A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

Long as a barn, she has white flanks shining with fresh paint, railings, and a chimney cleaned to shimmering perfection. The flat bottom and broad hull make her look like a corpulent lady trudging peacefully downstream at a sedate pace. I do my best to enjoy the view as I walk leisurely along, stopping sometimes to catch a moment I may paint later. My notebook will soon be filled with sketches of the riverbanks, of the sailors and merchants, of the officers and passengers. Time slows down and I use the meditative state I am in to think.

We have been rerouted and I do not know why, nor do I have any influence on our course. I am not even part of the planning. Aisha received a sending and the Knight squad changed course on the spot, all previous plans abandoned. When I inquired about the delay, Jimena gave me an apologetic look and the promise that the current crisis is not related to me. Knights will go where they are needed, with or without their prisoner in tow.

I only wished whoever sent them off had ordered Jimena to bring me back herself. That would have been common sense, a resource that appears in short supply around those parts.

I am left with nothing to do. I am bound to stay under their surveillance as I am now while they take care of travel arrangements, decide on security matters and they plan the next operation away from my sensitive ears. My only role is to stay put and to behave. Even now, I can feel the curious gaze of Alaric, their dagger-wielding flanker, on my back. There is always someone keeping an eye on me.

I am not in control of my fate.

I hate feeling powerless. It does not matter that we use a trusted captain and have a security detail that a king would find adequate. When dawn presses upon my mind, I join Jimena’s secured sarcophagus with the thought that I am at the mercy of men I do not know and cannot trust. It goes against all that I am and yet I do nothing. It would be unwise to act on it and so I bide my time. Any measure I could take to regain some independence now would harm my situation if I were found out. I will have to trust Jimena, and that is all I can do.

With one last sigh, I finish a simple rendition of a dead trunk bent over the water, with its branches caressing the passing flow, and slam the book closed. I turn around to the cabin from which the helmsman steers the ship and decide to join him on a whim. It would be too inappropriate for me to visit the engine room and I do not want soot on one of the three clean dresses I brought anyway. The perch from which the ship is steered will do nicely.

I deftly climb the ladder up and ignore Alaric’s gaze on my back and lower back.

The box is small, with windows offering a clear view of the surroundings. A solemn man is at the wheel, smoking a cigar and inspecting with care the land around him. He wears a comfortable-looking and well-cut shirt and his black beard shows traces of grey.

“Excuse me, sir.”

The man turns and glares with a frown. I can feel his rising temper in the beat of his heart and the intake of breath, but the insults and complaints die on his lips at my demure air and pleasant smile. I am no Lady Moor, but I have never been hard on the eyes either and few mortals could resist the benevolent attention of my kind.

“And what can I do for you, miss? You’re one of those folks that came aboard today aye? Something about an unexpected business?”

“Indeed. We were set for Boston, but were waylaid.”

He nods in understanding and immediately returns his attention to the water before him. I cannot see any danger, but he frowns at things I do not perceive and adjusts our course with a few light touches.

“This is my first time aboard a steamboat, and I could not help but admire all I could. Why, I haven’t seen a grander thing in my whole life!” I exclaim.

That is a lie. I witnessed a millennia-old sorceress remake the fabric of the reality while sipping an infusion and throwing witty barbs. Nothing can top that. I still go on with my shameless flattery, buttering the old grouch up with thick compliments and a pinch of manipulation so that he spills his gut.

Metaphorically.

“I am sure you have seen so much and heard so many incredible tales! Would you mind sharing a few with me, to pass the time?”

His caution melts like snow under a fire spell, and he puffs his chest so much that I fear he may pop buttons. Too late, I realize my mistake. The fellow’s tongue is untied, the dam has been breached! A torrent of words escapes from his mouth with a Southern accent I realize I had missed.

“I’ve been on this ship for a good year, I have, and by the by, I’d say she’s one of the finest old ladies to grace this river. And I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been at this for a score years and the things I’ve seen and done, you could write a book about. Why, there is no finer pilot this side of Jackson, and I got the eyes of a cat and the mind of a fox, I do. No shallow or dark water there is that will make Andrew Scoresby lose his way, no mam!”

Not once did he glance in my direction. His gaze is always forward as he keeps us on course.

