by M. K. Gibson
“Next,” the human man said.
It was our turn. I raised my right hand slightly.
“Wendell,” I said in an almost bored tone.
Wraith Knight didn’t move.
I looked slightly over my shoulder and his eyes were wide. He was frozen in place. I looked back, and the greenish woman was looking around with fiery red eyes.
“Wendell?” I said, looking back at my petrified minion. “The invitation.”
“Sir,” the moustached man said, “you are holding up the line.”
“Apologies, my good man,” I said with a pleasant tone. “Servants are . . . well, you understand.”
“Doris,” Lydia said, turning towards Myst. “Please be so kind and do the honors.”
“Of course m’lady,” Myst said with a slight curtsy, improvising on the fly.
As Myst stepped up, I felt a sudden movement from behind me. Wraith Knight—all six feet, five inches of him—stormed past me and all but pushed Myst aside.
“Back, wench, and know your place,” Wraith Knight said in a . . . civilized posh accent? He then turned, not towards the moustached man, but to the green woman, and bowed his head.
“Apologies, Night Sister. I was momentarily vexed by your power while also bewitched by the grand splendor of our honored host’s home. Forgive a lowly worm such as I.”
“You are . . . forgiven,” the Night Sister replied with a nod of her head.
“You there,” Wraith Knight said, standing to his full height. “Here is my masters’ invitation. Be quick about your job.”
“Do not presume to order me, sir,” the moustached man said, taking the forged invitation.
“And do not presume to know my masters nor their business,” Wraith Knight snapped back. “The longer you dally, the longer you keep Master Merchant Julian the Black and his wife, Lady Lydia, from the event, and the longer their lucrative contracts for the war efforts remain unseen by the masters. I can only assume you wish to become food?”
The moustached man blanched at Wraith Knight’s verbal barrage. He quickly looked over the invitation, then waived us all past. I nodded slightly, took Lydia’s hand, and walked past the reception point.
As we ascended the stairs to the side entrance, I heard stringed instruments playing softly. Under the cover of music, I turned slightly back.
“That was excellently done,” I told Wraith Knight.
“Yes, it was,” Lydia agreed. “And how did you know a war was going on that our contracts could help with?”
“To be fair, there is always a war going on in this universe,” I added. “It helps set the backdrop of drama. Isn’t that right, Wraith Knight? . . . Wraith Knight? Wendell?”
Wraith Knight, instead of answering, simply babbled “holy shit, holy shit, holy shit . . .”
“It seems our dear Wendell has . . . checked out,” Lydia said while we continued to ascend the stairs.
“Apparently so,” I concurred, following alongside her. “Myst, would you be so kind?”
“On it,” she nodded, then shifted the middle finger of her right hand into a stone-like substance and flicked Wraith Knight hard behind the ear.
“Ow!”
“Focus, WK,” I said.
“Sorry boss,” my now mentally present minion said while he rubbed at his throbbing ear. “It’s just that I bluffed my way past a chamberlain and a Night Sister. My GM back home would never believe this!”
“I assume that a Night Sister is some type of witch, or hag?” Lydia asked.
“Oh my, yes!” Wraith Knight said, louder than he intended. Lowering his voice, he continued. “The Night Sisters from this world are an ancient coven of dark fae witches. During the Straga Wars, when vampires and witches were engaged in bloody conflict, both vying for power in the region, the Night Sisters betrayed the grand covens. Their betrayal ensured the Stragas’ defeat and secured not only vampiric dominance, but also their position within the new order. Most agree the move, while treacherous, was tactically brilliant.”
“You are . . . such a dork,” Myst said. “How do you know all this?”
“I studied it when we were coming to this realm. You mean, you all didn’t?”
I smiled. I didn’t want to admit that I too knew of the Straga Wars and the Night Sisters’ involvement. Not because of some geek hobby, but because I had helped broker that particular betrayal. I was just worried that one of the Night Sisters would recognize me. The one by the stairs didn’t look familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t tell them apart.
