight head of us lay the main thoroughfare, but off to the right a hiking trail wound it’s way deep into the surrounding forest.
Then the stranger – who up until this point had been rather slow and precise with his movements – abruptly turned to gaze at me with what I thought were blue eyes. Fearing lest he should see something in me I did not wish him to see I turned away, but upon returning my glance I noticed he was pulling on what appeared to be a handle protruding from the ground. A hatch, heavily overgrown and covered with brush, flung open, revealing the gloomy aperture of a tunnel.
The guide turned back to stare at me then pointed forward.
“Follow the trail tomorrow evening to the castle,” he ordered, then pointed down into the abyss.
“A tunnel: that is absolutely brilliant,” I remarked, for I was impressed by the forethought it required. “Just one?”
“There are burrows leading off the mainline throughout the city.”
“What a wonderful design…so no one gets sunburned. I had the same myself; it was limited, of course, built for one.”
My guide turned around to look at me once more, and again I felt an uncomfortable wave of fear flow throughout my body. Following him down the latter into the deep pit, I soon detected a change of direction, and realized we were returning to the Inn where I was staying. As we moved through the underground channel I could feel the others pass by and could perceive with a strain of night-vision the same red eyes glowing from underneath the cloaks. To some extent I found the entire experience surreal and at moments baffling, for though I conceived of what it was to be a vampire, I felt something more was at hand – something more monstrous, sinister and organized – and despite all my efforts, I could not penetrate that knowledge or determine anything beyond my five senses.
Undoubtedly I was being blocked, and this was perhaps the most troubling realization of all, because only a power of equal strength to myself could muster it.
After a while the stranger ceased and pointed up to a hatch that was directly overhead. Upon opening it I discovered myself back in the putrefying decay that was the Inn basement, although with some surprise I noticed that this, too, was devised based on modern technology. The rotting wood betrayed here and there a shiny steel beam, so that I could only conclude whoever it was that owned the building intended it to appear – to the casual observer – an old, cryptic labyrinth, dreadful and repellent.
A strategic deterrent.
Hoisting myself up I shut the door and began a sharp scrutiny of my surroundings. Various corridors stacked to the ceiling with wine racks lay off the main hallway. Pulling a bottle of the shelf of that closest to me, I studied the label: La Rouge. Grabbing another bottle from the next corridor I noticed that it, too, was La Rouge. Deeply troubled, I dashed from one hall to the next, pulling wine bottles from their respective sepultures, hoping for another brand that would end the mystery, but they were all La Rouge.
Pushing the horrifying thoughts from my consciousness, I uncorked the first dusty jug and took a swig of the dark ruby liquid known as “La Rouge”. Aghast, I dropped the bottle on the floor, watching the red abomination flow out it’s top and stain the wooden beams below. It was as I had expected: human blood. The creatures with their bright red eyes and heavy cloaks were manufacturing and distributing human blood behind a winery front.
Further inspection revealed bottles of pressed wine of inferior quality, undoubtedly manufactured as such to discourage wine connoisseurs from treasuring and seeking after it’s taste, which were intermingled with the true export to conceal the nature of the shipment.
And the entire factory – set in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains – was in such a remote location, virtually unknown and untraveled by man, that detection was unlikely, if not completely impossible.
Returning to my quarters, I sat on my bed tapping my fingers nervously together and wondering what to do when I noticed a letter had been slit under my door. Upon opening it I was surprised to find it was from Dorian and that it contained an invitation.

He was getting married.
I immediately packed my bags and departed. Destination: Liberland.

Her name was Rosetta Lachey, and she was to be the wife of my Dorian.
She was – alas - preternaturally beautiful. Long brown hair adorned with golden rays cascaded down to her shoulders and were complimented by her large hazel eyes, which shone forth like bright bullion or deepened to earth brown depending on the shade closest to them. Her cheek was high, her skin a fair white (completely untainted by the sun) and, as is the case with all women born under divine blessing, she was tall and slender, moving with the grace of the gazelle. Furthermore, she was intelligent and displayed a wit and charm unknown to most of her gender, which naturally made her the most perfect specimen of her sex and a marvelous match for her beau, Dorian, who was perhaps the only man who could equal her in looks and personality.
And for all of this, I completely despised her.
Granted, I did not want to despise her; no woman of any self-awareness is proud of her jealousy or desires it to reign inside her body, and yet I was rather powerless to move it elsewhere. It sat deep within my chest, sulking and pitiful, silently protesting Rosetta’s mere existence on the planet as an unfair advantage that left the rest of us women sorely wanting. Still I did not act upon it but let it fester awhile – I let it rage until it gave birth to an idea - a sense of righteous indignation and recalled retribution - a thought that was justified in the light of the past.
And I smiled silently to myself.
Dorian had changed a great deal in my absence. Whether it was the human companionship of love or some other influence acting upon him, he appeared more amicable and sensitive than I last remembered him. In fact, when he saw me studying the scene from the safety of a dark corner he immediately excused himself and navigated over to me.
“Regina, how are you?”
The name sounded foreign against my eardrums.
“Regina?” I protested, though I knew not why. “Who?”
You, silly. How are you? You don’t seem well.”
“I’m fine,” I retorted. “How are you – oh nevermind. You’re getting married.”
Dorian smiled sweetly, then tugged gently on my arm. “Come – I want you to meet her.”
“You forget I already know who she is. I knew the moment I walked through the door, so introductions are quite unnecessary.”
“I can’t believe it. You’re jealous,” he exclaimed, procuring a wine glass from the waiter’s tray as he passed. “What is wrong with you?”
“That’s not La Rouge, is it?” I inquired, staring at the red liquid, “because if it is - if it is, you need to be careful, especially with your guests.”
“La What? What are you talking about? What is the matter?”
“Oh Dorian, so much has happened I don’t know where to begin. After you left I moved to Romania. I know - don’t chide me – I felt so alone and empty, I thought living amongst my enemies was better than being a hermit in human society. Anyhow, soon after I began to have dreams – night terrors of creatures with multi-colored heads and mass destruction, and then I noticed all these strange signs about town, ennegram symbols and the Latin numeral nine above pyramids, and then bundles of nine: nine carts, nine houses in a row, nine trees together. There’s an extensive tunnel system under the Carpathian Mountains and vampires go to and fro at all hours, hideous beings in large cloaks with glaring bright red eyes, and there’s a wine press there that makes La Rouge, which isn’t a real wine at all but human blood….”
“Okay Regina,” Dorian interrupted, grabbing firmly hold of both my shoulders. “We’ll work through this later, but not now…” he said, and for the first time I noticed my diatribe had drawn unwanted attention of those around us.
“Yes, it’s your engagement party and far be it from me – silly woman that I am - to ruin it for you with my recent nightmare. I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you later.” Bowing graciously, I excused myself and departed for my hotel, where I lay down on my bed and immediately fell asleep.
Within moments of dozing off I once again found myself in the terrifying dreamscape of bizarre creatures and odd symbols, except this time I ventured farther into the realm of the unknown, and experienced freakish new horrors and visions: hissing voices whispering words spoken in a strange tongue as I flew through what appeared to be walls. No matter which direction I turned these solid structures rose up in my path, but I soared through them with all the grace and ease of an eagle on a gust of wind. When at last I landed, I discovered myself inside of what appeared to be an archaic crypt, and quickly realized I was inside an Egyptian mausoleum.
Before me stood the tomb of what seemed to be a Pharaoh surrounded by hundreds of warrior statues constructed from various metals. A single, pale light whose source could not be determined strewn down from above, illuminating their faces, which glowered fiercely in the darkness. Beyond these figures sundry treasures were situated, and above all of it – high on the wall that towered overhead – was an ennegram and the Egyptian word “Seth”. The sign I recalled seeing in the basement of the Inn (between the stashes of La Rouge) but the name I had not anticipated, and this new addition to my increasingly intricate nightmare gave me pause. It seemed incongruous to call upon the god of disorder for protection of the dead, especially when said god – within the context of Egyptian myth – was responsible for death itself, and I was contemplating the meaning and significance of it when I was abruptly ripped from my slumber by the sounding of the alarm clock. Looking over, I noticed I had only slept for an hour, and then I rose and departed to do the dastardly deed I had resolved upon at the party.
When I returned I sat silently in the dark, waiting for the inevitable banging on the door that would indicate the natural conclusion to the incident, and it came shortly after 2:00AM.
Dorian stood in the entranceway, still in his tuxedo, his hair unfurled down to his shoulders. With the radiant light pouring in from behind his silhouette he appeared almost angelic, but upon closer scrutiny I observed the anticipated pain in his face and knew he had seen the act through to it’s necessary end. He stood for a moment glaring down at me with a mixture of agony and confusion before at last he spoke in a broken voice.
“She’s dead.”
“I know. How does it feel, Dorian, to lose someone you love so dearly?”
At this, the beautiful creature fell prostrate to his knees and placing his face in his hands, began to sob.
“But why, Regina, why? Why did you do it?”
”Remember the school? Remember Marcus? I told you one day you would regret it.”
Dorian looked up from where he sat. “But why did you tell her? I don’t understand.”
His natural scent – a delicate, musky odor – mixed with hours-old cologne and amplified by sweat and tears wafted past my nose, and for a moment I felt an impulse of regret.
“Because I wanted you to do it...because I can’t justify murder as an act of revenge, but by telling her of your crime, I removed your choice in the matter. You had to kill her or else be killed by her, whether that be through the police or having your heart smashed to pieces. I forced your hand and you saw it through; you met my expectations. That is all.”
“Then you’re no better that me,” he retorted, standing up to glower at me from above. As he did so, the plush seat in which I sat suddenly became uncomfortable.
“But for what it’s worth, I don’t think you did it out of retribution but out of jealousy,” he continued.
“I was jealous that you had each other – of your happiness,” I confessed. “That’s certainly true.”
“No, you were jealous of her, because she had everything you don’t have,” he added in an accusatory tone, “you were jealous because she had me.”
There are times in a person’s life that the mind, under intense strain and in order to preserve the intellect, will fabricate alternative rationalizations and explanations for an individual’s behavior, and there are times when, confronted abruptly with unmitigated truth, these defense structures will totally fall. At such a point an individual is faced with a grave choice: acceptance and change, or denial and fight/flight. Such was my current dilemma, as for the first time I felt the scales fall from my eyes and realized the true motive for what I had done.
“You’re right Dorian; that is exactly why I did it and I used your past actions as an excuse. What can I say – please forgive me, though that hardly seems sufficient. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I added, moving past him to the freedom of the door, “I have a flight to catch. If you need me, I’ll be in Romania.”
At that I departed, leaving the majority of my belongings back in the hotel, and immediately booked a flight to Bistritz. For some reason the companionship of vampires and haunted dreams suddenly seemed bearable when compared to the horror that I now sought to leave behind.