“We pilots have to remember all islands, reefs, sand bars and bends, yes ma’am, and they change all the time! We got to know the shape of the river like we know the shape of our wives, beg your pardon, better even! Like now at night. And here, we’re in luck because the stars and moon show us the way but when it gets dark as a negroe’s bunghole, beg your pardon, then it’s another thing altogether! All lines look straight, and all shadows look like snags. You think they’ll grab you like a scorned lover but no, tis but shades and bluster. And that bend that looks just fine will shove a rock up the old girl’s arse, beg your pardon, and cause the loss of fifty lives and a quarter million-dollar steamboat, it will. And that’s just the natural dangers we face. Tell me M’lady, do you believe in the… supernatural?”

He affects an air of mystery, or at least tries to.

“I try to keep an open mind,” I reply drily.

“Once, they were making their way to the Kellog plantation pier. It was a dark night, darker than this one! A fine mist was covering the river and the land was so silent, you could hear the first mate fart from the engine room, beg your pardon.

“Heavens, the pilot replied, something is damn wrong with the river tonight. Be a good boy and go fetch old Knutson, because either my brain is playing tricks on me, or there is some devilish force at work!”

The pilot is not heated, fully absorbed in his story. He gesticulates wildly and points at imaginary things and people with one hand, the other still firmly on the controls. Even as he speaks, his attention never wavers from the river before him.

“The boy was scared beyond belief. Terror gripped his heart, but he did what he was told and woke up the old grumbler who first gave him quite an earful, but when he was told of the junior pilot’s words, his brow furrowed and he climbed to the bridge like a company of savages was at his heels.

“Lannis old boy, he bellowed, where in hell did you get us to?! Knutson old bugger, Lannis replied, we were abreast the Wallis farm an hour ago, and now God only knows where we are!

“The old man paled and climbed to the pilot cabin, muttering in his beard furiously. He came by Lannis’ side and took a gander around. Then with a great gasp, he recoiled and announced, Lannis my friend, no matter what happens you cannot have us flounder, you hear me? We must pull through!

“At his words, all the men at the fore were taken with a great fright, and they looked around to the shores but saw nothing but mist, reeds and gnarled trees with roots reaching into the water like witches’ fingers.

“Lannis carried on with old Knutson guiding him until they came to a sharp bend to the right in the river, with what looked like really shallow waters. There was a moment of silence as the pilot guided the ship port. He reached to his tube and called this engine room, telling them to go slow and steady.

“He slowly turned her starboard and the measures of depth were coming like bells tolling for midnight. Thirteen feet, they said, mark twain, eleven feet, ten feet! The men were clinging to the railings with desperation for they had never seen the old pilot scared and they knew in their heart that if they were stranded here, a cruel fate would befall them. Nine feet, they heard, eight feet and a half!”

Scoresby is now screaming with enthusiasm. I hope the other passengers to not think I may be assaulting him.

“Then suddenly, Knutson screamed: now! And Lannis grabbed the horn and yelled give me all you got, dammit, full speed ahead! The chimney vomited great gouts of smoke and the paddlewheel slapped the water with great vigor. They all heard sand scrapping the keel but a moment later, the ship was through!

“A great ovation rose to the sky and the two partners were celebrated for their skill and admirable sangfroid. Soon, the mist lifted and everyone could see a lantern to their right. The Kellog pier was in view, with a man sitting on a recliner who stood up and waved his hat like a flag when he saw them. Everyone started to relax and talk about that strange occurrence, and whatever happened to the river? Everyone that is, but the two pilots.

“Full speed ahead, screamed Knutson, don’t stop for anything!

“My cousin was terribly surprised and asked the old man what was wrong! His teeth were chattering, and hair was falling from his beard from the stress. Lannis was not much better. Cold sweat made his jacket cling to his lanky frame.

“Fools, Knutson said, we’re not out yet! And so the pilots kept going and soon enough, the shores became normal again and they landed safely a bit later.

“When my cousin asked the pair how they knew it was not the Kellog plantation, Lannis answered. The pier was right, he said, the man was right too, but the shore was wrong. Then old Knutson brought his partner, my cousin and a bottle of whiskey to the mess and talked about a legend that there was a wicked man who lived on an island in the middle of the river and made his wealth stealing from passing ships.

“One night, the river flooded and plunged the entire island under the water. The devil took his soul then, and will only let it go if he can bring enough dead to offset the weight of his sins. And that, m’lady, is why pilots are so important and why we need to know the river perfectly.”

I do hope we come across this interesting character. I bet he would taste nice.

“Thank you sir, I feel safer now that I know we are in such good hands.”

“Right you are mam, right you are.”

How I wish I could stay and hear more of those outlandish tales. Perhaps there will be more time after I answer this call I just felt. The Mississippi is long and my destination unknown.

