Chronicles of Darkness: Shadows and Dust

by Andrea F. Thomas

  The residence was cast in darkness. Weak moonlight, which shone through the big windows, brought some pale, gray light to the rooms.

  Carefully putting one foot in front of the other, Michel moved forward, groping his way. After the police chief hadn't found anything suspicious on the lower floors, he went in direction of the stairway. The steps were covered with thick carpet, so his boots didn't make any sound as he moved to the upper floor. He had pulled back his coat and his right hand was resting on his pistol. Listening intently for any sound, the police chief walked along the long corridors, always careful not to betray his presence with a noise. Frowning, Michel thought, 'Nothing. I can hear absolutely nothing. Still, I cannot shake off the feeling that I am not alone.'

  Suddenly a strange voice said, "I can hear you."

  Caught off guard, Michel whirled around and scanned his surroundings, but couldn't see anyone. "How... how is that possible?" he said to himself.

  "You are breathing too loud, my dear Michel."

  Shocked, he turned around but still there was nobody.

  "I am here..." the deep voice announced.

  Michel swallowed hard. Then he demanded firmly, "Stop this nonsense and come out!" He listened and watched carefully for awhile, but nothing happened.

  "I'm in your head, my dear Michel", the voice mocked.

  To prove said statement, his head started pounding strongly. Tortured by horrible pain, he fell to his knees and held his skull with both hands. The pain stopped as fast as it came and Michel rose from the floor. Now more determined than ever, he continued his search for the perpetrator of the strange occurrence.

  He reached the door where Chalice had been standing not too long ago. Feeling nausea rise in his body, Michel said, "I can feel coldness. Pure evil is waiting for me, behind this door." Michel shook his head and added, "Alright, enough with the weird talking. I have a treacherous murderer to catch." Just as he was about to press the handle down, it moved on its own and the door opened a bit.

  "Scary," Michel gasped. Icy coldness streamed from the room and the police chief hesitated, uncertain.

  The air inside was heavy with the strong scent of opium, oppressing him. His ears picked up the deep bass voice, which he had heard before. "Please, come a little closer." The doors flew open wide and mechanically the police chief entered the room. The big doors shut behind him.

  The heavily decorated parlor was pregnant with smoke and the man needed a minute to orient himself. As his eyes fell upon the scurrilous scene, he didn't know what shocked him more; the tall, bearded man, who lay there on the couch, grinning widely, or the fact that he held one of the seemingly dead D'Ardenne twins in each of his arms. Michel wasn't able to move. The sight was more than his mind could handle.

  His opposite was calmly running his hands through the young nobles' locks, curling the fine strands around his fingers. Their naked bodies were clearly visible beneath their thin robes. The fine silk stuck to their breasts with dried blood, their gazes empty and staring ahead.

  Azrael broke the silence. "Is that what you had hoped to find, my esteemed Monsieur Dutroit? Police chief of Paris." A superior smile formed on his face. He kissed the dead girls' pale cheeks before he let go of them.

  "Disgusting monster!" Michel screamed in outrage, appalled by the impertinence Azrael was showing.

  "Well, well, well, my dear Michel. Do not forget your good manners. We are in Paris. We should relish our time here and have fun whenever we can. Besides, you truly are very impolite. You didn't even ask for my name."

  "I guess there is nobody, who can compete with your impertinence! You have terrorized the population, spread fear and horror, and murdered innocent girls in the cruelest ways possible!" Michel collected his thoughts and then continued, "Thank God, that's all over now!"

  Azrael turned his eyes upward, as if looking towards heaven, only to cast his eyes back to the police chief, his gaze contemptuous.

  "Mon Dieu! So get it over with reveal your name!" Michel demanded, annoyed.

  Excited about the question, Azrael bowed and announced proudly his full title. "Count Azrael, the First from the Serpentes' Clan. That is what I like to call myself."

  "That is what you like to call yourself?" the police chief repeated in a trance.

  The vampire stroked his beard and cleared his throat. "I do not allow everybody the honor to know my real name. I guess you know the one that the papers here in Paris have given me... Heart Taker. I think this description fits quite well."