CHAPTER XI – TRISTAN, THE LOVER

Upon my return to Romania I immediately searched for the merchant who had been the stimulus for my unusual visitation, but not surprisingly his store was closed. I resolved then to check into the Inn, wait until nightfall and try him again, but my hasty journey had left me exhausted and soon after entering my room I fell asleep.
I do not know if I dreamed that night, but I awoke at the entrance of a stranger, who I sensed to be the one who had come about seven days before. He wore the same ill-fitted cloak that concealed his identity and carried himself in the same manner, although this time I discerned a cautious sympathy about him that I had not detected previously. After extending an invitation to me for that same night he politely departed, leaving me to ponder how it was he had come to know of my return, but more importantly, why the stranger in the mountains seemed to desire my company so urgently.
Despite my growing curiosity I waited the corresponding hours to the stroke of 11:30PM, gathered about me some materials of importance – in particular a recording device and small camera – then quit the Inn for the serpentine path identified by my guide. Along the way I observed that the town’s population had again shifted with dusk, and that the creatures in large cloaks with glaring red eyes had returned and were actively engaged in their own industry. Horse-drawn carts stacked with crates of what had to be “La Rouge” traveled main street in both directions, stopping every once in awhile to unload at a specific shop or to restock at another one. To my surprise I noted that several were inscribed with the word NOVUM or with an ennegram symbol, or with a pyramid enclosed in a circle.
The town’s center appeared to be the hub of all the activity, for as I edged closer to the city’s limits the inhabitants grew scarcer and scarcer until – by the time I reached the beaten path – I was completely alone.
.
The trail wound round like a coiled snake with every turn providing a steeper incline than the one before, so that I knew we were ascending a mountain. After what seemed like 20 minutes of climbing I detected a large clearing higher up, requiring perhaps three additional evolutions, but just as I was preparing to advance I heard a twig snap behind me. Whirling around I discovered a lone wolf standing about five feet from me, his bright blue eyes filled with that blank expression so characteristic of his species.
For some moments we exchanged glances, with neither of us budging from our respective positions until, at last, an impulse – an odd but compelling one – suddenly took hold and I shifted into feline shape. Though I hardly felt threatened by the beast I scowled a little and bore my teeth, hoping to frighten it into running away, but instead it stood there stoically, unmoved by my hostile display. And then a second impulse – more queer and powerful than the previous one – seized me and together we took off running.
We ran for what seemed like hours, through the woods, across mountain streams and brook bridges, under the haunting full moon that streamed like fine hair between the foliage. I did not understand why or what I was chasing, but only that in the pursuit there was freedom – freedom from the longevity of time, freedom from the gravity of consciousness, freedom from the new soul. The chilly air that raced down my spine, the sweet perfume of wood and pine, the dark shadows and pale moonlight all released me from the heavy burdens of my mind and sent my spirit soaring up, up into the heavens. Had it been my choice, I would have never ceased until death, but alas all mortal coils must weary from physical exertion and my partner, whose role as prey demanded a superior performance, was eventually struck with exhaustion and quit.
Our recreation came to a close on the far side of town and I realized with some dismay that I had lost all the distance I had previously gained, and then some. Sighing heavily, I had just begun my heavy trek back into the forest when the creature spoke.
“If you go they’ll kill you,” it said.
Spinning around I gazed at the wolf. “A talking wolf – how remarkable,” I mused, “and cliché. Do you fetch as well?”
The thing that had formerly appeared like a wolf shifted into what seemed to be human form. “It depends on what you want me to retrieve. Pretty girls are my specialty.”
“Oh a clever dog,” I quipped, peering through the fog to see the details of his face but to no avail. “You’re quite common after all. So how do you know they’ll kill me? Do they know who or what I am?”
The stranger shifted uneasily from one leg to another. “No.”
”Well, are you going to tell them?”
Silence. “No,” he said at last.
“Then how do you know?”
“Because you’ve got all the hallmarks of your race,” he retorted somberly. “And your birth is a matter of legend here.”
“Well I don’t plan to make myself as obvious to them as I have to you, but if you’re so concerned, you could help me,” I hinted, hoping that he would offer up some useful advice that would help me gain entrance without detection.
The shadowy figure remained taciturn for a few moments, but then finally capitulated. “Never use the front entrance of a vampire’s estate; it brings certain death. The dungeon entrance is underground – though a cave in the foothills just east of the castle. You can smell it if you try hard enough.”
“The dead are buried there,” I remarked. “They throw them out like animals, but why are you helping me anyway? How do I know I can trust you?
“You don’t. As to why – I have my reasons.”
“Like what?” I asked.
Though I could not see his face, I sensed a great sorrow suddenly come upon him, and he groaned like a man aged by experienced. “I’m tired of manipulating reality to help someone else’s quest for power. The game has grown old, I suppose because I know too much. I want out.”
“You realize, of course, if I’m successful not just your government will fall: your entire race will fall.”
The stranger coughed gently and I could see from his silhouette that he was staring up at the high yellow moon. “Maybe that’s what needs to happen. Perhaps we are an evil, wretched people, and we don’t need to be here any longer.”
”A vampire with a conscience; what a remarkable oxymoron,” I noted as I wondered if such a thing were even possible, “a miracle of epic proportions. Don’t impale yourself on your sword just yet; there may be hope for you. I’ll be back – and where might I find you when I return?”
“Oh I don’t know – I’ll be around.”
“You’re not going to stake yourself through the heart or cut off your head or anything while I’m gone, are you, because as it stands now, I don’t plan on killing you?”
“No,” he answered shyly and I could tell by the outline of his shiny white teeth that he was smiling.
“Good,” I rejoined and started off towards the foothills, but suddenly stopped as another thought occurred to me. “One more question for you: why did you ever invite me knowing they were going to kill me?”
”That’s easy; I was under orders, but I had no intentions of allowing you to go through with it.”
“Ah, obedient to the end, even in treachery. I’ll remember that.”
”Don’t hold it against me.”
“I won’t. I suspect that you’re more human than you even know,” I shot back, then quickly descended the trail to search for the cave at the base of the mountain.

I'm going to stop being lazy and add the other chapters. BTW- the book is now named "Bastat".

