by Al K. Line
The sun set behind the trees and the birds sang their farewell as dusk settled over the land and dark thoughts and darker deeds filled my mind.
At least I was exiting in style.
A Ride
There was one thing to be said for the elusive and secretive vampire community, they had style. Class. They surrounded themselves with the good things in life, had taste mostly born from their long lives and their inheritance from their maker, and were usually very polite. Right up until they tore out your throat or drained your essence in any number of exciting but deadly ways.
The Five that accompanied me—for I was sure he was a Five—was a case in point. He was respectful, charming, helpful, and polite. And downright scary because of it.
The driver was probably just a regular driver, one of the fanboys. A human who knew of their existence and had somehow—and it ain't easy—managed to not only find them, but to get into their inner circle and do what it took to gain their trust and the promise of future immortality.
I could count on one hand the number of vampires, or sub-vamps, I had met in my forty-three years on the planet, and this was the longest conversation I'd ever had with one.
All other encounters had been more of a, "Well, you're gonna eat me so I'm gonna blast you until you're in little bitty pieces and can't come after me again," variety, but mostly they stayed right out of human affairs. Yes, they didn't see themselves as humans, much like a chimp wouldn't see itself as an orangutan if you asked it and it could answer without just nicking the bananas and doing a runner up the nearest tree.
After getting in the car, we chatted about nonsense while we drove through the city, making it all the more surreal. My escort was quite a chirpy fellow for a vampire, and much better company than any others I'd met, mainly because he wasn't trying to eat me, but the real reason why it was all so genial was because I had the bag and they wanted it more than anything else.
I was safe. For now.
The conversation dried up and I sank back into the luxurious leather, trying to come to terms with the way my life had changed in the space of a day.
I began to get nervous. Very nervous. Why did everyone want it so badly? Cerberus were willing to off a rather infamous wizard—me, The Hat—to ensure it didn't go to the vampires, and that took real balls. Not only would they have been well aware of who I was and that I was a face, known by those in our world, but they would also have known they'd risked exposure by sticking their necks above the parapet and letting the vampires know Hounds were involved and wanted the item.
Same for the vamps. They were incredibly secretive, never came into contact with wizards, and certainly not Hounds. Everything was topsy-turvy and it all meant one thing. Bad news for Arthur.
Everyone was acting irrationally.
You never met anyone who would admit to being a Hound. It went against what every practicing wizard or magical adept I'd ever met believed in. Heck, we all got where we were with a little help from a magical object or two, me being no exception. Hint, it's on my head and keeping my scalp warm.
We loved us a weird, mystical object, and that's why I ended up doing what I did. It was one step from buying and selling to stealing from those that either didn't know what they had, or really shouldn't as it could blow up in their face. A magical merry-go-round where items were forever changing hands, usually because of me or someone like me, but obviously not as good.
Now everyone had gone crazy. Showing themselves, killing in crowded places, walking around with canes most criminals would sell their grannies to own, and even the vampires were out in the day—or dusk, anyway—albeit only for a short while. The Fifth beside me had struggled to make it to the car, but he remained strong even though his body and will were clearly weak. If he'd been out in daylight for much longer, I was sure it would have been the end of him.
And me, lucky me, I was apparently being taken to see a man I could only assume would be a Second. A Third at least.
Joy!
An hour or so later, with darkness now almost complete, the car slowed and a large double gate opened. We wound our way up a sweeping drive to a house located on the top of a rise, the landscape going on for miles in every direction. If you wanted a home that could be easily defended because you could see anyone approach then you didn't get better than this.
The house was bloody huge.
The extent of the vampire community in the UK was pretty much non-existent, same as it was worldwide. The Family as a whole was large, an immense infrastructure, much like a corporation, that had its hand in every aspect of business of an illegal variety, but they never dealt with it personally. They had people.
As to actual vampires, it was anyone's guess. But we assumed their numbers were minimal and each year they became more secretive and withdrew further from the concerns of humans.
Hell, nobody even knew who ran things, how many true vampires there were, or where they were based. At least nobody I'd ever met. They took privacy to a whole other level of paranoia, and it's easy to understand why. People would try to kill them and who needed the hassle?
If the word on the street was right then you were looking at maybe a few hundred real vampires worldwide, the subs maybe numbered in the thousands but were nowhere near the level of a Second.
And I was about to go say hi.
The Handover
"Yours, I assume," I said as I stood before a man who was so forgettable I had to focus for him to even really register. I think that without my magic I would have walked right past him, forgetting him the moment I saw him. Like he was a piece of plain furniture or a pot plant.
"Hopefully," he said, looking to my right where the Fifth stood close, threatening in a nonthreatening way. You had to be there. Trust me, he was ready for action.
"Oh, sorry. Haha, forgot." I let the wards go from the bag and the symbols floated up and danced around in a flourish like musical notes then winked out of existence.
"Very impressive," said the Second, for it was him, I was sure.
"It's all about the drama," I said, knowing if I hadn't released the wards things would have gotten nasty and I'd be having another chat with Death—a very long one.
