“So . . .”
“Hours upon hours . . . no relief . . .”
Stay away from the pretty string, King Henry.
We found our reception committee on the other side of the doors. Finally it looked like a modern building and not a medieval crypt. Desks and chairs, a television on the wall, even a food setup that seemed to be sporting vamp enjoyable food and drinks of iced tea and fruit slices chilled over a tray of ice, even some kind of mushy looking ice cream the last color I wanted to see at that moment—red. The room had dark wood, not stone like the outside of the place or the hallway, and could have passed for a doctor’s waiting room or a businessman’s office. Four vampires sat behind their desks.
[CLICK]
A break again for me to give you a little explanation on Vampire society that isn’t in moron-being-led-around-by-a-vampire voice. I’ll keep it simple.
This is all the basic info you get from your History of Elementalism class first year at the Asylum, but I suppose we all need a refresher from time to time.
Vampires, you need to know about vampires . . .
The vast majority of vampires live in a nomadic hierarchy where rank is dictated by ability level, which in itself is often dictated by maturity. Real vampires—not the sparkly ones who hate garlic—ain’t immortal; they simply live so long that they might as well be. This means where you and I take twelve or so years to hit puberty, vampires take a much longer time and even then they have more than one change they go through. Certain abilities are required for certain jobs, so you won’t see a certain rank that isn’t tall enough to ride the rollercoaster as it were. This means age matters a great deal, just like in the legends. Some trees live thousands of years, vampires can live longer.
The nomadic part of their society stems from chasing the temperature they need in a habitat to operate at efficiency. Anything over seventy which doesn’t have industrial AC is out. You’re not going to see vampires in Africa, South America, or Australia, at least not more than one here or there who has been ordered to be there. Mostly it’s North America, Europe, and Asia, the northern part during the summer, drifting down during the winter. Only the Vampire Embassies are stationary, manned by a small staff all year long.
As far as the hierarchy goes, the first rank is servantman or servantwoman, sometimes just shortened to servant. That’s the bottom floor, the just born vampire: new body, confused, getting used to their new world. A new vampire is never born into a Joe-Anybody. That doesn’t happen. They live a long time, they’re harder to kill than cockroaches, but they don’t spawn at a high rate. We’re talking a century between splits and centuries more before a vampire can reach the ability to procreate. When a vampire knows they’re reaching that time, they pick out a target that’s needed for vampire politics or something of the sort. Hence the servant—they keep living their normal life pretending to be human while actually helping out their new species.
The next rank is gentleman or gentlewoman, which is where most vampires stay at, the most common rank, usually those that are fifty to one-thousand years old. A gentle is a vampire that has done its time, entered society wholly and steps away from its human life without anyone watching their every move.
Then come the job titles. Baron, marquess, count, and duke, and of course for the ladies, baroness, marchioness, countess, and duchess. A baron is a kind of U.S. Marshall or Texas Ranger job, they go around finding vampires out of line or people messing with vampires and then they deal with them, usually with the harshest punishments. A marquess is in charge of money matters, checking up on embassies, and navigating estates for vampires keeping wealth in the modern world where a person must ‘die’ every eighty or so years. A count is in charge of military matters when he is called upon by a duke to protect an embassy against outside threats: most likely being a Were Nation out of control or a certain mancer who is causing problems . . . ehm. A duke runs an embassy, he’s in charge of the staff, visiting vampires, and with keeping his area quiet, he also communicates with other local dukes to know which vampires are coming his way.
There are also higher ranks . . . but I didn’t know of them back when I first met Anne, so it’s not fair to mention them, I suppose. We’ll stick with what I’ve said. Back to the moron out of his league.
[CLICK]
I started a slow pooling of anima the moment I stepped into the room. I wasn’t exactly expecting trouble, but it’s best to be prepared for anything, especially when you’re surrounded by creatures that want to eat you—it’s a mancer rule too, not just a pussy-devoided Boy Scout one.