Forgive the intrusion. Thanks - T

CHAPTER XII – INSIDE THE CASTLE
I found the cavern easily enough; located at the lowest point in the mountain’s circumference, it’s large, gaping black cavity was carefully obscured by dense underbrush – but the rancid stench of rotting flesh and organic purification which emanated from within nullified any attempt to conceal it. Tearing the overgrowth asunder, I moved expeditiously into the dark, murky nether-regions of the mountain, palpating my way towards the center while wondering if perhaps the entire situation weren’t a trap with my untimely demise as its ultimate end. Many questions still lingered in the back of my mind regarding my banter with the stranger -- such as his name and the nature of his relationship with the people in the castle. It struck me how poorly I had investigated the source of my information, for in my haste to make contact with the founder of La Rouge, I had failed to spend adequate time researching and verifying my informant’s data. Perhaps he could have enlightened me regarding the word NOVUM, and the meanings and purposes of the pyramid signs and enneagrams – if only I had asked, but instead I had inquired into the means of entering the structure, and no more. I resolved, then, to revisit these subjects at a more leisurely time, and then promptly thrust them out of mind, lest their intrusion should compromise my safety.
Beginning my search at the far right wall, I slowly felt my way around the cave’s perimeter, looking for breaks in the heavily eroded, moss-covered limestone that might indicate a door. My efforts were rewarded when, about a third of the way through, I detected a dry, worn stone and a small latch that, once turned, revealed an entrance large enough for one individual, and beyond that, a spiral staircase that wound up into the darkness.
I ascended the stairs - literally hundreds of them - with nary a flame to light my path till at last I arrived at a platform just outside another door – a sturdy, oak barrier girded with an iron gate. After a moment of intense listening revealed no immediate presence on the other side, I carefully pushed against the structure till the lever gave way and the door slid slightly open.
Peering around its edge, I saw it led to a small passageway that bordered several large, inner rooms from which music now streamed, strange melodies that were at once evocative and erratic, romantic and bizarre. And from these same rooms came vociferous voices and strident laughter, till the corridor walls shook from the cacophonic chords and resounding banter.
Slipping silently into the crowd, I located a dark corner from which to view the carousers, who now appeared to be in the throes of Bacchanalian ecstasy. To my surprise, no one bore cloaks or boasted glaring red eyes, but all were lavishly dressed in the finest romantic garments, with antique lace and plush velvet, gold tassels and silver beads. From the ceiling hung elaborate and intricate tapestries of multi-colored hues, which were separated here and there by objects – a gold staff, a silver stick, a copper whip, a bronze cup, a metal sword and what appeared to be a wand.
And in the midst of this exceedingly colorful and jubilant ball a red-robed creature – statuesque and imposing - sauntered carrying a bronze goblet filled with what had to be La Rouge. Gliding somberly through the crowd, he occasionally stopped to offer a particular reveler a drink or to whisper in their ear before resuming his strange promenade.
I was preparing to approach the iconoclastic priest with a sizeable splinter of wood that I had previously broken off the door when a strong but gentle voice whispered in my ear: “Not here; not now. This is only a party. Destroy it and you affect nothing.”
“Why, then, did you let me come?” I whispered back, frustrated that I had progressed so far only to be deterred again.
“*To see.* Come with me and I’ll tell you more.”
Acquiescing – though I knew not why - I followed as he led me down another spiral staircase, into the castle’s living quarters and finally into his private chamber, where he lit a lantern. For the first time since our initial encounter I could see my benefactor’s face and was somewhat astonished to discover an aging youth, perhaps 20 years of age. His broad forehead was offset by high cheekbones and a perfectly square jaw, deep-set blue eyes, a long face, slender nose and an upper lip that bowed obtusely in the middle. With such features, his dark curly blonde hair might have effeminized him, but his bushy brows and slightly unshaven complexion more than compensated for the softening effect.
“How old are you?” I demanded. “You look about 20.”
”Looks can be deceiving,” he replied, appearing somewhat amused by my naivety. “I’m younger than you are in years, though not in life.”
“Well when did you stop growing?” I inquired further, feeling rather ridiculous for listening to someone who was so much younger, even if it was only “in years”.
“23.”
“So congratulations. You died at the perfect time with the fountain of youth still flowing over you.”
“I’m over two thousand otherwise,” he added.
You’re still younger than me,” I shot back harshly. “What is your name?”
“Tristan.”
“Let me guess, you’re from King Arthur’s court?”
He smiled broadly then, and I could see his pearly white teeth, which had beamed so brightly in the forest. “Not the same one, but the same name.”
“Well Tristan, I’m sure you can see my dilemma; you tell me to go forth yet you impede my progress at every turn. You have me going in completely opposing directions, and if I don’t hear a reasonable explanation from you now, I’m choosing my own path regardless of your counsel.”
Ambling over to the windowsill, Tristan sat down and turned his gaze to the lush, Romanian countryside. “It’s too late. You can’t stop an organization that has its tentacles in every major nation worldwide, especially at such a pivotal time when interfering with it might cause more harm than good.”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, more confounded than ever by his indefinite references and general commentary. Plopping myself opposite Tristan, I too turned to look out upon the countryside, which oddly enough reminded me at that moment of the forest surrounding Welbeck abbey. “Too much has happened...”
“I know, Elizabeth Bathory. Duchess Bentinck. Countess Moldovia. So many identities, none of which are actually you.”
“How do you know?”
“I was responsible for researching your background. I didn’t inform anyone but somehow he sensed your presence and sent me to make the arrangement,” he sighed, once again returning his gaze outside.

con't...

Pouring down from above, the moonlight illuminated his eye and cheek, bathing him in an angelic radiance.
“Your master has the most perverse sense of irony,” I commented, remembering the demonic figure that had moved so gracefully through the crowd just moments before. “Parodying “Masque of the Red Death” in such a manner; I bet Poe wouldn’t have approved.”
”Poe is dead,” he retorted dryly.
I smiled. “And so are you.”
Tristan leaned in towards me till I could feel his breath upon my neck. “You know, you are so pretty Countess Elizabeth Bathory Bentinck of Moldovia, that it makes me wonder as to your real name.”
“A vampire shouldn’t move so close, “I said, leveling my eyes at him. “It could be hazardous to his health.”
Mere inches from my face, Tristan stared back without blinking. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he whispered, then slunk back against the sill sulkily before adding, “I suppose if I had been Dorian it would have been a different matter.”
“Dorian?!” I practically shouted at him. “Dor – why invoke his name when he has nothing to do with this situation? Tristan, it’s evident you know more about me than I know about you, yet you expect me to respond in kind; it isn’t reasonable. Besides, Dorian is a sore subject right now; you won’t mention him again if you wish to be my friend.” fill
“Because you killed his fiance?”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“No, you made him do it. You must have loved him a great deal.”
“Love doesn’t force itself upon another,” I replied quietly with a pang of guilt. “It frees the beloved, not enslaves him. All I did was hurt him badly.”
“You freed him twice, once when you let him go after he burned down your school; the second time when you helped him escape the police. You loved him.”
A vision of Dorian, crouched over in pain with his face in his hands, now tortured my mind. “How do you know all these things?”
“I’m in intelligence. The shopkeeper mentioned your affiliation with Welbeck Abbey and I searched your records and called my associates there. When you left prematurely I followed you to the airport and put a trace on your baggage. From that point it was a matter of placing another call to some colleagues and doing surveillance. It’s far too simple these days to learn to much for my own good and that’s why I don’t want to be a part of it anymore.”
“I see,” I muttered quietly. Although I had heard Tristan’s words, their import had not penetrated my thoughts, which were now exclusively focused on Dorian as I remembered our first encounter and how I had left him prostrate on the floor at the brink of an eminent breakdown.
“You know Elizabeth – if that is really your name – I loved someone once, much like you.”
“And what happened?”
“The establishment considers humans a threat to our international security.”
“You killed her,” I charged.
Tristan’s expression changed then, and I saw in his face the same anguish I had once seen in Dorians. “No, they did. She was already dead when I returned one night.”
“But you buried her, didn’t you? Dispatched her permanently?”
“I couldn’t allow them to consign her to the darkness,” he replied wincing in pain, and I observed as his humor shifted from sorrow to anger, from anger to bitterness and from bitterness back into sorrow.
“I’m sorry, Tristan,” I said at last, and reaching forth to grasp his palm, squeezed it consolingly, “ but I don’t see how I can help you. Even if I manage to build a reasonable defense against this global institution you mention, it won’t address the pain you feel inside at her loss, so I am not sure what you are hoping to gain, other than defeat.”
Then much to my surprise and astonishment, Tristan withdrew his hand and wrapping his arms around me, embraced me for several moments. “I want to love again,” he said, hugging me closer, “and I can do that with you.”
For a moment we remained that way, like two lost souls in the night, and then gently freeing myself I rose and walked to the door. As I did so the lamp, which seconds earlier had begun to flicker, died out, leaving us in total darkness. “You don’t know that,” I said, after a pause. “because you don’t know me, Tristan, and neither do I.”