“I thank you for your time, Mr. Scoresby. I will leave you to your work.”

That was a pleasant distraction. Unfortunately, I will have to shorten it. With one last smile, I step down the ladder to answer the summons of my smiling jailor.

The ability to feel my essence is a tremendous advantage in just about everything I can do with my powers. It is so helpful, that I have no idea how I managed without it.

All that I do tires me less and I wake up earlier every day. I also noticed that Charm works by sending a very thin tendril of essence to the targeted person or their aura, which means that I no longer need to imagine a rope, nor do I really need eye contact, though it helps.

I cannot explain why eye contact helps. This strange logic always leaves me feeling ambivalent. The rational part of me, the one that trusts science and enlightenment, finds it all very strange. I would go so far as to say nonsensical. The deeper part understands it to a level that no words can do justice to.

It remembers the fairy tales and the ghost stories, the strange rules of dusk, midnight and dawn. The power of oaths and beliefs. I am part of this realm and I know how to play the game, though I would be hard-pressed to explain exactly how, or why, it works. It is all quite peculiar.

One of the side effects of an attuned essence is that one can use it to ‘tug’ at another vampire. A sort of signal, if you will. I am convinced that Alaric is being if not rude, quite cavalier in poking me so. His familiarity grates on my nerves.

Yes, until I was interrupted. I would find more entertainment by SHOVING MY CLAWS IN HIS GUT AND PULLING HIS INNARDS INCH BY INCH, but alas, he may object. And so, I show a fangless smile and keep a pleasant tone. I just need to reach Boston to be rid of those buffoons until the next turn of the century, or until someone mistakes their gaudy carriages for a bank convoy and blows it to smithereens. I would be happy either way, as surely, they would eventually let Jimena lead a squad. Even the most corrupt imbecile must eventually run out of incompetent people to promote to leadership positions.

Right?

This is my first real conversation with him, as so far I have only kept the company of Jimena, who has been very protective of me. I appreciate the efforts of my blood sister as I doubt Alaric has my best interests in mind.

Alaric’s voice is mellow and cultured, with a hint of British accent even when he speaks Akkad. He bows to me like a dancer after a performance.

He affects holding his wounded heart with a convincing impersonation of a dying mortal, before returning to normal and continuing our conversation as if nothing had happened.

Alaric leans against the railing and smiles disarmingly.

He lifts a brow.

Alaric stands straighter. In one moment, he turns from dilettante to calm professor. Even his voice has changed.

The Shade takes a mildly disapproving air, one I would expect from a mentor whose pupil asked a question he should have known the answer to.

I refrain from commenting. When your ambassador gets your entire squad ripped apart by a furious Battle Lord, it might be time to ask for a reassignment. Alaric takes my silence for the condemnation it is but instead of defending his leader, he smiles knowingly and steps closer. His demeanor changes again and I am now wondering if he should not be the infiltrator. He sheds personas like one sheds shirts.

He is close now, so close that I can smell his own perfume, similar to mine but not quite the same. The cold spice of vampires, alluring and dangerous. With a hint of vanilla and ethereal trickery. I find it enticing.

The Shade’s smile is roguish and handsome. I am quite sure he thinks highly of himself and that some may swoon in his presence.

He is so close now. I could lean a bit and kiss him.

I smile and show eight fangs, just to remind him of who he is talking to.

The Knight’s smile freezes, then blooms again. He looks almost impressed.

Five minutes later, a cabin boy comes running and stops when he spots the two of us. I can taste a trace of terror in the air before his rational mind silences his instincts. He approaches, swallows with difficulty and stands at attention.

“Yes?” I ask curtly.

“Excuse me madam, are you Ariane Nirari?”

How curious.

“I am.”

“That’s the thing…” he licks his lips nervously, “there is this Indian outside, says he knows you. Says he knew you’d pass by and that you two should talk. Should I… should I tell him off?”

An Indian who knew where I would pass? Could it be…

“Did he tell you his name?”

“Yes, mam. He said his name was Nashoba.”

Nashoba, so you were alive all this time. Incredible. I must speak to him, I may not have another chance

“I will see him immediately. Where is he?”

“At the pier, madam.”

I pick a coin from my pocket and toss it at the urchin. Double payday for that little twerp, for there is no doubt in my mind that Nashoba bribed him as well to carry this message. I am half expecting Alaric to stop me, as Anatole would have. Instead, he follows me behind and to my right, as if he were escorting instead of guarding. I would be grateful but I highly suspect that curiosity got the better of him.