  "Which is your own fault. The evidence of your guilt lies in this room. The D'Ardenne twins were your last victims, I personally will make sure of that!"

  Azrael sighed. "I hope you are done, my dear Michel. Unfortunately, I do not have all night to talk with you. Even though it actually would give me great pleasure to discuss the basics of good and evil with you."

  "I've had enough! In the name of the King, you are under arrest!"

  "Indeed," Azrael replied in a bored tone.

  "Well, do you come willingly or do I have to use force?"

  "Let me think about it for a minute. Um, well, my dear Michel, I think you may have to try to use force."

  Exasperated, the police chief shouted, "What kind of game are you playing?!"

  "Why, mine of course," Azrael answered calmly. "There is but one person, who could spoil my fun, here in Paris."

  "Me?" Michel asked a bit surprised.

  "Oh, please, do not make yourself so important. Of course not you, my dear Michel." Azrael circled the man, like a predator its prey. "No, I am talking about Madame Leosol." Eagerly, he waited for Michel's reaction, who did exactly what Azrael thought he would. The vampire had to grin.

  Michel's eyes widened and he shouted, "I don't know how you came up with this fine lady's name, but she has nothing to do with this at all!"

  "She doesn't?" Azrael countered. "I think you are not up to date."

  "What... what... what does that mean?" Michel struggled to regain his composure.

  "Oh, she didn't tell you?" the vampire asked with pretended sympathy. "How shall I put this... um... we are old acquaintances of hunting." Again he waited anxiously for Michel's reaction.

  "I don't understand this, and even if I would understand, I would not believe it for a second!"

  "Indeed? What do you know about her, hmm?" The vampire didn't wait for the police chief's answer. "Helena Leosol is a huntress," Azrael announced.

  "A huntress?" Michel repeated, disbelieving. "But, what does she hunt?"

  "It's wonderful that you asked. What do you think, my dear Michel?" Azrael's voice took on such a weird tone that Michel couldn't help but stare at him.

  "You really don't know? Do you want me to help you?"

  Without really wanting to, Michel found himself nodding in agreement.

  "Oh, it is a very exciting secret that I'm about to reveal. Madame Leosol stems from an ancient family of vampire hunters."

  "A vam... vam... vampire huntress?" the police chief stuttered.

  "Please, my dear Michel, don't you go losing your composure," Azrael responded. "How do you think I felt, when Chalice reported to me every night that Madame Leosol has been killing my loyal followers. She has been doing that ever since her arrival in Paris." Theatrically, he placed a hand upon his chest. "I really cannot allow that any longer. She is reducing their numbers too fast. It really bothers me." Azrael shook his head. "No, I will not allow that to happen any longer."

  Michel was frozen with shock. His pistol fell from his hand and he stumbled to an old leather armchair in the middle of the room. Absent-minded, he repeated the words over and over again. "Vampire huntress... she is a vampire huntress..."

  Indignantly Azrael said, "Oh come on, get over it already. We need to attend my problems. Do I have your full concentration?"

  Confused, the police chief looked at the pacing man. Suddenly, the resolution of the case dawned on him. "You are a vampire?"

  "Now, how did you manage to come up
with that? And all on your own. My dear Michel, I'm truly impressed!" Azrael said sarcastically, flinging his arms up.

  "Then who are the alleged twins sitting in the theater right now?"

  "Do I really have to explain everything to you?" the vampire asked, rolling his eyes. "They are two of my creatures."

  The police chief blinked. "Creatures?"

  "Please, my dear Michel, I really don't like to be interrupted. Women and men, who I have bitten and turned into vampires. I call them my creatures, because they are mine. And on we go to your next question, which is practically written all over your face. Yes, while we are sitting here, Chalice is luring your men into a trap. They will be dinner for my loyal followers. Do not be worried, I can guarantee, they will not rise again from the dead."

  "Are you also going to kill me?"

  "I see, you are thinking ahead. Good for you," Azrael said, petting the distraught man's shoulders. "That's the point, isn't it? For now, be calm. I need you somewhat alive to set up a trap for our beautiful huntress."

  "Helena?"

  "Of course Helena Leosol. Or do you know any other huntress? I am slowly losing my patience with you. Humans are always so dense. It is really exhausting."