CHAPER XIII - THE ENNEAD

The bloody victim hung like a listless doll from a crudely constructed cross at the edge of a wheat field. The head, disfigured beyond recognition, was partially decapitated, drooping down to the right shoulder by what remained of the neck. Likewise the body was also deformed, the epidermis having been burned away and the bones snapped from their sockets. But perhaps most disturbing at all was the heart. As the first rays of daylight shot over the horizon, imbuing the twisted figure with an eerie glow, I discerned a long, slender object protruding out of it. And as the sun rose higher I realized the object was a wooden stake, and that the victim was none other than Tristan.
Appalled and disgusted by the sight, I reeled backwards and was suddenly struck by a blinding light, which rendered me instantly immobile and I collapsed to the ground. Then within this luminosity I saw myself fleeing the castle after Tristan’s confession, followed by Tristan wrestling against several guards and then finally him being dragged across a field. The snap and crackle of a raging fire filled my ears and the ungodly sound of tortured screams, as if hell itself had opened its mouth to let loose the spirits of the damned. Then I smelled the distinct odor of burning flesh, and at last observed Tristan – with bubbling black skin that oozed and fell from his limbs, being hauled from the fire and then nailed to the cross and hung in the air to die.
When I came to I was lying on my back in the field with the sun glaring just over the edge of the earth and Tristan still dangling from the cross, smoke pouring from his back. Petrified, I dislodged the nails that pinned him, and throwing a blanket over my friend, ran pell-mell for the closest entrance to the underground tunnels, praying all the while that when we got there, no one would be waiting for us.
Once we were safely inside my room, I pulled the blanket back and beheld my friend, whose lifeless body sent tears of anger and regret streaming down my cheeks. Placing my hand over his heart and closing my eyes, I concentrated on detecting any particle energy that might indicate time of death but was dumb-founded to discover he had not yet passed. Yes, death was imminent, but despite all the horrors he had endured, he had not expired.
Retrieving a knife from my pocket, I sliced open his chest, and after stabbing my left hand, gently massaged his heart, ensuring I did not touch or otherwise accidentally dislodge the stake that penetrated it.
Three days later I awoke to find the stake on the floor, and knew his body was beginning to heal.
Tristan did not recover as Dorian had, perhaps because he had been a vampire previous to his new incarnation. For three weeks I kept a constant vigil, pacing the floors at strange hours with a candle in my hand, scrutinizing his face for moments of consciousness, and sadly disappointed when his peacefully reposed form did not show them. Yet, the improvement I had seen in his disfigurement clearly indicated he was recuperating, and in moments of torment I consoled myself with this knowledge.
Towards the end of the third week he finally opened his eyes to stare at me with a blank expression.
“How do you feel?”
A rustle issued forth from the bed as he attempted to rise to no avail. “Weak. How long have I been here?”
“About three weeks. You aren’t completely well yet, which is why you have no energy but I expect in the next several days you’ll recover,” I answered, then moseying over to his bed, sat down and began stroking his cheek with the back of my hand. “Who did this to you? I had a premonition...”
“Drones, though they can hardly be blamed; they have no will of their own but simply obey the master,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead painfully, but when I gave no reply, he stared at me curiously. “You don’t know what they are, do you?”
“No,” I blushed. “I’m the byproduct of a misadventure; hence my inability to know who or what I am.”
Studying the candle flame that burned brightly on his bedside table, Tristan cleared his throat and then smothered the fire between his thumb and forefinger, relinquishing us to the darkness.
“Why…”
“We see better at night,” he interrupted. “By the way, I never thanked you for saving my life – I’m grateful for it, and I’m also very sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes, sorry, for all the pain you’ve endured, and you continue to endure, because of what you are.”
“I’m not in pain,” I countered. Still, his words burrowed deep through my consciousness until, at last, like a miner that has struck gold, they found their nugget of truth, and wrapping it in light and warmth, exposed it to my mind, where it exploded and scattered an array of emotion – love and fear, yearning and repulsion – all at once. “I…” I sucked in as I struggled to speak through my sentimental suffocation. “How did you know?”

con't...

“”I feel you, Regina,” he whispered gently, “I feel you flowing through me, coursing through my veins, transforming me into a new being.”
“But Dorian,” I whimpered, “he doesn’t…”
“He was human. I’ve lived a hundred different lives in hundreds of places – all over the world, so it was not a giant leap of faith for me to progress to this next level of existence.
I will tell you this: you must find yourself, and quickly. Love is your greatest strength, Regina, and fear your greatest weakness. You do not fear those outside of you, but rather yourself and greatest of all, that the love you possess will one day provide the means to your end. Your fear is that love will destroy you, and it will, if you don’t know who you are.”
Too shocked to reply, I sat down on the floor and rocked back and forth in concert with the tick-tock of the antique grandfather clock, the warped wooden beams beneath me singing in harmony. The entire time I could feel Tristan’s eyes watching, as if he were fearful that the ensuing moment would harbinger some cataclysmic apocalypse from my internal combustion.
“Is it daylight?” he asked at last.
“Yes,” I answered, gazing at the illuminated aura around the curtains and the striped light patterns on the floor. “It’s dawn.”
Much to my astonishment, Tristan sat up in the bed and rubbed his sleepy blue eyes, his honeyed scent wafting from beneath his arms. “Good. I have something to show you.”
As we passed through town I noted that the shady, clandestine activity which plagued the evening streets had been replaced by the more respectable and legitimate industry of agriculture. Carts brimming with wheat and corn lined the roadsides while peasants darted to and fro and herds of sheep bayed and neighed fretfully after their owners. The abandoned shops that opened at the approach of eve and shut down in the matutinal hours gaped like dark cavities amidst the town now bustling with life, and I wondered how many of the denizens knew the exact nature of their community’s most fruitful labor.
On the outskirts of town we once again resumed our climb towards the peak of the mountain, but about 300 yards up, we abruptly departed from the path, crossing through some dense underbrush before reaching another path that had evidentially been forsaken for some time. Despite the overgrowth, we followed the trail to a clearing that appeared to be somewhat parallel to the castle, but at a fair distance to the right.
As we traveled the snowy ice crunched loudly beneath my feet, its sheen glinting a lovely orange from the rising sun, but this was the only sound I could detect with my preternatural ears. Notably absent were the sounds of life – the twittering of the birds, the snapping of twigs below the deer’s foot, and even the rush of a spring, which would naturally introduce fish into the otherwise barren wasteland. No, the entire landscape was, for all practical purposes, bleak and deserted, so that I was grateful even for the sound of my friend’s breath as it kept me company.
When we drew towards what appeared to be the meadow’s cliff, the smell of death reach my nostrils, and I ceased my approach. “I smell decay and moldering – of people – the number I cannot begin to fathom.”
“Hitler’s incinerators have seen less action than this place,” he replied. “Here death is very old.”
I crossed my arms. “It’s offensive to me; I don’t want to continue.”
“Come,” he answered, holding out his hand to me. When I grasped it, I was surprised to find that it was warm and plump with life, and I could not help but smile at the difference.
We walked a few more feet, and then I finally discerned the spot where he was leading me. Small, colored stones with bizarre symbols jutted up from the ground at the points of what appeared to be three interlinking triangles, although I could detect with my nostrils that it was not paint but rather tinted blood that covered them. In the center of this collaboration stood a sacrificial altar, which seemed the source of the putrefying stench, though I also detected a smaller, secondary source from over the cliff. “What is this?”
Tristan meandered meditatively over to the black stone inscribed with a roofed “X”. “The religion of the age,” he replied, staring down at the stone. “Osirus, God of Order and Hierophant of the Circle, represented by the symbol “Othala”.” Moving onto the next stone, a purple shade, he said, “Isis, Goddess of Healing and High Priestess of the Circle, represented by the symbol “Uruz.”
“What about the blue one,” I inquired impatiently, ready for the rest of his elaborate explanation.
Standing at the head of each stone, he continued. “Tefnut, Goddess of Moisture and Sorceress of the Circle, represented by the symbol “Laguz”. This orange stone is the rock of Rah, God of creation and Magician of the Circle, represented by the symbol “Sowilo”. The one tainted grey is for Shu, God of Air and Hermit, indicated by “Ingwaz”. Brown connotes Geb, God of Earth and Emperor of the Circle, symbol “Hagalaz”. “
“Oh, let me guess, the red one is for Lucifer, God of Hades and Master deceiver of the Circle, symbol, inverted pentagram.”
Tristan smirked. “Were it so simple as that. No, the red is Seth, God of Disorder and yes, the Devil, symbol, “Fehu”. The last one, white, is Nephthys, Goddess of the Dead, and Judge of the Circle, represented by a reversed “Mannaz”.”
‘So what we have here is some bizarre aberration of various pagan philosophies melded together in an arbitrary manner to…, to invoke the aid of the powers of darkness, of earth wind, fire, water, sky and heaven. But indeed, for what pupose? What hope do the nightcrawlers have in summoning up the devil himself ? Aren’t they evil and deplorable enough as it is? What is their objective?”
“Just wait,” Tristan nodded., “There is an explanation. The systems are centuries, sometimes millenniums old. The runes, or Elder Furthark, were used as early forms of divination by the Goths, but were replaced by more contemporary forms of divination, the tarot, color symbolism, embodied deities…”
“Nine heads! There are nine points in the enneagram; that makes for nine heads! And the beast, Novum, whose presence heralds darkness, and binds humanity forever – the giant who smashes the living underfoot – this is it, isn’t it? And you – what of you? Where are you in this abomination? Who are you?”
Tristan circled the external perimeter twice before sitting down in center, upon the sacrificial stone. “I am Hezbollah, the chosen one, God of War and Champion of the Vampires. When the nine Gods and Goddesses meet at last around this circle, they will channel forth Charion – through my sacrifice. I will awake the beast that for millenniums has haunted the subconscious and memories of those that have lived.”
“Then you must die,” I announced, “ and unsheathing my sword proceeded towards him, but Tristan only smiled. “Don’t you see, my sweet Regina, you have already stopped it? The chain is broken, but do not be deceived. The ritual requires a direct descendant of Mordock, the oldest vampire lineage. I may have been the first and rightful heir to this power, but I am not the only candidate; I have only been saved through your mercy.”
I slid my sword back into its casing. “Why nine?”
“Nine – is the number of the Creator Egyptian Gods, the founders of the pyramids which humans have sought for so hard and for so long to explain. They were Noctors, these Enneads, having come to earth on a diplomatic mission of peace. But humanity was not prepared for contact, and so they worshipped them as Gods. Eventually, over time, these deities took on new attributes and symbolism, having very little to do with who they really were and more to do with what the Egyptians wanted them to be.”
Naturally the Noctors departed once they realized their mistake, but by then it was too late. Now the vampires have assumed the roles and have developed strategies to employ the “2nd coming” of these gods.”
“The 2nd coming?”
“The apocalypse, where blood will run higher than a horses head and humanity will be reduced to a food source.”
A few minutes passed without either of us saying a word; then I said “Stand Up and move away from the circle.”
Tristan eyed me curiously, but did as I ordered.
Gazing up at the sky, I flung open my arms and bellowed towards the ether. “God of Heaven and Earth, of all that is above and below and within, hear my plea. Destroy this profane place, in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”
For a moment nothing happened, but soon the earth beneath began to rumble, and overhead murky clouds gathered in an angry mass. A breeze stirred up the scarce leaves freed from the frozen ground, whirling them around in a frenzied pitch of disorder as the wind continued to increase. Unable to stand any longer, Tristan and I lay down on the ground as the weathered chaos continued to erupt, raining down hail and sleet like bullets to their final destination. At last, in the final frenetic tempest, lightning struck from above, decimating the sacrificial stone and consuming the circle of blasphemy in a ring of fire. When all was done, nothing remained of the pagan ritual site or of the colors that had once demarked it.
Tristan raised his face off the ground studying the devastated landscape around him. “Your God, it seems, has little tolerance for other faiths.”
Standing up, I ambled towards Tristan and extended my hand to him. “He is the
One and Only God, Creator, Sustainer, Alpha and Omega, but don’t expect him to wave his magic wand at every atrocity or every offense to his glory. It’s up to you and me, now, to make the difference.”
Pulling Tristan off the ground, we walked hand-in-hand, back down the hill towards path that led to the outskirts of the town.

