一夲道久久东京热

The powerful man wondered if the expert kept this pleasant, mildly serious expression when he killed. Could be, could be.

“Please, take a seat Mr. Zahn. Should I send for drinks?” he asked.

“No need Mr. Secretary. Thank you,” the expert replied.

“Very well. I will cut to the chase. I have read the available reports on… supernatural folks. God, I still cannot believe this is real. I would like to know why information about the last three is so… sparse.”

The powerful man lifted four files from the desk. One of them was thick and clearly annotated with markers, eared pages and loose sheets of notes. By comparison, the remaining three would barely suffice to write a single speech.

“Sir, the notes are presented in such a way that a reader would understand the facts and hypotheses related to each race at a glance. As for the availability of said knowledge, a bit of context might make the reason clear, if you’ll allow me to explain.”

“That’s why you’re here, Zahn. What’s going on?”

The expert smiled gently in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned forward on his chair and placed his elbows on the varnished wood of the powerful man’s desk.

“After mages, the next most understood race is that of werewolves. Please note that werewolves are not a separate race per se, but rather a curse that changes those who bear it at a fundamental level. You have read their abilities and weaknesses?”

“Indeed. Silver! What a peculiar, nonsensical thing. One day we will have to slay demons by injecting them with mercury!”

The expert knocked on wood, and the powerful man paled, anger smothered by a fresh wave of fear.

“Let us hope you are not a prophet. As for werewolves, you may recall there are two kinds, feral and controlled. Please note that we did not pick the words ‘tame’ or ‘civilized’ on purpose. Controlled is the correct word for what they are.”

“Controlled by whom?”

“Each other, to an extent. Most of our information comes from remnants of the Order of Gabriel, American branch, as well as first-hand witness accounts of the action at Black Harbor. Controlled werewolves appear human until they turn into their beast form. Except for a few quirks, they would pass enough to merge into society as isolated farmers and hunters. Until they gather, at least.”

“My God, and we cannot tell at all?”

“Order knowledge says they will show signs of heightened aggression. They will turn during a full moon, whether they want to or not. Nevertheless, an isolated community might go undetected for decades.”

The powerful man sat back against the backrest, reeling from the revelation. It was his duty to imagine the worst case scenario in the hope of preventing it, and now his mind churned with possibilities.

“What stops them from racing across the country, turning everyone they come across? A tide of beasts no one can stop. Zahn, I hate judging people according to what they might do and I understand most of those folks didn’t ask for such a treatment but surely, it would be better to just… end them, don’t you think?”

The proposal hung between the men, carrying with it the bothersome mental stench of gray morality.

“I understand we almost had such a situation, sir. The ferals ran rampant half a century ago. Many disappearances and beast attacks of the time can be attributed to them. There was no beast tide because they were hunted to extinction. And not by the Order of Gabriel.”

“Someone took them out?”

“Yes sir. Only a few incidents remain here and there and they are quickly handled by a mercenary group calling itself the Red Cabal.”

“Witches again?”

“Yes sir. With guns.”

“God help us all. Zahn, you dodged the question. Tell me why we can’t just gather four cavalry regiments and send them after the werewolves.”

“First, we would have to locate them and it has proven suspiciously difficult. The scouts tend to go missing. Documents are lost, or waylaid. People forget to share their orders. Priority missions take precedence. Finally, we have yet to secure a budget for ten thousands silver cartridges.”

“Are you saying… someone is protecting them?”

“Covering for them at the very least, but I will return to that later. Next come the fae. We have no first hand accounts of their presence but they appear to be genuine visitors from another world.”

“Faery tales are true?”

“Some of them appear rooted in truth, yes. The Order of Gabriel’s knowledge on the matter was surprisingly complete because they managed to capture a few of their weakened numbers and interrogated them thoroughly before termination. The fabric of our world weakens them until they become thoroughly harmless.”

