A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

ad-Dār al-Bayḍāʼ, three days after the Parisian night.

The inn had seen better days.

The man in a hat poured himself another goblet of rum. He nursed it, savoring the burn as it went down his gullet. Even the stench of piss and vomit disappeared under the heady savor of processed sugarcane. It brought the man back to decades ago, when his world was simpler, and the sun of the Caribbean shone on endless opportunities. He allowed himself a sigh of contentment before returning his focus to the sleaze in front of him.

While the man was a creature of the sea, the sleaze was a dweller in the muck. He had the pallid face and rotund gut that came with too little activity, too many shepherd’s pies. Or whatever fatty stuff they served here. The man felt an intense dislike for the sleaze, yet he said nothing, for the sleaze brought money. Usually.

“So, what do you say?” the sleaze asked.

“You know, there are rumors,” the man replied. The sleaze frowned.

“Poppycock,” the sleaze said, with a dismissive wave of his gloved hand.

“They said that they met a she-devil below deck. That she swallowed a bullet and spat it out. They say that she killed two men by breaking their necks with two fingers. They say that she let them go because she had her fill.”

“Surely captain, you do not believe those… those inventions. Stories, all of those.”

The man served himself another goblet. It would be the last one. He was no longer sixteen. Hadn’t been for a while.

“I say that she let them go as bait.”

Eyes met eyes over the decrepit table.

“And a week ago, men came. They had questions. I don’t like questions.”

The sleaze did not reply. He, too, knew about the men. He had disappeared the devil knew where the moment their strange white uniforms started to dot the streets.

“And now you come here asking me to seek a pale lady on a small ship.”

“The money—”

“I have not lasted this long in my profession by being an imbecile. All the gold in the royal bank won’t do you any good if it’s Davy Jones footing the bill. I say no. And if others say yes, they are fools.”

With that said, the man downed the rum and sighed in appreciation. He walked out, shutting the door behind him. The noise of children playing in the sunny street came and dimmed again. The sleaze did not follow.

A fancy cottage in Essex, five days after the Parisian night.

A vampire and a godling sat on either side of a coffee table, each nursing a cup of fragrant black tea. A small fire was dying in the hearth. Sometimes, shiny embers danced over the blackened log, and the wood cracked merrily. There were no lights.

The godling was old, ancient even, and yet powerful muscles still clung stubbornly to his aging frame. He lounged without fear, eyes closed. A persistent smile lifted the corners of his lips, hidden behind a scar and a prodigious white moustache. Between them, a series of books lied piled high. They were fresh from the printer, and still smelled vaguely of new leather.

“You haven’t changed,” the godling finally said. His voice only carried one emotion, and it was wonder. “You haven’t found a cure to your curse then?” he asks immediately after with obvious concern.

“Hah, only death will lift this one. I am content. Rather, I will always be grateful for your understanding at that time. It… helped me a lot. I was young then.”

“We both were! And I do believe that you have started to repay me…” the godling answered with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Are you referring to your children?”

“Indeed! I was endlessly amused when Nathan sent me the draft for his second book. Ariane Delaney! I could scarcely believe my eyes. You saved him, did you not?”

“Not his life, but I believe that he would have had his heart broken if we had failed.”

“And a heart is needed to differentiate an adventurer from a looter. Ah, it pleases me endlessly to know that the younger generation has taken the torch to carry the name ‘Bingle’ into the annals of history, even if the more respectable circles would dismiss it as nothing but bluster.”

“Perhaps not for long. The world is changing.”

“But it might be too late for my youngest. A good head on her shoulders, that one. Perhaps too good sometimes.”

“Miranda? She and I had a little encounter that, I believe, changed her mind.”

The godling chuckled, and it soon turned into a full belly laugh.

“Ah, I am so pleased to see that the spirit of adventure lives on in my dear children. I am so glad that I got to share what I saw with them.”

“Is it also why you wrote your memoirs?”

“That, and two other reasons.”

“Do tell.”

“The second, we do not all have the benefit of dodging old age, Miss Delaney. A man may live for decades, but leave a good book behind and he will keep touching hearts for centuries. We all have our paths to immortality, in a way.”

