Upon our return, Jarek’s plan to boot the door to the presidential office open and dump the hive drone on Lincoln’s desk is short-lived. Sephare imposes her veto and Jarek’s complaints fall on deaf ears.
“We will disseminate this information in due time. I give you my word, Jarek. The Council of Wardens must hear of it first, or just imagine how those old lords will react to being told of this momentous event after the mortals. Right? Right.”
And so we ship ourselves north to Boston for an emergency session.
Boston, June 17th 1862
The Council chambers are nowhere close to full, as many domains are still reorganizing following the departure of the Expansion Faction. Time was simply too short. We still count at least one representative per seat of power and I can tell the tension from the postures of the vampires present.
It takes an experienced eye to notice concern in a creature with no pulse, no facial expression, and aura control developed as a survival tool. As always, the devil is in the details. Gazes that collectively follow the movements of the newcomers. An artful poise just a bit too relaxed. The signs are many, and I have had plenty of experience in the past few years.
Constantine enters last and just on time. We go through the opening protocol with some impatience until, finally, Jarek takes the floor.
“I have never been very good at politics so I will state it plainly. In the fourteenth century, we fought a world-ending plague of monstrous creatures that reproduce from human corpses. They killed a hundred of us in combat, almost killed the rest, and now they are back.”
I see shock in the minute widening of eyes. Hands rise up in the air.
“Are you quite sure?” one of the Wardens of Maryland asks.
“On my blood I so swear. I saw it with my own two eyes. A pack of fifty drones or so, and there are bound to be more. They fought the exact same way.”
The next to speak is a statuesque Roland Master from the Mississippi domain.
“I have studied our history extensively, but I have never heard of this event. Are you saying that the records were voluntarily erased?”
Jarek sighs, a low, rumbling sound like wind through a canyon. He sits heavily in his stone chair and leans forward, hands linked together. Nobody protests at the breach of protocol.
“The battle took place around the current territory of Poland. We have expunged all mortal records from that time, because our existence had become common knowledge, and it was our wish to disappear again. Vampire records exist, but those of us who were alive at that time have no wish to go over those memories. You have to understand. We thought this was the end of the world.”
Jarek’s eyes grow clouded. We all sense the gravity of the situation, of what led a lord as powerful and unyielding as Jarek to bend under the weight of memories.
“Hell had come to earth. The world half a millennium ago was more religious than your own. Younglings have grown jaded towards the Christian beliefs nowadays. You believe in technology and profit. We genuinely believed in the scriptures, though we thought ourselves on the wrong side of them, and to us the time of judgement had come. Pestilence, Famine, War, and Death rode across the countryside. Humans died in the millions. Millions. You cannot comprehend the extent of the death we were seeing because, to you, this is just an abstract number. You do not understand the mountain of corpses this represents, how many lives were destroyed, how much was lost. You cannot comprehend and if the Eye allows it, you never will.”
I am dragged into his aura, the naked sorrow and, yes, terror in it. As Jarek speaks, I can hear it in the background. The sobs of disbelief of the survivors who did not understand why they still drew breath, the roars of hordes of drones climbing castle walls day-in day-out to slaughter every last creature of flesh still moving. The starving humans as no field could be safely tilled. Vampires dying in combat as they were overwhelmed one by one and, behind our foes, that ominous presence that bled in more with each creature adding its mind to the collective.
“We spent years in battle. We extinguished entire hordes in our blackest of hatred, slaughtering them from dusk to dawn until the ground was caked with blood and the pyres of the fallen darkened the heavens. We thought the end had come and that they were demons. I almost wished that the trumpets of the apocalypse would sound and that the angels would finally descend to burn all of us, so that it would stop. They did not. We ended the conflict. One summer, we rode across the land bellowing battle cries and nothing answered. It was finished.”
The end of the tale is received in silence. This all feels surreal to me, as if the gnomes and farfadets of old stories appeared to clean our attics and steal our slippers. Now, I know how mortals feel when they meet us.
One of Suarez’ lieutenants is the first to react.
“Is it Mask again? Did those ‘idiotas’ unleash this on us?”
Jarek frowns.
“I do not know, but if they are responsible, it must be a rogue. Someone desperate for revenge. Only a madman, or madwoman, would hate the world so much that they would wish to end it in this manner.”
I contemplate the possibility. A true rogue would rely too much on instinct to come up with anything more elaborate than ‘go there, kill’. Someone who lost their bonded humans would fit the bill.
“I will summon Mask Ambassador Madrigal after this session has concluded and find out the truth,” Constantine says, “in the meanwhile, the situation calls for an immediate mobilization of all our means.”