“Another world, eh? Do you realize what it means? The bible does not mention it. If God created the universe, why does Genesis not mention…”

“I am not here to discuss cosmogony, sir. Perhaps the other worlds, yes, there are several, perhaps they are mentioned in some texts that the church has hidden. I would not know. It no longer matters because the fae are gone.”

The sentence hangs in the air with all the finality of an extinct species. That was more than morally ambiguous. Someone had exterminated a race?

“What do you mean, gone? Dead?”

“No sir, we have confirmation from a private intelligence network and two mage groups that the fae disappeared on the same night almost ten years ago. They are just… gone.”

“Do we know what happened?”

“We suspect. There are rumors that members of the third race left our territory shortly after. Magic was most likely involved.”

“The third race, yes. The vampires. Your report mentioned they are currently public figures in the German Empire?”

“I would not go so far, but their presence is known. The official title is ‘Ritter Der Nacht’, ‘Knight of the Night’.”

“We live in strange times when monsters can walk out of children’s stories and wear the guise of aristocrats.”

Both men fell silent.

“Your report contained a lot of maybes,” the powerful man eventually said.

“Once again, context is important. Knowledge on vampires is sparse because those who seek it tend to disappear. Even the Order’s prodigious resources only scratched the surface of what can be learned, and they did it at great cost. We know there are less than a thousand on the American continent, probably even less than five hundred. We know they feed on blood, fear the light of the sun, are repelled by crosses and can be taken down by destroying their hearts and heads. What we also know is that they are incredibly dangerous.”

“Are the reports accurate? Faster than a galloping horse?”

The expert winced, hesitant to go on.

“Sir, I believe the situation is much worse. Vampires do not age. The old ones are so strong they can destroy buildings with their bare hands. Witness accounts of Black Harbor speak of figures moving faster than the eye can see. Sir, I need you to understand. In eighteen twelve, a lone vampire defeated a mercenary troop three-hundred strong and killed them to the last man, as well as most of an island’s population in a single night. This was considered as fact by the Order. The reason why we cannot determine their full capabilities is because no one has ever managed to test them. I would advise considering them completely unstoppable at night.”

“Jesus. Unstoppable you say?”

“Yes sir. Even by the army.”

The powerful man took a gulp of tea and winced when the hot liquid scalded his tongue. The expert politely ignored the incident.

“I hesitate to ask but can those monsters be defeated?” the powerful man finally asked.

“Yes sir, I believe they can,” the expert said with conviction tinged with sadness.

“In theory. In practice, no one would be ready to pay the price. Vampires were at the origin of the initiative that stopped the scourge hive during the civil war. They handled the werewolf threat. They erased the fae, or enslaved them, or exiled them perhaps. We have credible reports that they were at the forefront of the Austrian offensive against the living dead incursion near Warsaw. More importantly, we have never been able to find signs they would act, and they have proven their ability to mobilize large resources in short order, including governmental ones. The truth is that they see us yet we do not see them. Fighting them would be fighting blind against a foe that already has the key to our homes.”

At the mention of infiltration, the powerful man felt fear grip his heart. The expert had been shown a respect for the vampire threat that bordered on admiration. What if…

“I am not theirs,” the expert said, cutting into the silence with a decisive gesture.

He grabbed for his collar and displayed a cross.

“My devotion is to the nation. I am merely being realistic. Even if we successfully unleashed the general populace on them — and that is no guarantee it would even succeed — the two of us will not live to see the fruit of our labor. We will be cut down before the purge starts.”

“You think our citizens would not fight against inhuman creatures from the dark?”

“Our citizens drink to forget the civil war and dream of a better future out west, sir. Few would be willing to throw their lives aside to fight ghosts. At least, I believe so as a veteran.”

“I am not comfortable leaving our nation at the mercy of an unknown party, especially not one of… what are they, cursed humans?”

“Yes, sir. The Order claims that vampires turn humans into other vampires. The process is apparently very slow.”

“If humans can join them, then…”

“We have to consider that some may go to their side to be granted power and immortality, sir. A tempting offer for some individuals of great influence and a deep awareness of their own mortality.”