CHAPTER XIV - THE FOOL

My consort continued his lengthy explanation of vampiric culture, a task that took the following day, so that it was dusk before he grew silent. From what I gathered the subversive element of vampires had infiltrated the ranks of every major government, rendering them subservient to vampiric influence. Furthermore, this same group had set in motion a chain of events that, if altered in any way, could result in partial or even total destruction of mankind.
Their strategy betrayed an unrivaled genius and superior intellect: having gained nuclear intelligence for what was once North Korea (but was now part of Asia Major), they pointed their missiles toward Liberland in an act of aggression. In response, Liberland officials had also primed their missiles, directing them at Asia Major, and positioned themselves as if attack were eminent. Both sides were busy constructing a series of bomb shelters, oftentimes using subterranean transport as a launching pad for additional tunnels, which were interconnected at key locations. These key locations were the shelters themselves, allowing for transportation of supplies between shelters.
The export of La Rouge was the vehicle by which the core element communicated with other vampiric clans; the concoction contained a small trace of the master’s own blood, which conveyed knowledge of the conspiracy to any vampire that consumed it. Hence, worldwide distribution was never intended to make money, but rather unite the diverse families for the sole purpose of world domination.
Furthermore, due to this elaborate design, North Korea would launch the first of its nuclear weaponry in less than a year, effectively inciting a war with Liberland. But humanity would not die, for with the completion of the shelters, individuals would seek sanctuary within them, where they would remain until the danger of fallout had passed. However, in such a small area the population would be easy to control, and vampires were prepared throw a coup and establish a new government.
Meanwhile, on the surface, others would reconstruct the cities, establish blood-banks and feeding houses/clubs so that when humans emerged, they would find themselves pre-ordained sustenance slaves for an entire planet of vampires.
When he finished his discourse he asked “So, what are your thoughts?”
“I’m thinking of moving back to Welbeck Abbey,” I replied nonchalantly.
Tristan paused before he spoke. “That’s Dorian talking…”
”….you said it wasn’t possible,” I interrupted him, “that it would result ‘in the total destruction of mankind’…”
“…that doesn’t mean turning a blind eye. What about planning, resources…”
“Aren’t you presuming I care to save humanity? Dorian was right; the heart of humanity is black with hatred, sin, crime, decadence and degeneracy and bent on self-destruction. The effort required to revive such a dying race exceeds the worth of the race itself. It’s a bad investment, if you will, of my talents; I would do better to retire some place dependable and watch from my toppling tower of relative obscurity the species’s natural descent into extinction.”
Tristan stood up, strode across the ancient warped wooden floor towards the exit. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” he snapped, then disappeared into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.
I only half-cared about the preceding argument or the impending debacle, yet this compassionate part of me revolted against my previous reasoning, chastising the reprehensible phlegm of my soul and rallying my callous disposition towards a charitable defense. But I would not be moved by even the most potent of emotions to change my declared course of action, and it was now with a heavy heart that I called my attorney and requested he require Welbeck Abbey for me at
any costs.
Tristan did not return until the following morn and did so with blood on his lips. Although I had ventured out the previous night as well to feed, I had not intercepted him on my hunt and - not having much of an appetite - had retired early to my quarters. Thus my curiosity was roused by his solitary journey, and what - or who - he had found - to quench his thirst.
“So, what - or who - did you eat?”
“I dined on vampire,” he replied resentfully, advancing towards the bed with a scowl upon his face. “It was delectable. How about yourself?”
Twitching nervously upon the bed, I shuffled through some official papers. “Nothing. I hadn’t an appetite.”
“Your conscience is eating away at you; that’s why you couldn’t eat.”
“You hardly bore one yourself when you devoured an old flame some four hours ago,” I replied, having ingested his memories from the previous night. “So much anger.”
Tristan gazed at me steadily and I could discern a hint of shame in his demeanor. “We’re still headed for Welbeck Abbey, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” I shot back, somewhat surprised by his insinuation. “You’re going with me?”
“I could never leave you now Regina, even if I wanted to,” he murmured quietly. “You’re a part of me, and I a part of you.”
A smile waxed over my soul as well as my face. “Loyal to the end, even in treachery,” I repeated, remembering his faithfulness as a vampire. “It is good to know I have at least one companion who is dependable despite contrary inclinations. Were Dorian so inclined.”
Tristan turned away then to gaze at a small sketch that hung on the wall of the Inn. In it two dark-haired children, holding hands, ran carefree together in a field, evidentially unaware of the approaching thunderstorm behind them. Although his vampiric age permitted him to retain certain ideas to himself, I nevertheless gathered his thoughts were thousands of miles away, washed upon the shore of Liberland.
“You may yet be reconciled,” he answered, his eyes transfixed as if he were in a fugue. “Dorian is not dependable, but he may be unable to sever the ties that bind you eternally to one another. Perhaps familial compulsion will ultimately drive you together - or fate, which in both vampire and Noctor worlds, has a way of uniting relations.”
His manner of speech seemed exaggerated and unnatural at that moment, yet I detected he no longer walked upon land, but in some supernatural spiritual world, one which I constantly strove to attain through meditation but had yet to meet with success.
The sun was rising as we closed our eyes to sleep, and I wondered as I entered into my land of eerie visions, what the future held for the both of us.

CHAPTER XV

The letter slipped under my door several days after my initial inquiry into the acquisition of Welbeck Abbey read as follows:

Dear Mrs. Churchhill,

Per your request, I visited the new tenant of Welbeck Abbey, requesting from him a sum by which you might purchase the entire estate, but he would not be bought. He indicated no amount of currency could goad him into selling, but that a non-negotiable offer could be made in another form, one which he would readily accept, but he remained furtive about the nature of that bid and would only say that your presence at the Abbey was required and was the fashion by which he would make that information known.
If you need my assistance further in this matter, please feel free to write; otherwise I recommend you make an appointment with Mr. James Cagey, the owner’s legal representative, to meet and discuss the issue with the new owner. He is prepared to hear from you in writing.