Four vampires sat behind their desks. Two were men and two were women. Unlike Annie B, they were dressed like normal people, not pornstars out for a night on the town. My gaze judged each in turn, looking for vulnerabilities and weighing whether they were going to give me shit. Judging intentions had always been a gift.
The woman closest to us stood the moment we stepped into the room. She was a short little thing, blond and blue-eyed with a strong, straight nose splitting her face, just attractive enough to be a problem but not so beautiful she scared guys away, which means she’s constantly asked out every time she comes in contact with single men. She had a very emotive face that hinged upon what her mouth was doing and now it was in a full grown frown, the whole of her face and forehead going along with it. Lady-in-charge who’s sick of men asking her out, ability to give me shit: lots.
The second woman sat farthest away from the door and didn’t bother to move, only continued to type at her computer screen, refusing to pretend we existed as long as she had work to do. Some kind of latina, not sure which country, but she had dark hair cut short, big black eyes and skin a color that battled over the border of bronze and full out gold. Secretary, ability to give me shit: only if I need someone to get me a drink.
The two guys were each bigger than the last. One looked like a linebacker that loved him some grilled food; red hair, green eyes, had a kind of ZZ Top beard going on that hadn’t been in style since the Civil War, and a gut of fat hanging just so against his shirt where you barely noticed it. You got to be careful with fat people in a fight. Sure, they might tire, but on the other side, a fat gut can take some serious punches without feeling a thing. It can also hide muscles on their arms and legs and they might not tire out. Muscle/thug, ability to give me shit: a sure thing unless I distract him with a milkshake.
The second guy was a perfect mound of muscle, brown hair and brown eyes, another beard belonging in the Civil War, one of those on-the-sides-but-not-the-face kind of flaring sideburn jobs. The way he held himself, he thought he was something special and everyone else in the room should be bowing down before him in awe of his superiority, the kind who doesn’t like it when you don’t bow, especially if you are smaller than he is. Second-in-charge, ability to give me shit: hit the bastard in the balls the moment he looks your way.
The first woman, the little blond thing, addressed us—well . . . addressed Annie B. “Baroness, such a surprise . . . we were not expecting you again so soon,” she apologized for the lack of greeting at the front doors.
Annie B’s expression conveyed that if anyone gave her shit she’d shit right back on them, and she’d be using a sewage truck. “I told you this wasn’t finished yet.”
“But—”
“Did you disturb the crime scene?” Annie B asked, pausing only long enough to be answered. I was right on her heels, figuring it’s the safest place. Not the time for my mouth to start up. Despite popular opinion—I can control it.
“Of course not, Baroness . . . but we agreed that—”
“No we didn’t,” Annie B snapped. So, she was a baroness, guess I should have figured it. Made sense given how tough-no-nonsense she’d been and given that she seemed to be dealing with a theft of some sort. Funny thing about that rank, it’s the first step into the extended hierarchy of vampires, but it’s the only one that gets to tear down the whole system if it has a bug up its bunghole. “You assumed this was fin
ished, Gentlewoman Moore, I knew it wasn’t.”
“But we agreed our geomancer could not track the item in question and that it is pointless to continue exhausting him,” Gentlewoman Moore tried another route to get where she wanted to go. Her frown only made her cuter, which is hard to pull off. It wasn’t the frown of a stupid person, just the frown of a smart person at work.
“Yes,” Annie B agreed, “Your geomancer is worthless and barely graduated from their school and is addicted to three different narcotics. Even if he could manage it, I wouldn’t want to use him. There are, however, other methods and other mancers in this world.”
Three Vamps looked my way, the secretary the only one too busy with her work. The mound of muscle with the freaky sideburns asked, “That what the little human is? A mancer?”
The other guy, the fat linebacker, grinned down at me. “Looks like he’s just your dinner from the night before—look at him, low on blood. Don’t suppose you brought him back to share?”
Gentlewoman Moore glanced at my neck, her face going tight. They could really tell just from looking? Could have been worse . . . they could have seen my Carebears band-aid. “We would have provided you with a donor, Baroness,” she murmured. “It’s our duty despite your belief in our failure.”
