by Luke Metcalf
Glancing about to make sure no one had seen him, he climbed straight up the wall with cat-like agility, carefully opened a window and slipped inside.
Pausing on a high windowsill he looked down over an expansive storage room at a group of four men and three women who were all dressed spectacularly for a masquerade ball. They all had the same pale skin and bright eyes as him, and held their masks in their hands as they stared up at a structure that was about fourteen feet high and covered by a large sheet.
One of them, a man who looked to be in his late twenties, stepped forward with a flourish and spoke in French. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I give you Madame Guillotine!”
He ripped off the sheet to reveal the machine beneath. A tailor’s mannequin had been positioned with its head on the block, ready to be sliced off.
“The perfect killing machine,” he continued. “We are going to make hundreds of them, which will mean we will be able to take off tens of thousands of heads in the coming months!”
He pulled a lever and the blade plummeted down with a fearful, metallic, rushing sound, taking the head clean off the shoulders of the mannequin, dropping it neatly into the waiting basket. The others gasped in awe and then clapped with an excited delight.
“It will be a glorious blood sacrifice for Mezzor,” the young man declaimed. “The blood of the world is the blood of the God! We will turn it on any who oppose us. Finances are all in place. Robespierre is ready. The hour is nigh. We will make terror the order of the day!”
A beautiful woman in her early twenties stepped forward. “How amusing,” she said, reaching out to touch the guillotine, “that the aristocrats commissioned its creation with no idea that it will be used on their own necks.”
Everyone laughed and chatted as they exited the room in search of the party.
With the same cat-like agility, the young man jumped down from his perch, landing silently. Pulling a gold Venetian mask from his pocket he covered his face as he followed the others through the door.
Ahead of him in the magnificent corridor, the walls adorned with mighty paintings and sculptures on pedestals, the group had also donned their masks and were entering a huge, ornate ballroom filled with crowds of laughing, drinking, gossiping guests. The young man followed them in.
Marie Antoinette’s grand masquerade balls were legendary displays of decadence. The costumes and jewels on display were amongst the most glamorous in history. The young man stared about for a moment at his surroundings, enjoying the music. Performers and acrobats in outlandish costumes were everywhere, dancing and juggling amongst the noisy revelers. Aristocrats on the balconies above threw confetti down upon the hundreds of people swirling around on the polished floor below. Dozens of immense chandeliers hung above their heads, their crystals sparkling from the flickering flames of thousands of candles. The intruder headed toward the young woman he had heard talking in the storage room as she stood talking to two other extravagantly attired ladies.
She noticed him approaching. “What do we have here ladies?” she said, hiding her smile behind her fan as she sized the young man up. “Gorgeous!” The two other ladies turned to follow her gaze and smirked their approval.
“Bonsoir, Mesdames,” he said, sweeping them a gallant bow.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur,” they replied as they curtseyed.
“You are English,” said the woman from the storeroom. “I am Comtesse LeDuijou.”
“Enchanté,” he bowed again. “I am Mitchell Keats.”
“This is Madame Marie Blanche,” said the Comtesse. The second lady nodded at him.
“And this is Madame Angelique DeBrey.” The third lady curtseyed again.
“I am afraid that I have arrived late and missed the unveiling of the wonderful Madame Guillotine,” said Mitchell.
Marie and Angelique shot the Comtesse puzzled looks. Behind her mask the Comtesse gave a small frown of displeasure before regaining her composure and addressing the two women in French. “Ladies, if you will excuse us for a moment.”
The two women nodded their understanding and left Mitchell with the Comtesse, giggling conspiratorially as they went.
The orchestra struck up a waltz.
“Comtesse,” said Mitchell, offering her his hand. “Would you do me the honor?”
She took his hand and they moved gracefully together to the music.
“I should give you a good thrashing for your stupidity,” the Comtesse growled as they whirled around the gleaming floor. “But since you are positively the most gorgeous thing I have ever seen and you dance so beautifully I shall be merciful. When did Baelaar turn you? Or was it one of the weaker ones? Foolish man. Did he not tell you to keep your mouth shut about our doings in front of mortals?”