Sincerely,

Edward Eldritch
Eldritch and Assoc. Law Firm

My attorney, Mr. Eldritch, had been my legal council most of his life, and had grown old during the course of our officious relationship. Currently in his late sixties, he was to date the only human with whom I entrusted the entire nature of my identity and person, and had consequently grown accustomed to my antediluvian manner of dress, speech and communication. While he contacted the rest of the world via teleports and held conferences in a spherical dome on the dark side of the moon, he remained faithful to my preferences, choosing to write by hand ( a now truly outdated channel of discourse, and one hardly known or practiced even by the educated classes) or dealing in person by travel.
Thus, it seemed entirely queer to me that another lawyer, James Cagey, was equipped to hear from me by means of mail and was willing via this archaic method to make travel arrangements for my visit, something that seemed extraordinarily extraneous considering modern developments in communication and civic settlements. Rarely were in person interviews requested or required in any course or duty and left only for those occasional instances where decisions could not be rendered in any other way, yet clearly here was just such an occasion.
The new owner of Welbeck Abbey, like myself and the townsfolk that surrounded me, apparently also lived in the past, and preferred history over technology, something that aroused my suspicion. Nevertheless, I was determined to acquire my former residence at all costs, and so wrote and made plans to meet his principal in two weeks at Welbeck, consequent to which I received a letter confirming the appointment and extending an invitation to me and a guest for a one week stay at the estate.
Naturally I accepted.
On the eve of our departure a full moon, cinctured by a thin layer of purple haze, waxed luminously on the horizon, imbuing the dark Romanian landscape with an iridescent lavender glow. From my crude, single sashed window I could discern a series of eerie figures clad in dingy, grey woolen cloaks and bearing an assortment of objects - everything from books to cages - meandering slowly and methodically towards the castled and heavily fortified mountain.
“It’s time,” I mumbled into the window pane as a wave of concern washed over me, for the disquieting sight in the streets had set off some internal alarm that now warned of an impending danger. I turned to scrutinize Tristan for a reaction, but he only remained immobile upon the bed, his unblinking blue eyes staring into mine.
“Tonight is Charion, Celebration of the Dead,” he responded dryly. “Both Drone and Aristocrat alike worship at the temple and, of course, there are sacrificial rites…”
I slammed my hand angrily against the wall. “You knew this when I scheduled the trip!” I roared, realizing for the first time his indifference to the date had served to hide a manipulative goal.
“I did, and I knew our coach traveled that path and that - if for no other reason than to satiate your intellectual curiosity - you would be forced to cease your activity and watch them.”
“Faithful, even in treachery.”
“The time is short before the poignant becomes trite, Regina,” he snapped in response, his voice quivering with unspoken resentment.
“You know, you’re becoming more like Dorian each day,” I quipped, then gathered together my belongings and ran out to meet the coach that was now racing down the street towards us. I could smell the horses fear from afar but their owner was reeking with trepidation, the sweat tingeing his body with the sour odor of a man in the midst of a immense adrenaline response.
“We must hurry!” he yelled to me as soon as he was within earshot. “Tonight is Charion!”
“Yes, I know,” I sneered more towards Tristan than the driver as I threw up my suitcases. “But don’t worry; we’ll protect you.”
The coachman glanced sideways at me with a look of incredulousness and I sensed he thought me mad; nevertheless, he remained silent and after we boarded, drove the horses on relentlessly, as if someone was chasing him personally and his capture meant certain death.
Towards the mountain’s acme and near to the abominable site I ordered the driver to stop and he obeyed, although I immediately detected an increase in sweat upon his brow, and of the disagreeable stench that had come in so short a period to characterize him. When he inquired into the reason for my hesitation I spoke briefly then sent him into a sound slumber with a wave of my hand, placing his body in the rear of the carriage and covering him with the smell of death, something any semi-talented Noctor could reproduce at will for defensive purposes. Having thus secured his safety I set the horses free for their protection, but under a kind of mild hypnosis and with orders to not wander far from the wagon, and then Tristan and I set out towards the pinnacle of the peak.
Not ten yards forward two unfortunate sycophants fell victim to Tristan and my attack, and soon we, heavily clad in dingy, grey woolen blankets, the age and condition which would have sent me into a frenzy of mad scratching had I less discipline over my bodily reactions, joined the other zombies in the clearing.
Soon there arose from the site such a clamour, a rhythmic chant that sounded strangely like the screeching of tortured cats at regular intervals, yet these were no ordinary cats - if they were indeed felines - for the qualify of the voice and the utterances made seemed remarkably human. In fact, on one or two occasions - though I am certain in my heightened nervous state my ears betrayed me - I swore they recited the following verse:

Is quisnam sceptrum nox noctis divum
is pro quos mille defungo
recipero is , nostrum humilis vitualamen
quod ex is universitas permissum justicia
addo a caligo rabidus patientia.

“What tongue is this, Tristan? It’s clear they form words but with little meaning.”

As I spoke a drone before me turned back, and I could discern his glowing crimson eyes staring at me from beneath his coat. For a moment I froze, unsure of what protocol demanded in such circumstances, but Tristan instantly captured the creature’s gaze and with an equally vampiric scowl dismissed him, which seemed to satisfy the beast, for he instantly faced forward and resumed his trek towards whatever beacon was now drawing him.
“Vampira est lingua superum,” he replied. “Nos es inconcessus oro secus.”
“Um, no comprende, so no hablo, capiche?” I whispered.
Tristan ceased his trek and we locked eyes for a moment. Inside my mind I could hear jabbering, at first soft and indistinct and then louder until I seemed to grasp the the meaning of the barrage, although not through any language known to man. The metaphysical palaver said the dead were chanting to invoke Charion, and that the mantra I so longed to comprehend was this:

He who rules the midnight sky
he for whom a thousand died
accept this, our humble offering
and from this world let justice
bring, a darker, maddened suffering.”

A circle of nine now gathered around a wooden heap of what appeared to be freshly cut timber from Rowan, Dogwood, Elder, Poplar, Oak, Juniper, Holly, Cedar and Apple trees, each baring dewy verdant buds, a fact that from afar made them appear tearful over their approaching fate. On the right a fair lady, clothed in the most exquisite navy blue dress, which was loosely cinched about her waist and complemented therein by a single rose, gathered her long, tightly curled black tresses into a bun and secured it neatly behind her head. The style betrayed an unrivaled beautifully slender white neck, and a set of yellow beads that caused her porcelain skin to glow with life. Within me I felt the undesirable sentiment of jealousy, and looked on with envy at her glowing blue eyes and red ribboned lips. But when she turned towards Tristan and noted his presence with a half-smile, this invidiousness exploded into outright enmity.
“Covetousness is the most repulsive of all emotions and yet here I am, powerless to feel otherwise,” I mused, ashamed of my own ill nature. “In any case we should leave. She knows.”
“She does but she won’t tell,” he replied softly. “The knowledge will remain with her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I loved her once, and she still loves me.”
“I regarded the silky sheen of the puffy sleeves and the lovely, delicate white hands that jutted from them. “Can vampires love?” I asked.
“They have a form of love, I suppose, insofar as it is possible for the fallen to love.”
“And she will protect you?” I inquired further.
“Yes, yes she will.”
“Then I suppose even in the greatest evil there is good,” I replied. “Save for those angels without redemption, all creatures have an admirable quality about them.”
Tristan pulled back his hood, revealing his bright, sky-blue eyes. “Noctors were once like vampires - fallen and depraved. Your jealousy is a remnant of that time when our species were subjugated to their emotions, having no will to act outside the boundaries of their passion. You must exercise constraint over your fervor, or you will become the thing you hate.”
“How?” I begged.
“There is a way, through meditation and rigorous discipline, but I will teach you the tools. There is an ancient book I must retrieve, but for now, control yourself - and watch the unfolding of Charion.”
Turning my attention I observed the fair lady was soon joined by her counterparts, less compelling in stature but all the more frightening for their appearance. The attractive vampire who had once mesmerized me in the castle was present, dressed in modern black and carrying a large book, a strip of papaya jutting forth from between it‘s pages. Joining him were several others garbed in various shades of purple, turquoise, orange, grey, brown red and white, all of which bore various books or cages, perhaps for sacrificial reasons. Above the wooden heap a child hung from a cross-bar altar, evidentially intended as the sacrifice to whatever gods were being summoned for the event. Immediately sympathetic, I wove a psychic layer of protection around his person, and sent him into a heavy slumber, to save him the trauma of being burned alive.
Tristan and I then retreated into the woods to watch the unfolding of the abomination.
The lady in blue was first to open her book, and read some scripture in an ancient language, the syllables of which sounded comparable to those recited during the chant. Afterwards the master of ceremonies - the vampire in black - opened his manuscript, and read at length some passage as equally as puzzling to me as the first. As he recited scripture clouds gathered overhead, and a strong wind roared in from the west, but it wasn’t until he opened his hands to the sky and declared in a most unnatural voice what I could only surmise was a summoning, that thunder and lighting were roused from their resting place and congregated ominously over the circle of blasphemy. At last a single lightning strike descended upon the altar, the power of which sent all reeling backwards, and to my dismay charred the poor child that I had sought to protect with my power. The ground shook ominously beneath my feet, and splitting in two, raised up a temple of gargantuan proportions, so old and archaic that it preceded any identifiable architecture. Surrounded by stark reliefs, monstrous sculptures of humped foreign creatures and crimsoned friezes behind crumbling columns, the pitch-black portico gaped ominously, and seemed - at least to me - to betray a smile, if inanimate things were capable of such anthropomorphic displays. I looked fearfully at Tristan, who for the first time in his life displayed a severe dread, and said in the shakiest of voices,
“There are some things so unnatural that neither man nor vampire can explain.”
Furthermore and contrary to what one of sound constitution would expect under such conditions, the vampires jumped up from their fallen positions and in the most feral manner began to scream and dance a bizarre jig, circling the building Widdershins, which I had come to know from my studies as another form of incantation. In this manner the natives worked themselves up into a frenzy, twisting and writhing in the pouring rain until off to the right a rumbling resounded, a pounding echo which grew louder until a large number of human burst forth from between the trees, being driven on by demonic beasts with firey whips. Spying these victims, the vampires threw off their vestments and - completely naked - gorged themselves on the blood of these frightened innocents.
Horrified by the sight but more outraged by the brutality, I raced forth from my hiding spot determined to save whom I could, but was immediately thrown down from behind by Tristan.
“You cannot stop destiny,” he declared forcefully. “Charion lives within that arcane temple and will destroy you at will if you should so much as try to interfere. We must retreat, now, to save ourselves for another time, when conditions are favorable and we have laid forth a strategy.”
Even with my face in the mud I realized the truth of his words. Lifting my head one last time to examine the atrocity before me - the screams of humans hopelessly fleeing their attackers, the frightened appearance of the people as their predators mercilessly slaughtered them - I rose and ran with Tristan down the hill, to retrieve the carriage from its wooden mausoleum and continue on course to Welbeck Abbey.