Annie B said nothing and Sideburns filled the void, “Look at the pissed off look he’s giving us, like he thinks we can’t rip him in half and eat one side for breakfast and the other for lunch.”
Linebacker agreed, slowing inching towards me. “Wouldn’t make much a meal though, so maybe he should know his place as a human and turn his eyes like a good little treat.”
Annie B studied my reaction as intensely as Ceinwyn Dale ever had. Me? I just shrugged and kept on staring at the pair of them, but I spoke to Annie B, “You know the problem with beating so much ass in a row? You just get tired of doing it. Then, when a couple of morons come along looking to measure dicks . . . it just bores you out of your mind.”
“Regretfully, Gentlewoman,” Annie B said across our standoff, “Events kept me from returning for a donor. I was unpredictably pushed beyond any limit I’d expected to near.”
“What she means to say,” I translated for the two men, “Is that we beat the crap out of each other. How about you boys back off?”
Annie B rolled her eyes. So did Gentewoman Moore. Vamps or not, they were still using female shells. “What Artificer Price means to say is that he took extra convincing to agree to help us with our problem, but since he has agreed, he’s under my protection and I’ll be the only one feeding off of him.”
“Yeah . . . I’m still not cool with that arrangement . . .” Thinking any feeding at all was bad.
“Artificer Price?” Gentlewoman Moore’s whole face looked shocked, eyebrows going wide. Could she just have one uncute expression? It wasn’t fair . . .
“Yes,” Annie B showed teeth to everyone in the room, “He might not look it, but he’s going to solve the problems you’ve created for me. Whether he solves your problems, gentles, depends on if you were involved with this theft. Why don’t you stuff the threats towards him before I start to feel hungry again and start looking for other sources of nourishment?”
Her tongue darted across her lips for a spare second. Not a one of them could meet her eyes. Couldn’t blame them . . . they looked crazy.
Just how much of a badass is Annie B?
[CLICK]
The place went down into the earth, or at least the human-shit passing for earth in San Francisco. The five of us descended—with me and Annie B leading the way and Gentlewoman Moore fretting behind us, her goons Sideburns and Linebacker relegated to the kiddy table at the very back.
It’s this classical winding staircase of the same white stone as the outside, wide enough for five or so people to walk side-by-side without any bumping. What surprised me more than the secret underground passage—classic vampire bullshit right?—was that the place got colder the farther we went. It started freeze-your-balls-off and ended up freeze-your-fingers-off. By the time we hit the bottom of the stairs even the Vamps looked uncomfortable. They liked it cold, not freezing, and those rooms were freezing.
Only Annie B seemed unfazed, running hot like she was. The rest of us breathed fumes of fog. I was left to breathe into my gloves and rub my chest and shoulders to keep warm.
“You hiring cryomancers too? I think my teeth are going to crack.”
Annie B glanced back over her shoulder. “No whining.”
“It’s a security measure against humans,” Gentlewoman Moore explained, having caught up with me. She smiled, but even it couldn’t beat down the worry in the rest of her expressive face. Made me want to hug her. Which ain’t my usual instinct. “We don’t like it this level of cold, but we can suffer it. For humans . . . it slows you down. It makes you less intelligent than usual, your brain too concentrated on the cold.”
“A problem if you got a little brain to begin with,” I growled back at her, thinking the concept sounded a whole lot like my Cold Cuffs.
“Are you trying to play dumb, Artificer Price?”
“Who’s playing?” I asked.
Her face told me she didn’t buy it.
The stairway ended, turning into a vaulted hallway of metal and tile. Suddenly we’d jumped from the Dark Ages into the 21st century, all steel and LED lighting, computerized locks on doors flanking the hallway, readouts and palm-scanners, plus some kind of hole that at first I thought was for a key.
Not for a key.