The powerful man considered the difficulty of fighting an enemy both hidden and well-connected.

“Between this and their… mind-altering abilities, what is preventing them from taking over?”

“I am not sure, sir, but I surmise they are too few in number to control the world. They probably prefer staying hidden and influencing events from the shadows.”

“How do you explain their actions over the years? Stopping the hive and controlling the werewolves, if this is what happened.”

The expert hesitated.

“Sir, I would like to point out that my previous answer was a conjecture and this one will be one as well. I believe the vampires were at the origin of the Red Cabal group of mercenaries given the suspicious way their funding moves. As you may know, they are the largest bounty claimers for rogue mages and animals of unusual size. It might just be that they consider our planet and its inhabitants as… their backyard.”

The powerful man blinked, unwilling to accept the conclusion.

“So what, man, are we their pet?”

“No sir, their prey.”

Once again, the room fell silent. The wind howled outside under heavy dark clouds. It was going to snow.

“If we cannot eliminate them, we might need to open… a channel of conversation.”

“The Supernatural Task Force might not like that sir. Some of its elements have displayed great vehemence in their desire to cleanse us of all magical beings — “

“And I do not see them purging the United States of a hundred thousand of its constituents. The last time I checked, I was nominated to represent the people, not them. The mages will not be exterminated. Now, enough of those madmen. How would we proceed and what precaution should we take to contact the vampires?”

The expert did not have to think for very long.

“Carry a cross with you and pray when you meet them and your mind will stay yours. Of this we are sure. As for making contact, a simple inquiry sent to the STF will do. The vampires will learn of your wish, sir.”

“The STF is infiltrated?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Hmph. Very well, I shall do just that. Please make sure you stay around Washington. I may need your assistance in the immediate future, Mr Zahn.”

“Of course, Mr Secretary.”

The expert knew a dismissal when he heard one. He stood quickly to leave the powerful man to his writings. It only took a couple of minutes to finish a simple note, then the powerful man sent it out after only the briefest of hesitations. He returned to his other duties, distracted. Sometimes, his gaze would leave the pages and travel to the world outside, with its bored sentries and frozen world. The fire in the hearth felt much weaker than before while the world outside was large, cold, and the gale did not let up.

The powerful man sighed and joined his colleague for their daily meeting, but his heart was not in it. He found his mind drifting to reports and rumors, to the few illustrations the confidential files contained. An aberration of man and wolf standing upright, claws extended like so many blades. A beautiful woman with red hair over a heart-shaped face fighting scourge drones with a sword, her body covered in an antiquated black armor. She had a blazing fire in one hand.

That one had been drawn by a Colored Troops corporal after the battle, and could not be unreliable. And yet, it had been so breath-takingly vivid…

“Are you alright sir?”

The powerful man looked up to his assistant, a serious young man with sharp eyes.

“Not feeling myself this evening, Lucas. I believe I shall head home early and take the Sioux dossier with me.”

“As you wish, sir. I will have the carriage ready for you.”

The powerful man sighed and returned to his office, now cold. He put on his coat, hat, scarf, and gloves with careful attention, not least to avoid being scolded by his Annie for risking sickness. Outside, night was falling quickly. He greeted the guards by their names and climbed into the prepared carriage. When he was settled, he knocked on the front panel.

“We can leave, George.”

Silence.

"George?"

The door of the carriage opened and a young woman rushed in. The carriage left immediately after she closed the way shut and before the wind could push flakes in.

“Oh, goodness me, what a weather! Windy windy!”

The powerful man could only stare at the strangest of intruders. She was short and dainty, the heavy green dress and cloak barely hiding her small stature. Pale blonde locks escaped from her fashionable hat to artfully frame her beautiful face. A light pink blush spoke of the frigid temperature, and her blue eyes sparkled with excitement. The powerful man noted her high-pitched, slightly accented voice. English, perhaps? What was the young thing doing here? She felt so young and innocent.