“A noble goal. And the third?”

“Money. Hah! I used the mountain of pounds and shillings I made to purchase the lovely domain you see, as well as help for Rose and I in our old age. Our children got the best education money could provide through pages upon pages of naked blades and stiff upper lips. Huzzah!”

“And thus, a new generation of Bingles was unleashed upon the world, to find adventure wherever it may be.”

“You know, Ariane, sometimes I believe that adventures find us.”

The vampire smiled mysteriously.

“Who knows?”

They sipped tea in companionable silence.

“You know,” the godling said, “even without the rest, I would still have been pleased with the one expedition we completed together. Even after finding the diamond of Manipura and the golden crown of the Prince of the Serengeti, saving those fifty people from a cult remains my greatest achievement. This, more than jewels, fills me with pride.”

“You have a good heart, Cecil. I could tell the moment that we met and the only thing you expressed was sympathy.”

“You were more guarded, then. I am glad to see that you have grown into your own, if only inside of your heart. I hope that you will find it in you to extend your benevolence to my grandchildren!”

“You have my word that I will help those I can, given the occasion. The world would be drabber without them around to open forbidden vaults and uncover cursed temples. I just hope that neither they nor I will bite off more than we can chew.”

“But, my dear Ariane, being an adventurer is all about that!”

December 1849, Boston, two years after the Parisian night.

The street urchin hid his hands under his armpits. The mittens were not enough to keep the cold at bay. The old man by his side pointed to the right, where late pedestrians passed by the lit windows of tailor shops. Even at this late hour, the streets bustled with late shoppers and clerks heading home from work.

“How about that one. What do you say?”

The woman he chose was young, with blonde hair held up in two buns over her ears. A fashionable hat matched a dark blue cloak and gown ensemble that looked slightly too cold for the weather. Despite that, she showed no signs of suffering from the biting wind that froze the urchin to his core. The street rat stared and counted. He judged that her outfit must cost upward to twenty dollars despite the lack of much jewelry. At least! She also walked all slow and proper, and she had a handbag that could have some good money in it. And she was young and without a chaperone. Really, a perfect mark.

And yet…

There was something there that pushed the urchin’s intuition to scream. It had never failed him, this intuition. Right now, it said not to approach the woman. It said to stay away, on the other side of the bay preferably.

“No,” he told the old man.

“Hah, you’re still so green. Look—”

“No. She’s bad news.”

“Have you lost your damn mind?”

The urchin shook his head with vehemence. The old man had never seen him so animated, so assertive.

“Remember when I told you the cops were coming, and they were?” the urchin said. The woman passed them by. Suddenly, it felt even colder. The arctic gale sent the urchin’s teeth chattering.

“Fair enough…” the old man whispered with a frightful glance, “fair enough. Come on.”

They left. The urchin looked back one last time as they turned the corner. His gaze met a pair of sapphires as cold as the winter solstice. There, he saw only two things. Death, and amusement.

The sapphires followed him as he started to run. Thankfully, she did not follow.

July 1851, Moonside, Illinois, four years after the Parisian night.

The vampire and the mage rode into the village. It was a strange village. It lacked a few things.

First, and sadly, it lacked children. And the old folks to look after them.

Second, it lacked clothes. Or at least, that is how it appeared as many trod its street in the state of nature.

The blonde mage took a deep breath. She was an interesting mix of deadly implements and noble beauty. Wheat-colored ringlets fell to her armor-clad shoulders, mixing with the white of her uniform. A sword adorned her lovely waist. She was the perfect synthesis of the war mage and the Austrian princess. She also smelled nervous, and the peculiar inhabitants of this peculiar village tasted it in the air.

The vampire turned to the side and a tiny brunette pointed at a nearby field.

“Just finished,” she added, though what she was referring to was not expanded on.

The vampire and the cabbalite rode through the street. A man stopped to sniff the air, but his companion slapped him across the back of the head, muttering something about ‘not mentioning the smell’ and ‘having to regrow your damn ears’. The pair made their way to a vast field unimpeded.