“Ain’t there a duke or something running this place?” I asked as the hallway kept going, doors trailing behind us. The city government probably would have crapped itself if it knew there’s a secret underground vampire complex running beneath the neighboring area of the embassy. I guess it’s one way to beat unfair property taxes.
Annie B answered me, “The Duchess Antonia keeps a traditional schedule and is sleeping. Which is why we must deal with her trio of sun-fucking goons.”
Judging by the look on Sideburn’s and Linebacker’s faces, ‘sun-fucker’ is a phrase that’s going to fit right into my foul vocabulary. “Couldn’t wake her up?” I asked my new buddy Moore. “The Law coming to town . . . kind of thing bosses like to be waked up for.”
All I earned was, “We need our sleep,” and a nod at Annie B’s outfit and perhaps her attitude.
Yeah, beginning to see that one. So vampires needed blood and rest and cold temperatures. If not, they got erratic, started rubbing against cars to cool down, wearing almost no clothes and going full-out slut, drawing attention to themselves. As disadvantages went it wasn’t exactly silver and garlic, but at least it was something to know they actually had disadvantages.
I’d made Cold Cuffs and those were a bust against the Vamps, but maybe something else would do the job. Hot cuffs? Couldn’t use pyro-anima, too volatile, throw them on someone and the person’s likely to spontaneously combust. Spectro-anima? Might work . . . might work . . . take a lot of it though . . . spectro-anima converted at the lowest rate, right beside scio-anima . . . but—might work.
“They’re also hoping I’ll be gone by the time the duchess is awake,” Annie B pulled me back from formulas, “so they can pretend I was never here. Creating a myth that every part of the San Francisco Embassy is in perfect working order and that an item entrusted to them over one-hundred years ago wasn’t stolen away right under their noses.”
The gentlewoman glared as if her eyes could wipe Annie B off the face of the Earth. Finally something not cute . . . started to get worried. “We did everything we could under our own power.”
Annie B only snickered back, still walking down the hallway-that-never-ends. “Your own power is surprisingly weak.”
“And how are we supposed to track a vampire leaving no prints or DNA? Who somehow hacked a blood scanner?” Gentlewoman Moore asked heatedly, while behind me the goons nodded agreement. “We have no evidence at all and your attempt at using a geomancer to follow the item blew up
in your face!”
Annie B gave a good shot of that deep gaze of hers, pulling you in, eating you up. “I have more faith in Artificer Price’s abilities to notice anima than your coked-out blood-whore.”
Blood-whore . . . look at me learning new words today.
“Where you find the little shit anyway?” Linebacker asked. “And what did you pay the Guild of Artificers for his services? You indebted yourself and your superiors won’t be liking that, Baroness.”
Annie B’s gaze drifted to me. It’s a miracle the woman hadn’t walked into a wall the way she looked backwards. “Artificer Price isn’t a part of the Guild.”
Damn right he ain’t. “He is getting paid, however, despite him being kidnapped and all,” I added as a reminder.
“Hope he’s worth the trouble,” Linebacker muttered, cracking knuckles in a message so obvious it was almost rude. “Humans aren’t supposed to know about this, even mancers. Especially his kind—it was part of the agreement for our holding the item in the first place. You might not have been here when it first arrived in town but I remember the day well. Humans didn’t just die that day, so did vampires. What happens if you find it and he uses it?”
So, an artifact for geomancers. That’s interesting. For all our Artificing, it’s rare to use geo-anima. We get so caught up in playing with other mancers’ areas we forget about where we came from.
“He’ll be a good boy,” was all Annie B said.
What is this thing?
[CLICK]
That question flew yet again as we finally stepped into the room which had been holding the artifact. It was like some kind of anima bomb had gone off.
Humans and nature both produce their own anima in opposite ways, maybe even some animals theoretically can, but an artifact? It’s not alive and it’s not big enough to hold reserves, so . . . how? I mean, storage, yeah, we can do that. It’s mainly what we do do. Can even make artifacts that recharge themselves at miniscule levels, take my Cold Cuffs. But there are limits.
The Foul Mouth and the Fanged Lady Page 13