Or maybe not.

For an instant, he saw something old and calculating behind the frilly demeanor, then it was gone just as quickly.

“Errr, you may have the wrong carriage here, madam.”

“Oh no, no no no no Mr Secretary, I believe I am exactly where I am meant to be. After all…”

Her voice grew low and cold, so very cold.

“You called for us.”

The powerful man did not scream. He did, however, press himself against the far panel while a hand searched for the door handle.

The vampire sat back on her side and smoothed her dress, chasing away the errant slow flakes. She granted him a politely interested smile.

“But…. it’s still day!” He protested.

She did not reply. She just waited.

“Are you perhaps not one of them, then, but a servant of sorts?”

The woman slowly extended a delicate, glove-clad hand. The powerful man noticed that the extremities were quite sharp, as if they were hiding claws and not nails. The cross on his chest — a gift from his late father — warmed up. The man reached for it through his scarf and when the piece of silver was revealed, it was shining a deep blue. The vampire pulled back her hand and massaged the middle finger. The carriage smelled like ash for a little while.

The vampire shrugged in a deceptively human manner. He found the gesture disturbing because it just felt so natural.

“We would not insult you by sending an underling, sir. My name is Sephare. I represent the Accords.”

“And you… command your kind?”

“I am one of three. Relationship with human authorities falls within my purview. If you wish, you may also meet our lawmaker. I believe you two may see eye to eye on many issues!”

“And the third?” the powerful man asked without thinking, so peculiar this whole situation was.

“Oh, our herald of war, the Hand. She is terribly busy at the moment, so perhaps later?”

The powerful man shivered while his imagination conjured visions of unspeakable deeds.

***

“Are we really going to steal poorly made dynamite from a bunch of bumpkins?” Urchin asks with cautious annoyance.

I tut loudly to express my deep disapproval. His understanding of bingleries has proven terribly lacking.

“First, we will not steal it unless we have to. We will try to negotiate for it first, using old-fashioned discussions. Second, it will become important later.”

“You do not plan on using it.”

“I do not, therefore the story will find a use. It would never waste perfectly valid ordinances.”

“If you say so…”

“We know we will be backstabbed. Surely, a little explosive comeuppance is only fair.”

I hum under my breath as we move on. The path we follow leads us through dense thickets of pine trees, their branches heavy with snow. The scent of sap and needles pierces through the crisp note of ice. Sometimes, we catch sight of the moon through an opening in the canopy while the branches bend under the weight of crusted ice. The earth is old here, its bones bare and weathered by time. The Pattersons have made their den under a raised geological formation I hesitate to call a hill since it looks like a bundle of femurs frosted together after some ungodly feast. It looms over the makeshift plank edifice, a grisly trophy caught in a millennia-long fall. The den itself lets out sickly yellow light through uneven windows dug haphazardly through the front wall. From a certain angle they bear the semblance of baleful eyes from an alien predator. It makes me miss the spheres.

We cross an outer palisade as I commit the view to memory for later painting. Crates and rusted remains of cages and other ravaged implements dot an inner courtyard I will only name as such because pigsty does not quite fit. A dog barks from inside when it catches our scent, carried by a frigid wind. Whispers of conversation die down and the curtain moves on the nearest window. I am honestly impressed they managed to get glass here without breaking it. I know, however, how they afforded it. The entire place smells like alcohol, the bad kind. They make rotgut or moonshine or whatever they call the abominable swill they distill out of two apples and a bucketful of sawdust.

“Boss, I think they might not agree to let us just have the dynamite,” Urchin says.

“I agree. If one dodges taxes with such brazen confidence, who knows what manner of depravity they will sink to? Murder is a lesser evil by comparison,” I reply.

“We may have a problem,” he continues.

Indeed, the Patterson estate is a home. We will not enter without a proper invitation. Inside, several male voices hush each other as if the clamor of their hounds would let anyone ignore our presence. I let Metis take a few steps back while Urchin and John move on with practiced ease. The tall man’s massive fist slams on the solid door like a ram, threatening to pop the hinges.