A few uncharacteristic mutterings spread through the assembly, but the Speaker is quick to remind them of the sword of Damocles hanging over our collective necks.
“I believe that most of you are missing the point. No matter how well we work, the cat is out of the proverbial bag. We are not fourteenth century Poland. There will be no erasing the records for this.”
“You cannot be serious…”
“Cohorts of journalists from all across the world have come to document the current conflict. Hundreds of printing presses across the continent work tirelessly to spread the news. Right now, there are only rumors and dismissed reports. It will not last. This is it, ladies and gentlemen, the trend of disbelief that has marked the two last centuries has come to an end. Magic is coming back into the open, and us with it.”
“No.”
“Impossible!
“We must not let it come to pass!”
“SILENCE!” Constantine yells, then he settles back down as his order is obeyed.
“What we have is a cannon with its fuse lit. We cannot control the blast, but we can control the trajectory. We will be working around the clock to bend the narrative of this revelation. We will need the help of every last Courtier in this endeavor, so interrupt all training and recall all of your agents. We are going all in. This meeting is adjourned for two hours, during which you will be given the opportunity to discuss with your peers. We will decide on how to communicate with the press, the government, and the other magical factions tonight. I will accept no delays. You may leave now.”
We all stand and move out with more alacrity than ever. I quickly join Sephare as she hails me.
“I must say that your alliance with the White Cabal is a benediction,” the lithe Hastings lady comments in hushed tones, “I will be relying on you to align with them. But that will come later. I need your help in Washington with me, and with your two Courtiers if possible.”
“How so?” I ask, a bit surprised.
“I trust only you to be sensible around the Unions’ topmost military and civilian leaders. Now I know that you have better things to do, but it might be a good experience for you to make contact with a few key generals directly while you have the opportunity. Just, please, do not bite them.”
“And you will need the muscle?”
“No, the representation. Remember, they will look at us and see their first supernatural… people. The first impression determines attitude for a long time, and having someone I can depend on will go a long way towards assuaging my concerns and building a long-term relationship with the mortal authorities.”
“I assent, but I will need to leave soon so that I can get the White Cabal on board with the reveal. I have an idea.”
“You do?” Sephare asks, expectant.
I nod.
“If we can put a positive face on the, shall we say, mystically-inclined population, it will go a long way towards making our existence more acceptable.”
“A figurehead. Who did you have in mind?”
“An archmage by the name of Reginald Lewis. He is very handsome and charismatic. More importantly, he has a strong sense of justice and integrity. We will not need to steer him to protect his kind.”
“If he is naive…”
“He is, but he also knows it, and listens to the next Black Dog candidate. I can think of no better ambassador. Not to mention that the mages will support us and get invested in this project. We already control most mainstream newspapers. We only need to make sure his attractive mug gets printed on enough front pages.”
Sephare considers, then assents.
“You are coming into your own. Very well, I only need one week of your time to get the government on board, then I will support you however I can.”
Finally I am showing some initiative. Now, I only need to make sure to bring this project to a satisfactory conclusion, because Sephare will be watching.
“One last thing,” I say, “have you heard about the drones? Perhaps from your Sire? We certainly need all the knowledge we can get”
Sephare chuckles, a teetering sound that I always found vaguely threatening.
“You are letting that ancient horror Nirari and Jarek twist your perception, dearie. You are from the first bloodline. Mine did not exist in the fourteenth century. By the Eye, even the Lancasters only appeared a hundred years later. This is ancient history for most of us. Sometimes, I cannot tell if you are one of us, or one of them...”
Washington, four days later.
The antechamber to Sephare’s offices has been recently refurbished to give off a gentle, old-world charm. I can still smell the acrid stench of drying paint under the more prevalent one of coffee and tobacco. The colors are black, chestnut, and gold, with more attention given to decoration than our puritan society would normally allow. I have dressed for the occasion, in an embroidered black dress with golden filigree. The daring cut leaves most of my shoulders bare without, thankfully, revealing any cleavage.
Apparently it is quite popular with gentlemen.
Sephare lent me her personal maid to push my hair up in a stylish do, clearing my neck and leading the eye to a beautiful necklace with an engraved ruby. The jewel hosts a powerful shield charm because I will never sacrifice safety in the name of elegance when sufficient preparation will account for both.