CHAPTER XVI - THE LAND OF STRIGOI


Whether from nervousness or anticipation my hands trembled as Tristan grasped them firmly in his, gazing into my eyes with a steady anticipation. The carriage pitched to and fro from the jagged rocks that typify such rarely traveled paths, and I struggled to maintain both physical and eye contact with my benefactor.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered softly, gently squeezing his hands in mine, “and concentrate on ascending the higher realm.”
I obeyed and shut my eyelids, focusing on the inner being that was Bastat, and upon her mindfulness of the spiritual realm around her. At first all I could see was misty waters smothered with a dense fog, but soon the vapor dissipated and I could perceive a series of haggard figures meandering too and fro among black trees, which jutted forth from the black stream and writhed unnaturally in the pale moonlight, their wavering limbs responding to some unseen force that I could neither account for nor identify.
Although I was formless and without parts, I felt a presence beside me, and understood that Tristan also had risen to join me in this neverland.
“Where are we?” I whispered with some trepidation.
“Don’t worry; they can’t hear you,” he replied softly. “We are in the land of the Strigoi, the kingdom of the second death. Here there are eyes that do not see, and ears that do not hear, hands that cannot feel and tongues devoid of taste. Each creature suffers his own punishment, the result of his evil deeds, the number of lives he has stolen, the wickedness he has wrought upon the innocents and upon those touched by grace. Among these you will find the chupacabra, a cryptid found mainly in Puerto Rico, Lilu and Lilith from Adam’s day, the Akhkharu and Vetala as well as those who worship Sekhmet and Kali. All suffer in isolation; they wander the moor but are not mindful of it. Their souls burn with unseen horrors unique to their own history.”
“A personal kind of Hell.”
“Hell is highly private,” he answered, and I felt a chill flow through my essence.
“You are not Virgil and I certainly am no Dante, so why escort me on this tour of second deaths? What do you hope to accomplish here, Tristan, other than to make me aware of the abyss which once awaited you?”
“Because it is Charion‘s dominion; here he resides and rules over darkness. The physical plane is only one existential dimension, Regina. There are multiple realms filled with both the living and the dead, and it is in these realms where we fight; not in the tangible reality that is your world.”
I looked down then, and saw the waters divide, succumbing to a chasm that resided beneath the surface, hidden carefully below its watery fathoms. Here no physical laws defined the universe or created consistency in nature, for it was evident that the abyss had laid silently beneath the waters, and that the trees were rooted not in firmament but in infinite space and darkness, where nothing existed save a frenzied chaos of madness.
From the limitless void rose a smoldering vapor - perhaps the same that had initially obscured the landscape from my view, but perchance more terrifying was the cacophonic dissonant symphony emitted from that same space, a series of rapidly played arpeggios that both mesmerized and repelled by it’s alien nature. Had Tristan not stayed me I would have fallen headfirst into that black pandemonium, for despite its horrifying spirit it at once called to me, “Come, Come.”
“The siren song lures the dead into greater torment,” he said, “be sure not to listen too carefully to it. Charion lives at the center of the void surrounded by his demons, where he orchestrates his plots and devises his schemes to destroy Noctura and conquer earth. The temple you saw is only a representation and source of his power; razing it would effect nothing.”
Tristan waved his hands before the vapor, and I saw the smoke separate, so that the clearing below could be more easily scrutinized. Liquid ice flowed freely upon the firmament, but in the midst I saw the shape of an Enneagram, and the word “Novum” etched into it’s center, and recognized the shapes and names from the little town in Romania and from my dreams.
Sitting down upon the watery land, I laid my head between my knees. “What hope have I of defeating so grand a design, a single individual against a billion strong, each whose might matches my own?”
“Good is no less prevalent or complicated,” he responded, gazing up at the sky.
“See your allies gathered about in equal contemplation.”
Raising my head, I looked up and discovered three interwoven flames of blue, red and orange hues, which writhed together so tightly that they were hardly distinguishable, yet without separation they formed a triple helix. This Flammivomous conflagration burnt so intensely that its brilliance threatened to sear my eyes and I was forced to look away, but not before I remarked with astonishment that the conflagration lacked a source - that the fuel for the flame was the fire itself.
“Tristan, part for me the flame, so that I might see those who fight evil,” I begged, but he shook his head sadly. “I have a tri-fold nature: human, vampire and noctor. What I know I derived from years spent in darkness. I have no knowledge of the light, only what I have heard. What you see before you is what the Jews referred to at the Tetragrammaton, Yodh, Yeshua, Ruah Haquodesh.”
“I don’t understand,” I cried, struggling to comprehend all the various realms, dieties and creatures. “Charion and Satan, Yodh and God…”
“Alien creatures experience life and death differently. Charion or Satan, both are embodiments of the same evil source, the wicked intelligence that gives the new Ennead power over darkness and the authority to work black magic. Good is no different; the Noctor race has a heavenly hierarchy, an army of “angels” they summon to dispense grace. The main struggle for you, I think, is in understanding who is destined for heaven and who for hell. Vampires are fallen creatures, Regina, without redemption. Noctors - they have greater free-will. Most follow the commandments of their faith, live righteous lives and die in an act of sacrifice.”
“And those that don’t?” I asked.
“No one knows,” Tristan mused, “but do not be confused. There are no humans in the Land of Strigoi, and there are no vampires in Hades. Separate realms for separate creatures, separate sufferings and separate glories.”
In retrospect I am certain I was under a wondrous spell at the time and thus suffered a delusion consequent to my happiness, but at that moment as I glanced up to regard for the last time that infinity of greatness in the sky, I seemed to hear a voice amidst the steamy roar, a soft utterance that whispered a single word, “soon”, and then I woke up in our wobbly carriage just as it came to a stop.

I think its all great Countess and although I can't comment any of it mainly because I don't have the time (and I'm feeling very nauseous right now), I can assure you I've read half of it and understand the general gist of your story/rhythm. The only suggestion I would make is to reduce the vocabulary a bit.. Being that I am a very pretentious writer, upon reviewing the chapters of my own book that I am currently writing, I can pinpoint lots of areas where certain words would be better left our or changed in certain places. I can see that certain sentences in your book need change as well but most likely this is just your rough draft and by the time you are done everything will be spick and span. I love the story though, Countess, keep it up!

Thank you so much Adolescent09! You don't know how much it means to me that you're reading it, and you're right about your criticisms. I'll keep those in mind as I write the next chapters.

THanks!