“Mr Patterson, we are here for the dynamite, if you would kindly give it to us,” Urchin says in a loud yet perfectly polite voice.

He has picked on a slight upper crust accent, a good wager. Some ruffians answer better to harder and nastier people than themselves but others fear the unknown city behemoths. With Urchin’s current garb, the thuggish approach would not hold water.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” a voice sounds from within, testing us.

“This is the Patterson house and you have dynamite for Mr Adler who already paid for your services. We are here to collect.”

“Is that right? I don’t recall being paid. You got money?”

This would be the proper time to leave or prepare for a fight. I quietly dismount and walk to our left, from where I hear the shriek of groaning hinges. The locals are not exactly being subtle. John turns to me and I nod, confirming that under the current rule to act as competent mortals, one might reasonably expect to be ambushed by a band of isolated aggressive lawbreakers clearly asking us if we are worth robbing. And hear the growls of the dog the approaching party keeps on leash.

Honestly, they are not even trying.

I remove the pearl-handled revolver from its holster and hide behind a rusty cage while John creeps along the wall with a dexterity that belies his size. We find a party of three plus a dog, two with knives and one with a coach gun. They are men of various sizes with beards and stained, ratty clothes. All together, they might have one intact denture but I would not bet any money on that. I feel insulted. I also feel grateful not to be downwind.

The lead man carefully leans along the side wall to peer at the entrance and finds John’s grasping hand, then the giant smashes his victim against the wall hard enough to dazzle him. I shoot the dog who falls with a yelp and the coach gun handler in the arm. At this range and with the light of the windows to guide me, I have no qualms hitting my targets. I would start missing on purpose at a range greater than nine yards away, but not before.

John punches the remaining knife wielder and we have ourselves three prisoners.

“Get up,” John says in a bold voice while I tut at the wounded lad as he goes for his revolver.

“Do that and I’ll shoot you again.”

“A kid? No, a WOMAN?”

“Get up slowly and show me your hands.”

“You fucking bitch, you killed Nero!”

I cock my gun, the distinct click enough to convince my newest captive to hurry. The three stooges line up with hands in the air except the idiot applying pressure to his wounded arm.

“You cocksuckers! Henry? Henry, are you alright?” a female voice screams from within.

“I’m alive,” the lead idiot mumbles, chastened. “They ain’t much, just th —”

Before Henry can share confidential information, John backhands him into silence to screams of protest inside.

“Leave him alone!”

Urchin gestures. I roll my eyes and pick a watch with a timer from a hidden waist pocket, starting it.

“Looks to me like you have what we want and we have what you want,” he calmly declares.

“You fuckers, you’re dead! Dead!”

“You inbred degenerates always think you can pull a fast one on your betters. Get the dynamite out with no tricks or I’ll start cutting toes.”

“Henry you stay put! You fuckers better get off my land ‘fore I shoot y’all full o’ holes.”

“Yeah, you tell her, Mama,” another voice says.

This one has much less confidence. I notice that one of our captives is reaching for a pocket and I step on his hand. The cry of pain riles up the besieged family.

“You stop that right now!”

“List here, you dumb twat,” Urchin replies, “I’m going to come in and punch the teeth of you and your crotch monkeys if you don’t get us our fucking due.”

“I’d like to see you try, fucker!”

Aaaaand I stop the counter.

“Twenty-nine seconds. A honest score but not your best,” I inform Urchin.

“It did sound like an invitation to me.”

John steps forward and kicks the door. He does not kick it down, he kicks it forward with a decisive boot perfectly placed near the handle. Both the lock and hinges give up at the same time, the heavy piece of wood finishing in someone’s nose. The deafening din of cracked bones and demolished furniture soon follow in a symphony of violence. A heavy body smashes through a window with a yelp and lands on the ground.