A knock on the door, and a new visitor enters the room. His brown gaze travels over the many seats, the low tables and the room’s two occupants. Night fell recently, and Urchin stands near a bookshelf on the side opposite me, leafing through a book. Or rather, books. Every time a page turns, he swaps for another one. The transition is seamless enough that only the most perceptive mortals discern the subterfuge. The others only retain a vague feeling of unease, just as Urchin intended.
He is, after all, the stick to my carrot.
Or the thorn to my… gah, this is barely better.
In any case.
The newcomer inspects us all. He wears a Union uniform with quite a few stars, a brown beard and thick dark hair. He possesses a keen gaze that lingers on Urchin’s books, and immediately follows my form as I put down my notes and rise to greet him.
I curtsey in a traditional manner, keeping my gaze slightly down.
“Welcome, sir. Please, sit and make yourself comfortable. Lady Sephare will be with you in a moment.”
The soldier slowly takes a cigar from his waist pocket and lights it. The reddening embers shine furiously in the diffuse radiance of gas lamps. I find him quite rude. Most would have asked before stinking up the place.
Oh, a test. He is gauging our reactions. I still stand demurely with a light smile.
“How did you know what I was here for?”
“You were let in,” I answer honestly. We have wards in place for the occasion.
A puff of smoke floats forward. The powerful aroma is still fresh, and thus, not entirely unpleasant.
“You are one of them, then?”
One of the ‘mystical Americans’ as Sephare sold it. She has presented herself as an expert in spirituality. That is, so far, how the handful of key officials see us. She hinted that we can cast spells, but the humans think curses and other inefficient castings. They do not know about the vampires and werewolves, and will not do so until much later.
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
“Are you perhaps disappointed? Were you expecting a few warts and a broad hat?”
Another puff of cigar. The soldier’s eyes narrow.
“What am I waiting for anyway?”
“The creature is in the cellar. We have caged it behind steel and glass for safety, but there is a limited amount of space as a result. Only seven people are allowed at any time. This measure also serves as a precaution. As you may have heard, the drones reproduce by creating and infecting human corpses. We would not want an outbreak in the center of the capital now, would we?”
“Is it truly under control?”
“It will not get out of its containment without outside assistance.”
The soldier contemplates my words for a moment.
“You know, I have considered taking a hundred men and coming here to arrest everyone, then find out if this whole thing was a bizarre farce designed to waste the army’s time.”
Urchin’s claws pierce through the leather-covered tome he holds. I frown. Those are expensive.
“You did not,” I finally reply, “because you will see the truth for yourself without having to create an uproar.”
The man takes a few steps forward, blue clouds following him like a veil.
“If you are truly witches…”
“We would prefer the more pleasant term: mystic.”
“If you truly are witches, then you could confuse my mind.”
Tick tick tick goes a claw on my coffee cup. This is our TERRITORY.
“You are a guest here,” I remind the visitor with a tight smile, “we will exert every courtesy, and we expect the same in return.”
My interlocutor sits heavily in front of me, and I also regain my chair.
“Very well. Mystique. Answer my question, please.”
“You are a man used to the rigor of battle. You will examine your thoughts and find them clear, even as horror stares you in the eyes. You are also welcome to return here and inspect the creature again at a later date, when you have taken appropriate precautions, I suppose. In fact, we expect this location to see a lot of traffic in the coming days.”
“What precautions would those be?” he scoffs, “I do not know how to avoid bullets, how could I ward off curses.”
Oh?
“You were shot at? I thought that generals were not subject to that treatment.”
“The distant rear of an army engaged in battle is not the best place from which to judge correctly what is going on in the front. I have been shot at, but am pleased to report that I was missed.”
He considers his next words and reluctantly continues.
“Though I admit that it got pretty close in Shiloh. One of my aides even lost his hat!”
Shiloh?
“You… you are Hiram Ulysses Grant!”
I click my mouth shut. I saw his attention drift to the hint of fangs, which I had carelessly revealed. It would not do to spook one of the few military leaders I respect!
“I was not aware that you people, no offense, were so interested in mundane affairs.”
“Surely you jest? I have been doing my best to support the Union since the very beginning. Do you not enjoy the abundant supply of ammunition I provide?”
“Wait. The eagle?”
“Yes! Illinois Guns of Liberty! That is me! I mean, us. I have tried so hard to make sure that our side was decently provisioned. I must say, you are one of my two favorite generals.”
“And who, pray tell, might be the other?” the soldier asks with some measure of bemusement. I have not gained his trust yet.
“George Henry Thomas.”
“Was he not originally from the south?”
“Yes,” I reply “as am I. Now, why not tell me how I could help you fill MacClellan’s shoes?”
Ten minutes later.