C

CHAPTER XVII - AT WELBECK

The Welbeck Abbey I had grown to love, the Praemonstratensian edifice reminiscent of ancient monastic sanctuaries with their holy inner sanctums was no more. In its stead stood a garish pink marble structure laced with shiny silver and replete with a colonnaded portico of Dorian-style columns on the front and sides. A series of stacked lintels divided the columns from the gable roof, permitting alternating triglyphs with metopes carved with a series of odd bass reliefs, weird Arabesque patterns representing both the cycle of life and the flow of plants. Meanwhile the pediments featured gargoyle creatures with extended wings, preparing to take flight. The entire scenery was eccentric, but the white cobblestone streets and courtyard filled with extravagantly endowed nude statues streaming a white pearlized substance into fountain pools made the landscape pure madness, like the work of a gauche playboy defying his parochial history.
“And they dare call this an abbey,” I declared angrily. “It looks more like a bath-house from ancient Greece.”
“Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?” Tristan remarked casually, ceasing his walk to admire a particularly muscular, endowed statue. “It’s not so bad.”
“The sculptures themselves indicate the owner has an inferiority complex,” I retorted, somewhat miffed by Tristan’s lackadaisical attitude. Tristan burst out laughing at my response, then stripped down to his underwear and stood in a mocking pose behind the focus of his respect.
“So what do you think? Do I look as grand and impressive as he does?”
“You look like a fool, just like the bust. Now get down from there and clothe yourself. I will buy back this abbey despite the cost and return it to the beautiful mystery it once was.”
“Assuming you can purchase it,” Tristan reminded me.
“It’s mine,” I retorted, staring into his eyes. “And I know you are hiding something from me but I’ll find out.”
“Yes you will - in due time, Regina. Look, here comes the welcoming committee.”
As I turned I discovered a butler had retrieved my bags and was quickly escorting them inside, ceasing his endeavor only long enough to motion Tristan and me to follow him. We quickly obeyed.
Once inside the vestibule the servant motioned us towards another marble door - this one traditionally white and grey - and then quickly departed through an exit on the right, leaving us to escort ourselves into the desired room. After he left, we entered the quarters and I was quite delighted to discover a more conservative, setting, albeit ancient Greek, with walls built from white stone and covered with a series of friezes just below the cornice. As was the tradition of the referenced times, these murals depicted mythological events: scenes from the Trojan War, Odysseus’ travel to the underworld, Zeus’ reign in Mount Olympus and the story of Venus and her Adonis. Likewise the floor was covered with an antique mural of the constellations, most notably Orion, while the inverted dome ceiling featured festoons of warring Ares and Athena on the right and left respectively, while Prometheus squated dead-center, extending the gift of fire to the mortals below. The convex shape lent a certain three dimensional realism to the painting, and I felt if I were to extend my arm far enough, I would be the recipient of the Titan’s treasure.
A second door on the opposite side of the room opened then, revealing a youth dressed in a knee-length scarlet chiton with a Greek Key boarder pattern woven in metallic Gold. A belt constructed of the same material was gathered about his slender waist, with extraneous material billowing out from above it, and he wore leather sandals as well as a string of garland about his dark hair, which hung in beautiful ringlets around his clean-shaven face.
“Dorian,” I declared. “I should have guessed. Not living in the past, are you now, with this outrageous homage to ancient Greece? It‘s preposterous, I hope you realize that.”
He snickered then meandered over to one of the four white couches that formed a diamond in the middle of the room and laid down. “That’s rather hypocritical coming from a woman who fancies herself a Lady Percy Blakeney, don’t you think? Still busy rescuing those poor mortals from their fanged enemies?”
“What is it you want?”
“You know what I want, Regina. I want my soul,” he answered, turning to look at me with his glowing brown eyes.
“I can’t give you that,” I snipped, frustrated by the impracticality of his request. “You know it doesn’t work that way.”
Dorian shot up from where he was lying. “No I don’t know it doesn’t work that way because you haven’t told me. You haven’t said a word - I’ve had to learn everything on my own.”
Gathering the folds of my dress, I walked over and sat down on the couch. “I don’t know much either - except what Tristan has told me, but I do know when we mated our souls were attached a fait accompli, and we are a part of each other now, till death do us part. In short, for you to retrieve your soul, you would have to die.”
“Or you,” he spat back, then his eyes flashed and he looked over at Tristan.
“Are you going to kill me Tristan?” I inquired, inclining my ear for the answer, for I had suddenly realized Dorian and Tristan knew each other apart from me and it was possible my death was imminent as a result of their relations.
“No - but I was at one time. As I said, before we met I was in intelligence, and followed you to Liberland to Dorian’s wedding. After you left I knew Dorian wanted you dead - it was only natural after such a tragedy - so I went to him and told him I would murder you, but I had to know more, so I drained him for his information.”
“But he’s not vampire, not even a fraction,” I retorted.
“No, I cut his wrist and he bled into a cup, so he wouldn’t learn anything of the vampire dynasty or our plans.”
Dorian fell back into the couch. “Well that was clever. Wish I had known that at the time. I might not have been as congenial.”
“So what changed your mind, Tristan,” I begged. “What was it that made you betray your own kin?”
Tristan wandered over to the couch and seated himself beside me. “I honestly don’t know. Maybe Dorian’s blood had a greater effect on me than I had anticipated - he is a Noctor after all, or maybe, perhaps I saw you for who you really were, and some human part of me that still remains prevented me from carrying out my mission.”
I turned to face Dorian. “If you’re going to cut off my head, now’s the time.”
“I’ve no desire to kill you,” he replied wistfully. “I just thought with the promise of Welbeck Abbey over your head, if there was some other way, you would reveal it, but it’s clear we are bound together forever - however long that forever may be.”
“But Dorian, I still want Welbeck Abbey,” I uttered softly, sensing some resistance in my friend and hoping to allay it with gentleness.
“It’s not for sale. I should tell you now I didn’t purchase it merely as a blackmail device, there is another reason I moved here.”
I raised my eyebrow curiously and he continued.
“There is a bete noire in Liberland; strange beasts come out at night and dig tunnels underground under the pretense of extending the subway, but I know they lie. For one I’ve never seen construction workers with glowing red eyes, and secondly several of these tunnels have been completed for months but have yet to be opened. One night I stumbled across one of these creatures; we were both alone. He gazed up at me with those phosphorescent orbs of his - it was disconcerting to say the least.”
“Drones,” Tristan muttered, “but you have no reason to be frightened. You are the firstborn son of a Noctor prince. The power contained in you is beyond your imagination.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, confounded by Tristan’s sudden knowledge of our ancestry.
“The being who formed you, Regina, was a Noctor prince named Logoi Archenous. I gained intelligence through a treacherous Scurge in a forbidden relationship with a powerful Noctor authority that Logoi was on his way to Khem, our base headquarters situated in the next galaxy and the one we had been using for surveillance. I took the opportunity to try to assassinate him, but only managed to injure Logoi and debilitate his ship. Before we could locate the wreckage, he had refueled via your Ka, repaired his ship and disappeared. You, Regina, are the firstborn daughter of a Prikipas and you, Dorian, the firstborn son.”
“So perhaps your treachery was really driven by an innate selfishness,” Dorian quipped. “You wanted power.”
“No. I was one of the most powerful vampires in existence, descended from an ancient line of Nosferatu, and was known for my cunning and craftiness as well as my deftness in battle. I had no need of your power.”
“Then why did you wait so long to tell me this?! Why?!” I demanded angrily. “It’s obvious you’ve orchestrated this entire debacle from the start. Why should I trust you?”
“Because I love you Regina,” Tristan proclaimed passionately. “I am a changed creature and am as dedicated to the light as I once was to the darkness. I want to help you realize your potential and your destiny, and I even want to assist Dorian - God knows why - to recognize the meaning of his position, his place by your side, and train him to gain the skills he will need for battle.”
“Do you comprehend, Tristan, the import of your words?” Dorian inquired rhetorically. “ We’re humans - or once were - and you’ve introduced to us an entire history of fantastic beings we’ve never encountered or so much as fathomed, concepts that lie beyond human imagination, and events of which we’ve had no knowledge. I feel, though I can’t understand why, that you’ve good intentions, but you’re more or less crippling us with a perplexing paralysis of information.”
“I realize that,” Tristan answered. “which is why I haven’t been so forthcoming until now. Let this be the end of our discourse, then, and I’ll reveal more day by day But for now, let it be said that the Mortal Armageddon is at hand; without interference it means certain slavery and the extinction of the entire race. Though it cannot be stopped - the apocalypse will happen and soon - it can be fought a ex post facto, and
from *that* position, it’s possible to overcome.”
After our lengthy discussion Dorian offered us dinner, Greek style, served lying down and then we retired to our rooms. At my request Dorian conceded and bequeathed to me the subterranean chambers for my home, although it was hardly his loss as he preferred abiding in his Greek mansion. Meanwhile Tristan chose one of the underground rooms for his living space, and we three parted ways amicably.