“Wendell, now that you got your little panic attack out of the way, you are ready to assume your duties.”
“I- I think so. Yes. Yes, boss. I am.”
“I’m sorry, did you hear me ask you a question, Wendell? That was a direct order,” I told him bluntly. “You dropped the ball back there. Failing to speak immediately, while funny, nearly blew our cover. Comical timing for the sake of narrative aside, I demand perfection. Thus far, you’re on shaky ground.”
“Sorry boss,” Wraith Knight said, hanging his head slightly.
“Don’t be sorry. Be better.”
Wraith Knight, to his credit, said nothing. Instead, he stood up straight and proceeded ahead of us, as was the duty of my herald.
“That was a good line, boss,” Myst said from behind me.
“I know,” I said smugly.
Little rule of leadership: Steal the best lines and claim them as your own. Do my minions need to know I took that line from the Playstation 4 video game God of War? No. No, they do not.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Where the Geeks Inherit the Earth and Screw It Up, And I Jump to the Head of the Line
As it turned out, Wraith Knight did not just do better. He in fact excelled. The man navigated the ball with surprising charm, grace, and eloquence. Amid the life-stealing, blood-drinking, decadent undead, my minion was nimble and verbose. He navigated the mirrored grand ballroom with poise while saying crap like, “Beg pardon, m’Lord. How was your trip into the city? The nerve of some beings. How fare your vassals and thralls? May the night bless you and triple your holdings.”
It seemed that everyone he spoke to was charmed by his wit, bearing, and proper reverence. He received several offers to be turned after a period of servitude. Smartly, my minion graciously declined. In short, he was a hit.
The rest of us . . . were not.
The court as a whole seemed to look past Lydia, Myst, and me as if we were simply not there. For someone who has basically ensured that he is the constant center of attention, being denied said attention was . . . unpleasant.
“I do not care for this,” I declared, crossing my arms.
“Aww, it’s cute when you’re petulant, husband,” Lydia said, mocking my agony.
“Considering we’re here to rob these people,” Myst said in low tones as she leaned in towards me, “isn’t it best that we remain . . . unnoticed?”
I sniffed. “Perhaps. You both know what to do?”
“Of course,” Lydia said.
“Then go on, both of you, do your jobs.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Myst said as she shot Lydia a wink and moved towards the eastern wing of the estate.
“Oh husband, are you feeling left out?” Lydia asked. “Don’t worry. We’ll be back soon. Meanwhile, you can watch Wendell be the center of attention for once. Amazing how well he’s doing. Yet . . . no one is paying attention to you? How sad.”
“Sorry hon, I was distracted,” I said, feigning confusion. “There appears to be this knife stuck in my back. Care to pull it out?”
Lydia chuckled lightly and kissed my cheek, then gracefully made her way to the western wing.
In truth, I was feeling left out. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.
On any other given day, my Wraith Knight was a lumbering nerd with muscles who avoided eye contact. However, he also possessed a vicious mean streak and was willing to demonstrate it when the situation arose.
Like I always say: Give a nerd some power, and watch him burn the world.
Don’t believe me? Go online and Google “nerd + gate” and see what ya get. Or you can go into any online forum and mention your opinion about Star Wars, pro or con, and see what happens.
Nerds, I swear.
You demanded the world. You got the world. And just look what ya did with it. In your quest to take the power from the jocks and the mundane, you in turn gave birth to a familiar evil. First, you spurned the new generation of nerds, telling them had it easy and forced them to prove their cred. You begged for more women to appreciate your culture, and when they did, you called them fake.
Next, you divided yourself by brand. Your loyalty, be it tech, comics, gaming platform, or preferred movie studio, gave you a position to scream from. From your side of the line in the sand, you screamed at those on the other side. But you couldn’t hear them, for they were screaming back at you.
Fools.