“My apologies, Madame. Baelaar created me but he was in a rush. I was simply given orders to come to the palace and seek you out for instructions regarding the guillotine.”
“Hmmm. Well,” she said, looking him up and down from arm’s length. “Baelaar certainly made a good choice. I am going to demand that he give you to me.”
“Give… me to you?”
“What on Earth is the matter? Do my looks not please you?”
“The Comtesse looks most lovely this evening.”
“Oh, you wicked dog.” She gave a light, silvery laugh. “You may call me Celeste.”
She raised an eyebrow and stared at him for a moment. “Come with me,” she said, taking his hand and walking toward the doors of the ballroom, nodding to two of the men who had been in the storage room with her as she went.
Mitchell followed her out of the ballroom, down the hallway, through another set of doors and into the most beautiful gardens the world had ever seen. They covered two thousand acres, most of which were landscaped in the French classic style. There were perfectly manicured lawns, groves of orange, lemon, oleander, palm and pomegranate trees, spectacular flower gardens and dozens of beautiful fountains and statues. There were two hundred thousand trees, over two hundred thousand flowers, fifty fountains and six hundred and twenty water jets to delight the guests who wandered through them. As they strolled along the avenues of trees in the low light of evening, Mitchell breathed in the flower-scented air.
“You have a very important decision to make,” the Comtesse told him.
“And what might that be?”
“You become my personal servant and pet forever, or be destroyed.”
Mitchell was aware that the four men from the storage room had followed them outside. He turned to glance at them. When he turned back the Comtesse was holding a sword.
“In the ballroom you tried to read my mind,” she said, “but you made a mistake. You thought I was much younger and weaker than you and that I would not notice. You were wrong. The fact that I cannot read your mind means that you are at least the same age as I am. You are not one of the Priests of Mezzor. Are you are a member of the Niveus Gladius?” He stayed silent. “No, I do not believe you are. Who are you? And what information were you seeking in trying to read my thoughts?”
He heard the sounds of the other vampires unsheathing their swords as they circled around him.
“I will never be your servant – that you can be certain of.”
She laughed and looked him up and down. “No one refuses me. No one has ever refused me. I do not tolerate disobedience. Not for one second.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
“You will live to serve me!” she snarled.
Mitchell gave her a cocky, mocking smirk. “I would agree with you, but then we would both be wrong.”
“How dare you!” she shouted and stamped her foot, eyes blazing. “Destroy him!”
As Mitchell drew his sword the other five vampires attacked. Mitchell fought with amazing focus, speed and precision. He was a master swordsman and within a few seconds he had slashed open the chest of one of the vampires and had thrust his sword through the thigh of another, but even he was not fast enough to battle all
five at once. The sound of clashing swords and groans of pain brought guards running from every direction. Spotting an aristocrat on horseback, apparently dressed for the ball, who had stopped to watch the fight, Mitchell leaped through the air, kicking the man out of his saddle, taking his place as he landed on the ground, lying on his back, winded and gasping for air. Gripping the reins, Mitchell spurred the horse at full speed toward the palace since either vampires or palace guards now blocked all escape routes.
A couple of the palace guards shot their muskets at him and he heard the balls of lead whizzing past his ears as he galloped through a set of double doors into the Hall of Battles. Partygoers screamed and scattered as he clattered on down the hall past paintings of legendary battles. His horse halted and reared as a vampire appeared in front of him, slashing at him with his sword. Bringing his own sword down in a wide arc Mitchell sliced the vampire’s arm open, sending him snarling and stumbling backward. Mitchell spurred the horse on through more rooms and out into the Royal courtyard.
He swung the horse’s snorting head left; galloped to the end of the Marbre courtyard and through another set of double doors, back into the palace. Charging through more revelers in the Hall of Mirrors he saw three vampires running toward him. With one mighty kick he sent the horse crashing through an enormous window, out into the gardens. As he passed under a tree he grabbed a branch, allowing the horse to continue on its way without him. Mitchell clambered up quickly into the higher branches and waited.