There, they met a tall man cleaning his blood-soaked hands in a basin held by a bored-looking, muscular young woman. The man had the powerful build of a fighter at the top of his form. His body was covered in wiry muscles as taut as strings. He also moved with unnerving grace as he greeted the visitors with a happy smile. His square jaw and messy brown hair lent him a roguish charm that had some effect on the mage.

“Heeeeyyy bosswoman, how are you doing? I told June, ya know? I told her. Damn, it’s been a while since we last saw the bosswoman, and there was this here matter that I had to solve and I knew, I just knew that the bosswoman would check on her good pal Jef. Didn’t I? Anyway, so good to see you.”

“Is this the… matter you are referring to?” the vampire asked. In the field, there were many people milling about and discussing matters as if they were at a tavern. The center of the field hosted a circle drawn in chalk, and at the edge, there were the remains of a monster of good size.

It would have been scary, with a wolf head filled with sharp, curved fangs, were it not for the sorry state it was in. Someone had done an impressive number on the thing. Its blood soaked the ground. One of the arms was detached.

“Yes! Every three months or so, someone from the north comes and sees that Moonside is a pretty sweet haven, ya know? Milk and honey and whatnot. They see this and they think, ‘Damn there’s a lot of girls here, and food. And the weather is nice, I guess?’ We have amazing weather, that's for sure. Helps with the crops, and the hunts. Good situation. Anyway, they see this and do they think that it’s all hard work and being buddies with the immortal night horror who ate Fenris’ enforcer in front of him because she was feeling peckish? Nooooo they are all, yeah, free stuff. And I’m all, nah fellas, you want something, you have to go through me first. And they are all, hah you are a tenderfoot who doesn’t know about the hardships of the north! I have eaten my own shoes boiled with salt and my belt as a side dish, all while pushing the coals around with my massive, throbbing, oh there are ladies here nevermind. But you get the idea! Funny thing is, they keep me on my toes. Can’t get rusty with those around. Hey! You might think that they might learn, but they don’t. It’s like werewolves are not the most shining intellects around. Crazy, huh?”

“Yes,” the vampire deadpanned, “unbelievable.”

“Thanks bosswoman. So, who’s the new girl? Hello!”

“Ahem, yes, and a good evening to you Mr. Jeffrey.”

“Hah! Mr Jeffrey! You hear that, June? Now that’s real class. Mr. Jeffrey. Got a pep to it, don’t ya think? Why just the other day I told old man Gregor, I told him, I said—”

“Jeffrey, as commendable as I find your enthusiasm, I need to finish this conversation before dawn,” the vampire interrupts. She smiled gently to take the edge off her comment. They were, after all, on his territory.

“Jeffrey, I would like you to meet Carmela von Leeb, of the White Cabal. She and her family have suffered at the hands of other werewolves, and she requested to meet with you in order to overcome her fear.”

The tall man unleashed a devastating lopsided grin on the hapless woman. He wore trousers and nothing else, highlighting an impressive physique.

“Why, yes, fair lady, I will be your huckleberry—EY!”

The muscular woman by his side had so far listened to their conversation in sullen silence punctuated by the occasional eye roll. As Jeffrey tried to flirt, however, she had apparently decided that it was time to intervene and emptied the water basin on her leader’s head. Then, using the distraction, she decked him.

The pair fell into a snarling pile of play-fighting. It was clear that Jeffrey would win with ease, when suddenly a grown man with lost eyes bowled into the victorious werewolf, resetting the struggle. Then, a wisp of a girl with a pixie haircut joined the fray, followed by a dangly fellow with a long beard. A massive fat man grabbed half of the pile and smashed it into the other.

“Gus, get your fat fucking ass off my face!” someone bellowed.

In the clearing, the visitors looked on. The vampire was checking the time on her watch while her horse sniffed disdainfully.

“Is it always like that?” the mage asked.

“You get used to it.”

The mage was still a bit scared, but the werewolves had certainly lost some of their mystique already. And that was before the naked people charged in.

1854, A secured compound on the coast of Florida, seven years after the Parisian night.

The war mage checked his circle one last time. This one was not some hastily drawn defense. It was engraved in the stone beneath him at great cost, with molten silver and great patience. The main gate had always been designed with reverence and defensibility in mind. It was paying off now.