"Problems?" asked the Second of the Fifth.
"The Hat is what some would call a lucky man. Fortuitous. Nigel is dead, Nathan has an injury but will recover."
"How unfortunate. I hope you remained professional, showed mercy even of our enemies?"
"I did."
These guys really took their roles seriously. Vampires played it straight and didn't do anything that could get them into trouble with the law or other more deadly forces unless absolutely necessary. It was a survival thing, too few to risk losing even one of their members. Sure, they were criminals, but good ones, and there's a big difference between the working man and the one that runs the show.
"If you please?" asked the Second, holding out a hand.
I took in the lavish yet understated and very stylish room I'd been led into, a library of sorts, rammed with all manner of objects and books I would have loved to have a few weeks to go over, and the line of expectant men, women, and vampires standing a respectful distance behind the Second, and knew I had no choice.
So, I handed the bag to a very nondescript, plainly dressed, utterly forgettable man. He wore a simple black suit of very high quality with a timeless cut and zero ostentation. Had an average haircut on an average face and when he spoke his voice was entirely indistinctive.
The kind of person you'd forget in a heartbeat. You could never describe him as there was nothing to describe. You couldn't pick out where he bought his clothes or shoes, or remember his scent because he didn't have one.
His hands were slender but I knew they were strong, incredibly so. Superhuman, some might say.
"Thank you," he said as he took the bag from my outstretched hand before I had chance to change my mind.
And change my mind I did.
Thin, pale, and average lips par
ted to reveal a set of typically British teeth. Neither sparkling nor ravaged by time, uneven or too even, just average. Apart from the two incisors, which were sharp, very sharp, and twice as long as they should be.
For a moment, just a fleeting moment so brief as to be questionable, he flickered and his true self shone through. Far from forgettable.
"I done a bad thing, right?"
"Depends on your outlook, I suppose."
"It's him, isn't it?"
"It is," the Second conceded.
"Bugger. Shall I take it off your hands? Maybe bury it somewhere deep and cover it with concrete? Throw it into a nuclear reactor or something?"
"They said you had a penchant for jokes, I shall assume that was one."
"Assume what you like, but just don't assume this means we're buddies."
"Haha, whatever makes you think I want to be your friend?"
"Oh, you know, the winning smile, the jovial manner. The hat. Everyone loves my hat."
The Second handed the bag to a goon he beckoned with the crook of a finger and then he stepped forward, way closer than I'm comfortable with vampires getting.
"Thank you, Arthur. This has been a trying time for you, I am sure. For all of us. But it is over now, and you may leave."
"Oh," I said, surprised. "Right, okay then. Be, er, seeing you."
I turned, waiting for a stab in the back or a bite to the neck, feeling utterly exposed as I took one slow, unhurried step after another. No point acting scared, now wasn't the time for weakness.
"Oh, Arthur?"
Buster's hat! I knew it was too good to be true. I turned and said, "Yes?"
"Haven't you forgotten something?" he asked, eyes dancing with amusement.
"Don't think so. Did I leave my toothbrush? You keep it, you need the work."
"No, Arthur, your payment for services rendered. For retrieving the item for me. For us."
"I assumed that part of the deal was off now."
"We are creatures of our word, Arthur. Children of the Blood never go back on their word. What are we without our word, our reputation?"
"Nothing, we're nothing."
"Exactly."
With the slightest wiggle of a finger, another goon stepped forward and it was clear this one was vampire too. The Second took the package from him then waved him away with a relaxed hand.
He held out the payment to me and I walked back and put a hand to the slim, beautifully wrapped package. He gripped it tight, took my gaze and held it for the longest time, then said, "May I ask you a question?"
"Sure, as long as it's not about anything too personal."
"Why this? Of all the things you could have asked for, even not knowing what the item was, why this? You could have had money, a lot of money, other things far more valuable. Ancient books, powerful objects, so much. Yet you asked for this specifically. I am curious."
"Sorry, that is too personal a question."
"Ah, the sentiment of humans, it never fails to impress, confuse, and confound me." The Second released the package and I took it, pocketed it, then fastened the Velcro.
"Well, be seeing you."
"You can count on it."
I got the hell out of there before he stopped me again.
Another Job Done
The journey home was interminable. I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid. I also couldn't believe I'd been so damn lucky. Lucky to get out of there alive, lucky to have survived long enough to hand over the item, and lucky enough to have been paid in full.
The item?
Yeah, about that. I realized the moment I stood before the Second. I saw it in his eyes no matter how well he tried to hide it. The hunger in the faces of the others, the tense atmosphere and countless other signs made me sure I was right about what I'd delivered.
This was why Nathan killed his brother, why they tried to kill me and take the bag. Why Cerberus had exposed themselves, killed openly and done anything they could to get it the moment they knew about it being in my hands.
Everything made sense and I saw the Hounds in a whole different light. Yes, they were up their own asses, but this time, for this, they were maybe right even if they'd gone about it in a rather extreme way.