“Most officers and theorists alike severely overestimate the range during major engagements,” I explain excitedly. “Yes, hitting reliably at four hundred yards is all well and good but how many people do you think can make that shot anyway? None of the Irish refugees or city dwellers your recruiters grab off the streets, that is for sure. That is why we are considering switching entirely to metal cartridges and a repeater structure.”
“I understand that we are to attack relentlessly and aggressively to achieve victory, woman. Even with your best efforts, our supply trains would not allow us to operate in the south where our supply train struggles to follow. And replacing our entire arsenal would simply be too cost-prohibitive. I do see the appeal of equipping cavalry with repeaters, however.”
Grant frowns and considers his cigar, which has run its course.
“I never expected to discuss matters of war with a woman. This has been a disconcerting evening, all in all.”
“Please look at me as one of your chief weapons suppliers.”
“You do not dress like one.”
He got me there.
“I did not come here to discuss theory,” the soldier continues, “but those reports I saw. Tell me, is it true what they say? A horde of monsters? Really?”
“We would never have come to you in the open if the fate of the nation, no, of mankind itself on this land was not at stake.”
“There are no signs of those drones you mentioned in the west.”
“By the time they reach the west, it will be too late. We must stop them before they reach a critical mass, otherwise they will be free to reap the continent and throw armies after armies of creatures at the survivors. It already happened once, and the population density was nowhere close to what it is now.”
“What period of history are we talking about?”
“The fourteenth century.”
Grant mushes the butt of his cigar in a conveniently-placed ashtray.
“Men had swords and shields then, we have muskets now.”
“And muskets can punch through a knight’s armor but they do not inflict the kind of catastrophic damage that we need to disable those things. At least not quickly. A mortally-wounded drone can keep fighting for thirty seconds. That is a long time in battle.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“I saw it happen. On my blood I so swear.”
This causes a raised eyebrow.
“A strange idiom. Nevertheless, I am still not convinced that this is not some form of elaborate prank. Magic and monsters… what world are we living in?”
“Since you asked…” I reply, and reveal my fangs this time.
“You are living in ours now.”
Sephare returns before Grant can detach his eyes from my smile. She is followed by several old men in dark suits. One of them holds a handkerchief to his mouth and looks slightly ill. The smell of terror, sweat, and vomit soon eclipses that of tobacco. John is downstairs to provide a much needed confidence boost to the witnesses. The sight of an otherworldly horror still impacts them greatly, and I can understand why. No amount of bars, chains, or panes, can lessen the chilling fear of realization that there are many more of those out there.
I am genuinely concerned as I see those men stumble away from the receiving room and out into the cobbled streets outside. They may fear the hive more than they fear us for now, but even if we should succeed, there will be a lot of blame going around. The magical population is a ready culprit.
I must make our media campaign work.
“And you must be General Grant. Please, follow me sir. The drone is this way,” Sephare says.
The two disappear into the depths of the domain. Urchin lets out a chuckle.
“You are being quite the enthusiast, mistress. I never expected you to look up to a mortal so much.”
“I do not look up, but think about it. He can order tens of thousands of men into battle! Explosions everywhere!”
“Definitely an enthusiast.”
“I see that you are still using your tricks on the book. Would you like to see mine? I bet that I can make your tongue disappear.”
Urchin lifts his hands in mock surrender. I know that I have not heard the end of this.
Avalon, White cabal main stronghold west of New York, June 27th 1862.
“This is unacceptable! Who do you think you are to take this sort of decision in your hands? The White Cabal will not tolerate the vampire’s tyranny!” archmage Pruitt bellows.
The council of the White Cabal is a majestic amphitheater with the first row composed of seven wood thrones in a half-circle opposite a pulpit from whence a tired ‘President’ moderates the debate.
My detractor’s protests do not elicit the kind of annoyance I expected in my allies. Even the usually caustic Frost appears subdued.
“This time, the bloodsuckers have gone too far and revealed their true colors. They care not for our alliance except as cannon fodder and this latest action proves it beyond the shadow of a doubt. I propose a vote that we immediately cease all cooperation with those monsters and finally—”
“Oh shut up, you do not have the right to call a vote,” Hopkins answers.
The Black Dog is older now, with grey hair and a slightly stooped back, but his brown eyes still shine with the rapier-sharp intellect that drove all his decisions and turned the motley refugee group that the White Cabal used to be into a force to be reckoned with. Human spellcasters tend to age more slowly the stronger they are, but Hopkins is completely human. His time is coming. At the very least, his legacy is secured in the person of William Hope, a brilliant tactician. The young lad has really come into his own.