A few moments later three vampires ran past in pursuit of the horse. Once they had disappeared into the darkness Mitchell dropped out of the tree and ran like a shadow back toward the palace. Again he scaled a wall and slipped in through a window, finding himself in the Mars Room, beneath the ceiling painting by Claude Audran of the god Mars on his chariot being pulled by wolves. He took two steps into the room and froze. A young man was lying on the floor, moaning. It looked as though he had been knifed. His clothes were soaked in blood, his body wracked by spasms. With each seizure, his back arched and contorted so far it looked as if his bones would snap. Mitchell stood watching as the man’s body finally went limp, apparently drained of strength.
He knelt over him. The man opened his eyes, looked up and smiled, his white fangs gleaming in the lamplight. He was handsome, a strapping lad in his early twenties with thick, shoulder-length blond hair and sea-gray eyes. Mitchell noticed puncture marks in his neck. They were healing and closing with unnatural speed.
“Who did this to you?” he asked.
“Is this a new world?” the man whispered, slowly sitting up and staring at his surroundings in awe. He sounded American.
“Yes, in a way.”
The man rose to his feet, casually flipping his hair back as his strength returned. “Good. I was tiring of the old one.” He laughed. “My name is Sylvain DeLune.” He held out his hand.
“Mitchell Keats. Pleased to meet you.”
They shook hands and Mitchell couldn’t help but smile at the man’s studied air of casual arrogance.
“Well, Sylvain, do you understand what has happened to you?” Mitchell asked.
“Not in the least.”
“I will explain to you the basic elements of your new nature. But first, what can you tell me about the man who did this to you? Tell me every detail of what occurred. Start from the beginning.”
“I was at the tavern…”
While Sylvain was speaking, Mitchell read his mind. He saw him in a tavern, sitting at a table with an unkempt man who looked to be in his late thirties. His nose was red and bulbous, his hair greasy and ragged, the features of his grubby face sagged in worry. Two men entered the tavern. Both of them moved with strength and authority like prowling leopards. One was wearing a long black cloak made of the sort of fine threads favored by noblemen, and riding boots carved from the softest black leather, his face was obscured by a Venetian mask in the form of a demonic-looking goat. The other was dressed in fine riding boots, long coat and high hat and wore a mask in the design of a ravening wolf. He carried a half-full bottle of absinthe. The two men sat down at the table.
“It has come to my attention, Henri, that you are a doubter,” said the man in the goat mask to Sylvain’s companion, speaking English. He spoke slowly with a deep voice and enunciated every word.
“My name is Alain,” said Sylvain’s companion, frowning.
“You see, Henri,” continued the man in the goat mask as he took a vial of yellowish liquid out of his cloak and placed it on the table, “there is something that you must be made to understand. Faith is what makes the man. A man of little faith… is a little man.”
As Sylvain and Alain exchanged glances the man in the goat mask snatched three empty glasses from the next table and poured the contents of the vial into them. There was enough for about an ounce of liquid in each. He pushed one of the glasses toward Alain.
“Who are you?” asked Sylvain reaching for the hilt of his sword.
The man slowly removed his mask. He was handsome, in his late twenties. He wore his hair slicked back and it was brownish red. Sylvain realized it was the color of dried blood and a chill ran down his spine. The man’s skin was pale as milk and there were dark circles under his black and hypnotic eyes. The moment Sylvain looked directly into them he found that his gaze was trapped.
“I am darkness visible.”
The other man took off his mask. He looked to be in his late thirties and had a large nose and high forehead and curly brown hair that fell to his shoulders. He took a swig from his bottle of absinthe.
“You are quite the lady-killer,” continued the first man, addressing Sylvain. “Do you think he is as much a lady-killer as you?” He nudged his companion with his elbow. “Perhaps you should slay that wench.” He gestured to a waitress with his chin as she walked by. Sylvain sank backward in his chair now released from the hypnotic gaze. He felt shaken and confused.
“Bah!” snorted the other man. “I can do better than that,” he said, also in English. “Like Cupid I aim for the heart. But unlike Cupid I am not blind. I aim only for the heart of a peach, a sweet heart, not the heart of some sour artichoke, for that would choke my art.” He laughed and took another drink.
“But I would wager that you would happily choke a tart,” said the first man.