I guess they'd believed they couldn't trust me, but if they'd told me what it was and asked nicely, not even paid me, I would have gladly handed the damn thing over. I wouldn't have touched it no matter the price if I'd known what it was.
Curse Nigel. He deserved to die for what he'd got me involved in. What he'd got everyone involved in.
The bag contained the ashes of Mikalus. The first vampire. Known, like you couldn't guess, as the First. He was like the Holy Grail for the vampires.
He was legend. A story, a fable, a myth, or many thought of him as such. I'd only ever half believed the stories of him when alive, or dead but alive if you know what I mean, but there had always been whispers about the first true vampire, about his remains, his ashes.
Centuries ago, maybe close to a thousand years, he was born, and he lived for many hundreds of years, spreading the virus he became infected with through misuse, or probably downright abuse, of magic.
There are terrible creatures lurking in the Nolands, and he'd called up something he should never have called forth. An illegal and very stupid summoning of something that should have been left well alone. He was attacked and bitten—although the stories often differ—slowly changing into the vampire to beat all vampires. The original and the best, all those that came after, especially later generations, little but poor imitations. The true power and strength he was endowed with never quite transferring over to those he baptized into his perverted flock.
The story went it took a long time for him to realize his true potential, and only after many years did he understand what it was he had become. Slowly losing the battle with his body and mind, until eventually he died and was reborn as a being at one with the creature he'd unleashed and battled before somehow sending it back to a corner of the Nolands it called home.
He was reborn as vampire, immortal and powerful, and his domination grew until it encompassed much of Eastern Europe and had spread around the globe, a select few, a very select few, brought into the fold and given his gifts.
But he got sloppy, a single careless act and his life was forfeit. Back then life was harder and simpler, and somehow, by some silly error, maybe a fallen curtain or a tear in fabric, maybe a dislodged stone or a careless footstep, or, and some believe this to be the case, a purposeful ending of his own life, the sunlight hit his flesh and he was turned to ash. Instantly combusted, the daylight anathema to true vampires because of where this disease originated, from a creature that never knew daylight, didn't even really understand the sun and the ways of our world. A creature born of the darkness.
Whether he took his own life or whether it was taken from him, the legend went that a faithful servant, a human—for very few earned the right to be turned—gathered up his ashes in a simple wooden box and after that the mystery deepened.
Every decade or so, there was a new rumor about Mikalus' box. Stirrings and whispers in the preternatural world as the underground went into a frenzy of searching, offering ridiculous bounties, and the chase was on in one corner of the globe or other. Nobody ever found it.
Until me.
The most ridiculous part?
Obtaining it was one of the easiest jobs I'd ever undertaken. Simple, quick, and painless.
It just went downhill after that. I don't think anybody but the vampires and maybe Nigel, Nathan, a couple others, knew what I was carrying, and they certainly weren't talking. If those in our world knew what I had, you can bet they would have moved heaven and earth to get their hands on it. Many would do anything, including drop a bomb on the city, to ensure the box never got into the wrong hands. I didn't blame them. Others would have been just as keen to get it and try to reanimate him and make him do their bidding.
I knew better.
Mikalus was the original,
the true source of pure vampire blood, everything else a weak, pathetic approximation of what it was like to be truly vampire.
Sure, the old ones were ultra strong, but the newer vamps were just softies. Kids in comparison.
Now they had him. I'd given Mikalus' ashes to them.
I'd unleashed hell on earth.
Almost home, the darkness of the countryside enveloping me in silence and a strange, hollow feeling inside, I slammed on the brakes and shouted, "Ah, fuck it!" and banged my hands on the steering wheel before going off on a mad tirade of ultra-extreme cursing and general despairing at what I'd got myself into.
I couldn't leave them to it, much as I wanted to just go home and forget the whole sorry incident. No, I had to do something.
The Hounds would be after me. I'd be enemy number one for handing it over no matter what I told them, and Nathan was probably a little annoyed about his arm. By Buster's hat, the vampires would be unstoppable with Mikalus restored to his previous good, everlasting health—as long as he invested in decent curtains and wrapped up properly in the daytime.
Cursing, and carrying on cursing, I turned the car around and headed right back the way I'd come.
Criminal with a conscience, a bad combination.
But I guess I was a little to blame, what with the whole handing over the nastiest, most powerful, immortal ex-human in history to a bunch of vampires and all. So, there was that.
I needed a drink first, though.
No, I needed something much more potent to relax me.
I went to Satan's Breath.
Stinky Wizards
Wizards got sweaty, and when they got sweaty they smelled. Bad. Very bad.
I was no exception. Maybe it was the strain of imbibing the nature of the universe itself—which, let's face it, is pretty miraculous—or maybe it was the extreme focus it took to control said magic, let alone channel it, use it, morph it and bend it to my will. Or maybe the real reason was because we got chased so much and were rather unfit. Either way, we got a little whiffy, so, above all else in the world apart from wielding elemental forces and doing stuff we probably shouldn't, we loved us a sauna.