My steps take me down the now empty plank as I take in my old friend. We have not kept in touch, though he could have contacted me by dreams. I was wondering if he had perished and now I realize that perhaps, he simply didn’t have the strength.

Nashoba is dying.

He is still handsome in a lost artist sort of way. He still has liquid brown eyes and mismatched cloth that reveal skin. There is grey in his hair and his hairline receded, but that only would make him look wiser if it were not for the rest. His skin is sallow, with a yellow tinge. It clings to his frame too tightly and his posture is slightly stooped, like someone who is in constant pain. He smiles before he turns to me and I am surprised once again when I realize that he came alone.

Behind me, Alaric hisses softly when he hears the tongue of Akkad in a mortal mouth. He does not react further, and I decide that it is safe to speak, for now.

He bows his head slightly and gives me a sad smile.

My tone may have been a little more abrupt than I intended and Nashoba notices it.

I just exposed my friendship with Nashoba before Alaric when I confessed I missed him. This was a mistake. I am being careless again.

My hands are bound now but perhaps there is something I can do.

Heh?

Anatole’s face is a mask of horror, then it twists into a scowl of deep hatred. His aura overflows and I shiver at the cruelty I perceive beneath. I have no idea what is happening, I only know that I must not let Nashoba be hurt by what may follow.

INTRUDER. THIEF.

KILL HIM. No, wait, no, I need to beat him through words, but how? Think Ariane, think. What can I trade for?

Ah yes, his pride. I need to play this well. I remember Lady Moor and her demeanor, her poise and haughty expression that made anyone feel like insects polluting her air. I do my best impersonation and though I know I fall short, the cold in my voice surprises even me.

My aura is frigid. It spreads over the pier like a blanket of ice.

Anatole frowns. Taking Nashoba now would go against his vow to keep me well-fed as well as common courtesy. Alaric’s eyes narrow at his leader and his crossed arms show mild disapproval, something that his squad has refrained from showing so far. I hope it is enough. How I wish my blood sister were here instead of the cabin with Aisha and the axeman, Alec.

I wish I had more time to talk to him. I can tell that the burden in his shoulder is heavy. In a way, death is a mercy.

I take the shaman in my arms. He winces in pain until our eyes meet. Gently, I Charm the pain away. I smother it and shove it in the background where it can be ignored. Nashoba takes one shuddering breath and almost collapses. Tears of relief drip down his pallid cheeks.

It is done.

I pull back and Cradle Nashoba’s unmoving shell. He is dead. We have known each other for thirty years and we haven’t talked in twenty and now the chance is gone. Time caught up to him like it caught up to my father and others. I feel… brittle. I can find no other word for it. Beyond sadness, I am overwhelmed by a sense of vulnerability that does not affect my body but my spirit. This is one more anchor to my human part I leave behind.

I slowly lay the body on the ground.

Once more, I wonder how someone could look at a corpse and think the person is asleep. The mouth is open, distended, and the vitality is gone from its muscles. My friend has passed and what he left behind is a painfully thin flesh puppet. It already stinks of relaxed bowels and soon, rot. There is no dignity in death. My kind is lucky to leave only ash behind.

I jump in surprise when Anatole grabs the body by the ankle, and starts dragging it towards the boat.

Anatole turns to me with a smirk.

And with a lazy swing, he drops the corpse into the river.

DEFILER. I move forward, have to recover the body but something holds me back. Alaric, I realize, has grabbed me under the arms and lifted me up so that my feet cannot find purchase.

Anatole’s cruel smile widens. He is most amused. KILL HIM, KILL HIM NOW. That’s it, I am done with those idiots! I will…

I will do no such thing.

I stop struggling and let the coldest part of me smother my heart before it can kill me. This is what Anatole wants, one more trap to force my hand into resisting him. He knows the game is almost over. Now he resorts to dirty tricks in a last-ditch effort to execute me before the journey ends.

I can play that game too.

The word bites deep, deeper than I thought they would. He takes a step forward and his claw-tipped hands spread with animalistic fury. Oh, yes, you hypocrite, I can sting too.

I dodge Alaric’s hand on my way up. The shaman’s body has disappeared in the current and it is too late for me to do anything about it. One more debt to be repaid.

The future is uncertain. Revenge isn’t. When I am ready, I will find this man and kill him myself. I will add his essence to my garden and every night for a year, I shall pass by his kneeling statue and repeat the word that wounded his pride.

Pretender.