“Haha! Indeed!”
“Cheers,” commanded the first man, holding up his glass as he stared into Alain’s eyes. Alain and the two men clinked their glasses and drank.
“Woo that has a bite!” shouted the second man drunkenly as he slammed his empty glass down upon the table.
“Delicious!” said the first man, sticking his pinky finger out pretentiously.
As soon as the liquid was down his throat Alain began choking and sputtering. His face turned beet red as he clutched and clawed at his chest and then collapsed on the ground.
“What have you done? What have you given him?” demanded Sylvain as two waitresses rushed over to help Alain who was now foaming at the mouth and convulsing on the floor.
“I collect the venom of the deadliest snakes in the world,” said the first man as he placed his empty glass upon the table. “A truly refreshing beverage. This is Squire Griffith” – he gestured to his companion with his chin – “and my name is Baelaar. And you will be coming with us.”
The two men stood up, grabbed Sylvain, each taking an arm, and dragged him toward the door of the tavern. As they passed a table of drunken revelers Baelaar reached into his cloak with his free hand, pulled out a live snake and casually tossed it at them. Shrieks erupted from the table as the three men exited the tavern. Once outside they released Sylvain.
“Good sirs,” said Sylvain slowly backing away, “I… I am an upstanding citizen. I am not interested in becoming involved in anything…”
“An upstanding citizen?” guffawed Squire Griffith. “You’ll be a horizontal citizen if you don’t do as you’re told.” He roared with drunken laughter at his own joke and jabbed Baela
ar in the ribs with his elbow. “Did you hear that? Horizontal citizen.”
“Shut up,” snapped Baelaar before he turned his attention back to Sylvain. “I only wish to hire you to drive my carriage since my manservant has disappeared and my friend here is far too drunk.”
“Sir!” bellowed Squire Griffith. “I protest. I am only just getting started.”
Mitchell saw in Sylvain’s memories that he had driven them to the palace in an elegant ebony carriage. Upon arrival Squire Griffith had disappeared into the ballroom and Baelaar had taken Sylvain by the arm, leading the young man into the Mars Room. Once out of sight of all prying eyes he had turned Sylvain to face him, placing a firm hand on each of his shoulders and staring deep into his eyes. As he held Sylvain with an iron grip Baelaar drew him close, holding his gaze until the moment he lowered his face onto Sylvain’s neck, sinking his fangs deep into the young man’s veins, slaking his own thirst and then feeding him some of his own blood from a gash he cut in his wrist with a dagger, transforming Sylvain into a vampire.
Once the deed was done Baelaar released the boy from his grip, allowing him to crumple to the floor, where Mitchell had found him.
“This is the greatest night of your life,” said Baelaar, looking into Sylvain’s eyes as he stared up at him, drained of blood and helpless. Sylvain again noticed that Baelaar always enunciated every word and often paused to stare into his eyes. “I am going to answer all of the most profound questions of humanity for you. I am going to reveal the true human condition to your inquisitive mind. ‘Who am I? What is the origin of the universe? What does it all mean? What happens after death?’ Tonight you will have the answers to all of these questions.”
Baelaar cleared his throat and struck a scholarly pose. “Earth, the planet itself, is a demon, a vampire god named Mezzor, it means ‘the Reaper.’ It creates all life – humans, plants, animals, insects, everything – in order to gain awareness through their life experiences. Then, when they die and return to the earth, Mezzor feeds upon their awareness, the sum of their life experiences.” Baelaar paced back and forth as he pontificated. “We are Mezzor’s high priests – demigods, if you will, as we are the only immortals. We are his chosen servants. It is our sacred duty to make regular blood sacrifices.” Baelaar knelt down and stared deep into Sylvain’s eyes. “Welcome to the Priests of Mezzor.” He gently slapped Sylvain’s cheek then stood up. “Now, I must return to Paris but I will find you in the coming nights. Seek out the Comtesse LeDuijou in the grand ballroom tonight and she will begin your training.” He stared at him and grinned, exposing his fangs. “Now you will be a real lady-killer, and they are going to love you!” He chuckled diabolically as he turned and strode out of the room.