“Alright, remember, don’t wait until they come in. Fire immediately,” he said to the men and women by his side. There were a dozen of them. He prayed that it would be enough.

His attention returned to the double doors in front of him, made of solid wood reinforced with enchanted nails and steel bars. The fighters by his side wore clothes of an assortment of colors. His foes wore white and, more worryingly, red.

The Red Cabal. He had heard of them. It was said that they served a dangerous master.

There was a rumble and he brought his focus front and center.

The wall on his left exploded inward, and a horror walked through the opening. No, the horror walked, and it made an opening. Mortar and bricks yielded under his tremendous bulk. Debris large enough to crush a skull bounced off his armor like gravel.

He was humanoid, and he wore on himself a steel armor colored black and engraved with reinforcement runes shining a terrifying red in the shadows. The plates that made his protection were thick enough to stop a cannonball, and he wore them as if they weighed nothing. The floor groaned with every step.

The man stomped down and cracks snaked out from the impact. He grunted, and swept before him with a maul of ridiculous proportions. The inelegant implement smashed through their entire flank with disheartening ease. Where the giant struck, only mangled bodies were left with bleeding eyes and ears from the shock of their crumpled shields.

But the man was not a war mage for nothing.

“Inferno!”

“Mistral,” a calm voice retorted.

The wave of pure heat met a cold front as solid as a wall. Tempestuous winds ravaged the main entrance. The man looked up from behind the protection of his raised arm to see the colossus walk by. Their eyes met.

The man felt himself dragged in the placid brown gaze. There were no emotions there, just a relentless drive to accomplish the task he was given. The sheer will inside of the titan’s mind was crushingly overwhelming. Here was a creature who would destroy a mountain piece by fucking piece over the eons if ordered. All obstacles would be swept not by smarts, but my single-minded obstinacy. He—

The amulet around the war mage’s pinged and the link between the two broke. The mage was not so much protected as kicked back into himself, reeling from the frayed contact. The colossus was now obliterating his way through his other flank. There were two gunshots and the men he had placed on the balcony fell to the ground with gaping holes where their chest used to be. It was already over, and there had been no battles. All those efforts and preparations swept away like a sand castle.

He knew why.

Even without the show of speed and inhuman power, even without the deleterious gaze that gnawed at his willpower, there were the auras. Cold. Powerful. Uncaring. Two of them.

The war mage reinforced his shield as a woman stepped down from the wreck of the wall. Fighters in red and white were pouring in from the breach, not mixing with one another. They moved further into the complex in a way that showed that they were following clear orders, and knew where to go. It was humbling.

It occurred to the war mage that he was the last alive from his group. Men and women he had trained and dined with now lay dead, their lives extinguished in mere moments. So many talents from so many places snuffed out at the same time, and with no result.

The war mage was too experienced to feel much guilt. They were fucked no matter, that much was obvious. Which begged the question, why was he still alive?

The male vampire held his humongous weapon close enough for the war mage to spot runes of breach and destruction. It was a tool specifically designed to crush shields. A mage-killer.

The female one stopped to stand in front of him. He avoided her glare.

“Why?” he asked. They were just smugglers who traded in exotic goods. Certainly not anything that justified such a thorough extermination.

“Do you know who your main investor is?” the woman asked in a smooth voice. She had the barest southern accent.

“My investor?” the man repeated with incredulity.

“So, you do not know. Tell me, you are the head of security here, yes?”

“I was. Until you killed everyone. How does this relate with my fucking investor? I got no investor, only a boss.”

“Your company has an interesting benefactor, one who has used your supply routes to smuggle equipment in and information out. We are in a period of preparation, you understand. Everyone is setting their pieces on the board, and it so happens that you are helping the other side.”

“And so you came and slaughtered us? Just like that?”

“Yes. Just like that.”

She was barely paying attention.

“Is that why you kept me alive? You wanted to make an example out of me?”

He could see mild surprise through the pitted war mask as the vampire returned her attention to him.

“Example? No, my dear. You are neither an example nor a rescue.”