For when resources are plentiful, as in nature, the scavengers are abundant. You gave power and a voice to the trolls who mocked you. When they called you toxic, you attacked back, and now they claim victimhood status with all the perks and appearance fees that come with it. Countless blogs and op-eds that cover your culture are ironically full of hate yet demand tolerance.
Heed me, nerd culture: Because your politics are as fickle as your hair color, matching hue to whomever blows enough smoke up your collective asses, YouTube videos will shill daily to whatever it takes to get your click. Thus, the machines of industry continue to churn with your tears as lubricant.
Does any of this sound familiar? It’s called history. And you’re repeating it. You think you created The Wheel, albeit digitally, and as such believe your progress is unique. It isn’t.
In your crusade for acceptance, you became just as judgmental, cruel, divisive, barbaric, and prone to tribalism as the people you wrested the power from.
Which is GREAT for me. Seriously, thank you.
The more you pseudo-intellectual babies argue and fight, the more money and power I amass. Wanna know how? Because I support the real power. The platforms and the methodologies that provide you your stupid content. You support indie comic whoever on some funding site because they agree with your politics? Great . . . I get a cut. And the other person? You know, the one whose content deeply offends you? Triggers you? Yeah, I get a cut of that as well.
Money and power has never been in the hands of the artist or the creator. Said power and wealth rests in the hands of us, the producers and distributors. All hail Jeff Bezos, hallowed be thy name.
Ranting against nerd culture, no matter how much fun, did not get me closer to Evie. And neither did Wraith Knight’s dance among the dead. Well, it was time to do what I did best.
Be me.
“Whoa whoa whoa, boss,” Wraith Knight said in hushed tones as he hurried over to me. “Where are you going?”
“I figured now is the perfect time to talk to our hosts,” I said, looking past him and across the elegant ballroom floor.
“Boss, there are protocols to follow. Courtly manners to adhere to. What do you think I’ve been doing?”
“Performing a vampire nerd circle-jerk on my time.”
Wraith Knight sighed. “Boss, Jackson, I get that you’ve been ignored since arriving and I know you don’t like that. And more than likely, you’ve gone on another rant about nerds and capitalism.”
I glared at him. “Shut up, Wendell.”
“The point is, no one’s said anything to you because no one knows you. Your presence here, among those who know everything, is a mystery. Vampires LOVE mystery. It is something to distract them from the boredom of ageless eternity.”
I lit one of my black cigarettes and crossed my arms. Breathing out, I stared up into my minion’s eyes. “I’m the Shadow Master, not a vampire’s fidget spinner.”
“Be that as it may, boss, if you march across the ballroom and up to Lord Astroth and Lady Sabine, you will offend every noble beneath them.”
“So?”
“So?! Boss, everything these creatures have built is predicated on station. Their tenuous alliances are only held together because of strict hierarchy and ascension practices. If you were to bypass all of that, then there would be . . . well, repercussions.”
“Such as?”
“Bonds of blood. Unbreakable oaths. Favors that assuredly end in tragedy.”
“Do you plan on seeking additional employment or vacationing here after we leave?” I asked.
“No?”
“Then fuck it,” I told Wraith Knight with a pat on the shoulder as I started walking towards the assembled nobles.
“But . . . I-I’ve been working a complex system of information exchange and political advantage all evening,” Wraith Knight pouted as he walked alongside me. “I secured us a spot near Lord Astroth and Lady Sabine an hour from now while conversing with another vampire couple. From there, it would only be another hour or so of lateral social moving to eventually gain an audience with them. And from there, with deft maneuvering and linguistic savvy, we could inquire about the Fangs of the First.”
I nodded. “That . . . could work.”
“Thank you,” Wraith Knight exhaled in relief.
“Hey! Astroth!” I yelled across the ball. “Anyone ever tell you you smell like day-old werewolf shit?!”
I smiled.
Wraith Knight did not. In fact, my minion hung his head and audibly exhaled in frustration.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Where I Finally Get Noticed, Throw Wraith Knight Under the Bus, and Make a Threat
The entire room stared at me. Hundreds of vampires, and more than double that in human retainers and servants, stopped what they were doing and looked at me.