He is also married with three children to a fellow archmage, Mina Kincaid, so I suppose that I should stop thinking of him as a young lad.
Hopkins’ interruption would have gone more poorly if ‘voting for an immediate end to our alliance for the sake of mankind yadda yadda’ had not been Cornelius Pruitt’s default answer to my presence for the past twenty years. He fails to understand that proposing something a hundred times and being rebuffed on every occasion makes him look weak. Werewolves do not have a monopoly over pack mentality.
“You are all fools!”
“Yes, yes, I have heard it all before. Now, Ariane, Cornelius raises a good point. The decision to come out in the open should not rely on vampires only.”
He knows exactly what I will answer. This is simply one diplomat passing the baton to the other.
“You misunderstand, that decision was taken out of our hands the moment the drones appeared in a nation with a relatively high population, reporters, and printing presses. Our own council had to face the same decision as you do now, and we have reached the conclusion that the existence of real magic, not as a superstition, but as a scientifically demonstrable fact, will necessarily reach the public within the next three months. Pandora’s Box has been opened, ladies and gentlemen. We can no more contain it than we can stop the tide. Our only hope to avoid persecution now lies in presenting a united, positive front to the general public.”
“And I suppose that vampires will handle that?’ Cornelius sneers.
“As a matter of fact, I have come to offer the White Cabal the opportunity to take your rightful place at the forefront of this revolution. We vampires have means, but we prefer to remain in the background for obvious reasons. As the people closest to mundane humans, it is my belief that mages will present the most positive image to the people.”
“And take the brunt of the attack should the mundane turn on us!” Cornelius erupts.
“This would happen no matter what,” I calmly reply.
“Tsk!”
“What did you have in mind?” Frost asks in a slightly broken voice.
“We have access to many newspapers, and we can use them to present us ‘mystical Americans’ as fighters on the forefront of this new war. What would help the most would be a fresh face, someone charismatic who would represent us in the population’s mind. Someone whose honor and righteousness cannot be denied.”
“And I assume that you had someone in mind?”
“Yes. I believe that archmage Reginald Lewis would be the ideal candidate.”
Befuddled mutters soon fill the amphitheater. I take a risk by naming a candidate myself, since he will be looked upon with distrust by my most fervent opponents. I decide that the risk is worth it, first because Reginald is the perfect figurehead and anyone else would come short, and second because he is definitely on the edge about working with me.
Perhaps I should not have eaten all those enemy casters in front of him during our little outings together. Ah well.
In any case, the die is cast.
“Is there any specific reason why you would choose young Lewis?” an old lady with a monocle asks me with some suspicion. She is speaking out of bond, but a quick look at the President tells me that he will let it go.
“He is handsome and a straight arrow,” I reply.
Silence spreads across the room.
“That’s it? That’s the reason? No lies, Ariane of the Nirari, we know that you vampires have layers upon layers of schemes,” she says.
“I hardly need layers of schemes when handling the hoi polloi. Have you talked with the average person in the street recently? A good-looking square-jawed muscular male anglo straight-shooter has the best chance of garnering a positive reaction. That is all we need. But we need a lot of it.”
The assembled mages glare at me with distrust. I know that I got them. Old mages are naturally arrogant and look down upon the normal population. In this regard, we have much in common. A common ground has been found.
“When you put it like that…”
And now we are having a conversation instead of a carefully managed political negotiation. I sense the change in the mood and pounce on it. Sinead always mentioned that part of Charm is perception rather than influence. The ability to seize the right moment.
“Look, we will need the mages to represent us and you need our access to money and the press. I was the one who sold the idea of cooperation to the Speaker and his lieutenants. The diffusion of magic will lead to a lot of misery for our peoples, even if we manage it properly. This is our one and only chance to seize the initiative and present a united front to shield ourselves against the normal humans’ wrath. We will strive together or we will suffer alone. I am not asking you to sacrifice anything, I am offering you the opportunity to be one of those who steer the ship. We both stand to win more and lose less by working side by side.”
It takes a moment for everyone to mull over my words. Archmages, especially the old and crusty ones, regard everything with distrust. I do not expect them to agree on the spot.
“We would have conditions,” the old woman says.
“Then list them,” I offer.
“You are not seriously considering—”
“Oh shove it Cornelius, the moment you start contributing, instead of whining, I will listen to you. We need to discuss this alone, Ariane of the Nirari. Please leave us for the time being.”
I consent, and am led outside. We have acted quickly and decisively. Now we just have to hope that it will be enough.