“To be fair, he was already that strong before,” Urchin tells me while I contemplate the prone form of Mrs Patterson with strands of gray hair escaping her filthy bonnet.

A shot goes off but no one screams, at least not immediately. John emerges with two more people held under his prodigious arms. One of them nurses his broken fingers and the other, a shiner that will turn out quite spectacular if he lives long enough.

“Right, I think we have wasted enough time with the likes of you. Where are the explosives, and don’t tell me a nice thumper or I’ll start collecting body parts,” Urchin says.

“Don’t tell him nothing, Henry,” says the woman as she picks herself up.

Urchin sighs, grabs her by the scruff of her neck and shoots her ear off. A deafening screech follows the detonation, with the matriarch’s hearing now indefinitely impaired. At least the Pattersons show more sense now. They whimper and plead.

Sometimes, I do not quite understand the pride and stubbornness of some mortals. One should know when they are desperately outclassed and work with the flow instead of against it. Ah well, if they were smart, they would not have found refuge here to begin with.

“I’ll tell you, please don’t hurt Ma,” Mr Shiner says.

I follow him inside to a trapdoor barely hidden under a tattered carpet. The crates are sealed, a note dating the manufacture of its contents to only three months ago. There are no obvious traces of humidity damage, and the nitroglycerin has yet to weep from their cardboard container. All good.

“Everything seems to be in order,” I tell Urchin as I step out, a crate held with two hands.

We line up the Pattersons away from their home. They shiver in the glacial temperatures but that is fine, I intend to remedy the situation very soon.

“Of course, and since you tried to double-cross us, I believe a small quality check is in order…” I say, rummaging in the crate to pick one stick, only to realize… there are no detonators.

“Where are the blasting caps?” I ask.

“The what?” Henry asks, terrified.

“The blasting caps? The primers? Tiny mercury fulminate or black powder charges at the end of a fuse?”

The man’s utterly bovine lack of understanding gives me the answer I need.

“This cretin sends us to grab ordinance from minging wallopers,” I honestly and objectively remark as I grab a spare cap from another pocket — it pays to always have extra caps.

“And the daft twat forgets to order primers. I swear I’m surrounded by utter bampots, amateurs the lot o’ em, might as well ram the vault door with their thick heids.”

“Boss, you are having a Loth moment.”

“What? Oh. Yes. Where was I? Ah yes. Quality check.”

I finish making sure everything is done and light the fuse of the selected stick, tossing it inside the family house.

“What are you? Wait. NO!”

The stick detonates beautifully, sending the mortals tumbling on the ground. Pieces of wood shrapnel rain on us and for a moment, I realize I broke my rules by not taking adequate precautions. A mortal would have been more careful about flying debris. Ah, well. I signal John and Urchin that they may feed in the confusion and we soon leave the Pattersons with their partly demolished estate, dazzled, hurt, but alive.

“You are quite generous with them,” Urchin remarks as we ride away on our nightmares.

“I tend to be merciful when in the vicinity of a Bingle. It would not do for their allies to be too bloodthirsty. I would also have condemned a child to death by killing them all.”

“You would have?” Urchin asks.

“A cellar dug under the main building housed their distillery and a child hid there while we fought. I felt her in my Magna Arqa. To leave an isolated child in the wilderness with such cold weather may lead to her death with the shock of utter loss. In this case, respecting my own code while abiding by the spirit of the binglery came with the same decision, thankfully.”

“Nothing truly abnormal has happened so far.”

“We are mainly here to fill the role of the safe breakers. At first, we will facilitate the story. Only once the intrigue has bloomed into a full blood-soaked heist story will the benefits become obvious. We just have to do our best to remember that secondary characters die. So stay focused.”

“Yes boss.”

“Should we take additional precautions, Miss Ari?”

“I have forces on standby. No need to panic now, the most important part is to let the story run its course. And remember… it always ends with a bang.”

“Does the base have pig pens?” Urchin asks.

“You shut up right this instant.”