  "You want to use me as bait?" Michel asked fearfully.

  "Correct." Azrael looked deeply into the police chief's eyes, forcing access to the man's thoughts and mind. His voice became very soft. "You want to help me, don't you?"

  "Yeeees..." Michel murmured, caught in the vampire's dark spell.

  "You will carry out all my orders."

  "Yeeees..."

  "Really good. Your first order is to never let Helena Leosol out of your sight. I will stay in contact with you."

  "Yeeees..."

  "Now, you will go home, get some sleep and when I give you the order, you will go to her. Understood?"

  "Yeeees..." Mechanically, Michel rose and left the house.

  Azrael stroked his beard, grinning wildly. "Manipulation is a wonderful gift. And humans are so easy to manipulate." His laughter rang loudly through the silent house.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HIDDEN IN SHADOWS

  The stormy heralds of impending winter arrived at Ardeal. Clouds were blown over the simple Transylvanian village. It was the end of November and the inhabitants prepared themselves for another long, cold winter.

  It was cozy and warm in the tavern, which was called 'The Howling Wolf'. The smell of fried and roasted meat drifted through the air, mead and beer was given out and a constant jumble of voices, laughter and music filled the taproom.

  István Jovovich, a small man with a round belly, which was covered by a leather apron, was busy drying some earthen mugs with a towel. From time to time, his watchful gaze slid to a group of young men that sat in the back, celebrating loudly. They were notorious for starting brawls and other nonsense. Among them was Rouven Dimov, son of the village's mayor and self-proclaimed leader of the group.

  A bit apart from the others sat Anatol. Every village had its outsider and in Ardeal the position applied to Anatol. He was slowly sipping beer from a mug as his ears picked up the sound of approaching footsteps. With lightning speed his right hand shot forward, grabbed the long skirt of István's daughter Ljudmilla and pulled her towards him. The wooden tablet fell from her hands as she lost her balance and landed sprawled on his lap. Strongly intoxicated, Anatol grinned, put the mug on the table and wrapped his arms around her hips.

  She struggled in his unwanted embrace, especially after he buried his nose in her long, dark blonde hair, which lurked from below her bandana.

  Inhaling deeply, he sighed. "Hmmm, Ljudmilla. You smell more wonderful than any spring flower."

  "Let go of me, you idiot!" Ljudmilla hissed angered, writhing in his grip. After some efforts, the young woman finally managed to free herself from his arms. While Anatol was still grinning at her, she fixed him with a furious glare.

  "What is it?" the young man asked with mock astonishment. "As your beloved, don't I deserve a kiss from my adored one?"

  Snorting in disgust, Ljudmilla drew her hand back and slapped him hard across the face. "Here you have your kiss!" She bent down and picked up her tablet. With a final scowl, she left to fetch the empty beer mugs from Rouven's table.

  Disbelieving, Anatol watched her leave, holding his stinging cheek.

  Dimitri, a tall, thin man joined him. The giant laughed, slapping his shoulder. "Well, that didn't exactly go the way you wanted, did it, Anatol?"

  The other man said nothing. His eyes were still resting on Ljudmilla, who was smiling gently and adoringly at Rouven, giving the mayor's son all of her attention.

  Dimitri's eyes followed his gaze. Then he shook his head. "Give it up, Anatol. It's a waste of time. Her father would never tolerate or allow it. Besides, it is quite obvious that she is interested in another."

  Anatol clenched his hands tightly. "Just because he is the mayor's son, Rouven thinks he can do anything," he spat scornfully. "He is not better than any of us, who don't have as much money or influence than the highly valued Dimov family."

  "You shouldn't talk like that," Dimitri admonished him.

  "Why not? The girls kiss his feet as if he were a gift from heaven. And why? Is he more attractive or more intelligent than any other man? I don't think so. The guys look up to him and chose him for their idol. Why? Is he a better hunter or stronger than any other man? I'm stronger than he is, believe me."

  "Want to prove to me the truth of that statement?" a deep voice interrupted them.

  Startled, Anatol and Dimitri twisted around. They hadn't noticed that somebody had stepped behind them to listen to their conversation.