Gods above and below, that felt so much better.
“Boss, e-everyone is looking at us,” Wraith Knight said from behind me.
“Well, yeah,” I replied. “I just compared a lord high vampire’s scent to that of lycanthrope excrement. That tends to garner attention.”
The room fell into an eerie silence that lasted for several, agonizing moments. Then, in unnerving unison, vampire and human alike respectfully bowed their heads and stepped aside, clearing a path for the Lord Astroth du Cynfael and Lady Sabine ’un Thessalia.
Okay . . . that was cool.
“Take a note,” I told Wraith Knight. “From now on, whenever I come into the office, that’s how I want you all to react.”
“Jackson, this is serious.”
And he was right.
The near eight-feet-tall vampire lords literally glided directly at us. Unlike the prime universe’s legends of human-like creatures hiding in plain sight, Astroth and Sabine flaunted their exotic—and horrifying—beauty.
Their elongated fangs matched their elongated features. Their ears were pointed and their chins were sharply angular. Their deep-set, ancient eyes were pools of liquid black. Sabine, being of higher station, led the way. Her skin was the color of flawless white marble, while Astroth’s flesh was a deep caramel. Their bat-like wings were adorned with fine silks and tasteful jewel settings. Around their necks they wore chokers made of bone and teeth. Their clothing bespoke class. The very light itself dimmed in their presence. It was clear to all who cast their eyes upon them that they, and no one else, were the true power in the room.
And they were coming right for us.
“W-what should I do?” Wraith Knight asked.
“Well, considering that we’re tits-deep in vampires, I think my bodyguard should be in his armored form. Don’t you?”
“Got it, boss.”
Smoky black tendrils rolled over my minion. They crept up his collar and flowed past his wrist and boot cuffs. The smoke and shadow hardened as Wendell Dench once more stood as the hulking, heavily armored Wraith Knight.
And it was completely pointless.
“Jackson Blackwell . . . is that you?” Lord Astroth asked as he extended his hand.
“It has been some time.”
I took the larger hand in my own and gave a slight bow. “Lord Astroth du Cynfael. It my humblest pleasure to be in your presence once again.”
“Jackson,” Lady Sabine said, holding out her own hand.
I took it and once more bowed my head to the lady of the house, adhering to the old customs. “The night, while beautiful, dark, and full of mystery, is merely a shade when compared to your presence, my Lady of ’un Thessalia. I thank you for honoring me in your home.”
To my side, Wraith Knight simply stood there, shocked.
“I assume your mouth is hanging open under your helmet?” I asked Wraith Knight. “Bad manners when being greeted by the lord and lady of the manor.”
“Indeed,” Astroth agreed. “Is this a new servant?”
“Recently acquired,” I explained.
“Yes, I noticed him flitting about, interrupting guests,” Sabine noted. “Yet now he appears ready for combat. Hardly fitting a guest.”
“Wraith Knight, how could you?” I said, turning to my minion and feigning shock.
“B-but y-you said--”
“My sincere apologies, to both of you,” I said. “First for my rude comment. It is my hope you still recall my peculiar sense of humor. And second, for my servant’s wildly inappropriate behavior.”
“Do you wish him flogged, flayed, or worse?” Astroth asked. “We have quite a remarkable assortment of devices in the dungeons below the manor.”
“Indeed,” Sabine agreed. “A servant is not useful until properly broken of all will, thought, and sense of self. In fact, we have at least two dozen right now below ground encased in stone walls. I find that madness is the best precursor to dominance. Don’t you agree, Jackson?”
I smiled up at the tall creature and bowed my head slightly. “Your bestowal of wisdom honors me and I thank you. Yet where I come from, the will and loyalty of weaker minds is easy to secure provided you supply them with mass-produced food, banal sporting events, and music of the popular, urban, or country variety.”