“Then…”

She was suddenly very close. The shield wavered around him. Her voice grew husky.

“You are dessert.”

September 1857, Louisiana, ten years after the Parisian night.

The vampire held a small babe in her arms. Her poise and light touch showed a certain experience with children, although she kept her a bit farther than necessary, as if afraid to break her. There was still a distance there. A certain unease.

“What do you think?” the mother said by her side. She had the frazzled hair of someone with too little sleep, but her eyes gleamed with excitement and a smile to match.

“Healthy and beautiful, I can ask no more from my namesake.”

“I hope that she grows to be smart and careful, just like her mom.”

They spent some time playing with the child until she fell asleep.

“How are things otherwise?”

“The western plantation was destroyed in a flood two weeks ago. Fortunately, everyone got out before so we have no casualties. The harvest was insured. My only worry is that the broker might make some difficulties.”

“If it happens, do let me know. I can convince them to honor their bargain.”

“Yes. You know, since that incident with the bank five years ago, everyone has been polite and respectful with me.”

“Unsurprising. I made an example out of them, after all.”

“What did you do?”

“It would be best if you did not know.”

December 1858, Boston, eleven years after the Parisian night.

The blonde vampire placed a finger on the root. It disappeared in a flash of purple light, leaving nothing behind. It was as if it had never existed at all.

“Hmm.”

The blonde vampire blinked, perhaps surprised at the compliment.

March 1859, Boston, twelve years after the Parisian night.

The Warden of Illinois and her second climbed down the rock stairs leading to the heart of the mountain, the seat of the shadowy power ruling the North American vampires. Runes shining a dull red cast a worrying glare on black stones that no mortal had seen in over a decade. There, below, decisions were taken that would reach many groups. With a single vote, a hundred souls could be consigned to oblivion. It had happened before.

The pair arrived at a landing and doors opened to let them in. The circular room was already occupied by powerful denizens of the night sitting in uneasy silence around an imposing round table made of raised stone. The mood was tense.

The two representatives of Illinois sat at their designated spot. The blonde one exchanged a quick nod with the second of Louisiana, a sinuous black woman with a perpetual thin smile. A few more joined them, then a tall man in a red robe entered, and the vault was sealed shut behind him.

Silence and immobility now reigned in the room. Those who sensed such things could have felt perfectly contained auras, one for each attendant. Another with a sharp control might have detected the edge they had.

The tall man sat down and a twin in a beige ensemble stood up, his sibling remaining in his chair. They both had eyes and hair of very light brown, almost copper.

The blonde vampire allowed herself the tiniest predatory smile. Lord Adam resumed his speech.

The Lord sits down, and the Speaker takes his place.

Silence returned to the assembly. Lord Adam stewed in his own ire. The two black representatives from Louisiana checked their nails with mock inconspicuousness.

The Speaker pauses, then turns back to the blonde vampire.

The blonde vampire’s aura bubbled ever so slightly. Something crawled at the edge of reality, driven by her anger. When she realized it, she brought herself under control. The few who noticed did not comment.

The Speaker’s aura leaks as he gets more absorbed in his demonstration.

Lord Adam winced, but he helplessly shrugged in a show of grudging acceptance. The issue was settled, for now, but the bitter taste of conflict lingered between two sides separated by an unbridgeable rift.

April 1861, Marquette, Ariane’s administrative building.

The blonde vampire dropped the newspaper heavily on a table near Alexandria Merritt. The fire archmage figured that, since Lynn had married off to one of Boston’s richest men, and Ollie had ascended as the first leader of the Red Cabal, she qualified as important and deserved some explanations.

“What’s the matter, too many ‘okays’?”

“I wish. Do you remember what I said about those dwarven-engineered guns we made for the army?”

“That you cannot wait to see who will be the sorry idiots our country next declares war on?”

“Yes, that. Unfortunately, the joke is on me. We are the sorry idiots.”

The archmage leaned forward. The paper had the illustration of a smoking structure on a tiny island by a port. The header said, in big bold letters:

Fort Sumter Attacked!

And below, in even bigger, bolder letters.

CIVIL WAR!

“Ah, fuck.”