  Rouven stood there in all his glory, his arms crossed. Although he was two years younger than Anatol, he was already taller. His commanding figure contrasted with Anatol's rather lanky appearance. The first signs of a growing beard made him seem older. His long, hazelnut-colored hair fell over his shoulders as he bent forward, his brown eyes flashing. Rouven lifted an eyebrow, sneering down at Anatol. "Well? Tell me, Anatol. Do you want to prove to me how strong you are? Or have you suddenly lost your voice, loudmouth?"

  "Go and leave us alone! It isn't very nice to butt in on a conversation, unasked," Anatol growled and wanted to turn back around.

  Rouven grabbed his shoulder tightly. "It also isn't nice to talk badly about people behind their backs. What's wrong? Scared of showing some spine?" he snidely remarked.

  Meanwhile all laughter and conversations had died in the tavern. Everybody's full attention rested solely on the young men.

  "If you want to have a fistfight, kindly take it outside!" István demanded from his place behind the counter.

  "Come on, Anatol. I will give you the chance to prove your strength," Rouven declared and sat down, opposite him. He put his right elbow on the table, his arm straight up, fingertips pointing to the ceiling and placed his left arm behind his back.

  Suspiciously, Anatol glared at his opponent.

  Rouven waggled the fingers of his outstretched arm. "Well, Anatol? Aren't you man enough to arm-wrestle with me?"

  "Pah, of course. I'll take on your challenge, you can bet on that." Anatol hissed, then wiped his palms on his pants. He also placed his left arm behind his back, propped his right elbow on the table and firmly clasped Rouven's right hand in a strong grip.

  Some people had gotten up from their seats and a small crowd was building, watching the rivals with great interest.

  Dimitri placed one hand on the clenched ones of the young men and said, "Ready..."

  Rouven grinned at Anatol, who glowered back.

  "Set ..."

  As an answer to the dark expression, Rouven blew him a kiss and winked at him, which made Anatol so angry that his face turned bright red.

  "Go!" Dimitri yelled and released their hands.

  Both men tensed their muscles and the contest began. It would have been easy for Rouven to end the game in mere seconds, but he wanted to play a b
it with his opponent. Their hands had not moved even one millimeter, although Anatol did his best.

  Rouven just held his position against the pressure.

  Gradually, small drops of sweat began to form on Anatol's face and Rouven's grin grew bigger and bigger. The mayor's son obviously relished the cheering of the gathered people, meant only for him. "What's wrong, Anatol? Growing weak already?"

  "Stop your silly babbling!" he pressed through clenched teeth, pushing harder against his opponent's arm.

  Rouven relaxed a bit, his hand now dangerously close to be slammed onto the table top. "Want to add something to increase the interest?" he asked innocently.

  Anatol frowned and his arm began to tremble from the strain. "Why? Are you scared I will win?"

  "No, I just thought about a little... um... incentive to spur you on," Rouven answered with a smug grin.

  "In case you didn't notice, it is your hand that's about to hit the table and not mine!" Anatol retorted triumphantly.

  Rouven's eyes searched for the tavern owner's daughter. "Hey! Hey, Ljudmilla! Does the winner get a kiss from you?"

  Ljudmilla glided toward him, placing her slender hands on his broad shoulders. "Since I know that you are going to win, I can give you one right now."

  Anatol looked up and his eyes widened as the young woman bent down and pressed her lips in a gentle kiss against Rouven's bearded cheek.

  The mayor's son made use of his opponent's inattentiveness. Abruptly, he tensed all the muscles of his arm, pressed with all his might against Anatol's hand and smashed it hard against the tabletop.

  Thunderous applause broke out to celebrate Rouven's victory.

  Humiliated, Anatol rubbed gingerly at his bruised knuckles, his face contorted with pain. Then he jumped up, pointing a finger at Rouven. "I want a second chance!"

  The mayor's son rose, staring disdainfully at the man in front of him. "Don't you ever have enough? How many more times do you want to become laughingstock, you poor fool?"

  Dimitri placed his hands on Anatol's shoulders, intending to guide him out of the tavern. "A smart man knows when he has lost. Just leave it be, Anatol."