— from the Journal of Geoffrey Mylus
Paolo Ciapetta fastened the last button on his prim white coat, the one that closed the high collar around his neck. Fetching a rosary strung with ivory beads and a cross, he gently lowered it so that it hung evenly at his stomach. From his coat he took a pocket watch and noted the time by the low light of a dying lamp post before stowing it away. Raising his right hand, he muttered a prayer and snuffed out the flame in the lamp overhead without touching it. When the light died, Paolo stood quietly in the dark, waiting. Shadows and voices, things affixed to his soul, spoke to him, and he attempted to ignore them. His curse threatened his life more and more with each passing day, fighting with the deeply-rooted and highly concentrated forces of holy magic left over from his days of priesthood. Paolo took deep breaths, suppressing a full transformation by keeping himself calm, but his eyes turned yellow and a pair of fangs had sprouted behind his closed lips. When an involuntary growl rose in his throat, Paolo raised a hand to it, choking it down and shaking his head. The sooner he and the trappers finished their business, the sooner he would deal with the curse. He looked down an alley, waiting for his prey.
On the opposite side of the alley, one street over, Decius was approaching, talking loudly and happily to the woman who clung to his left arm. He had easily lured her out of a dingy brothel by flashing his charming smile and a hefty bag of coins. The girl, new to the trade but thinking herself capable of taking care of herself, had agreed to leave the safety of the brothel with Decius. She kept an inconspicuous hand over the knife hidden in her bodice as she smiled and batted her eyes to keep Decius’s attention away from her weapon.
“This is a lot of money. You a baron? I’ll give you good prices if you’ll come see me more often.” The girl chattered on, hoping to make a regular out of her mysterious customer.
Their voices were the only sound that carried through the dark, foggy streets. All of London—most of it, anyway—was sleeping and unaware, but in the shadows of the alleys, just out of sight, a finely dressed man came down the street. With the butt of his cane tapping the cobblestones in time with his steps, he loped toward Decius and the girl.
Paolo heard the echoes of Decius’s laughter before he could see him. Patiently he waited for Decius to arrive at the other end of the alley. Perched on the roof of the building to Paolo’s right was Macius, a stupid crocodile grin on his face as he looked down at Paolo excitedly. Saying nothing to Macius, Paolo folded his hands behind his back.
“We’re almost there,” Decius whispered slyly into the girl’s ear, handing her the heavy pouch of coins.
“You must be someone important,” she teased, “taking me all this way. Who are you afraid will see you?”
“You wait here,” said Decius, leaving the girl. “I want to make sure no one’s spying.”
“Of course,” said the girl as he walked away. “Don’t be long!”
Uneasy in the dank alley by herself, she held the pouch of coins close, turning her head this way and that. Suddenly she heard a steady tapping coming louder and louder from the direction opposite to which Decius had gone. Deciding not to push her luck, she turned and hurried down the alley away from Decius, hoping to slip away and take a different route back to the brothel. Hearing a noise behind her, she turned to look back over her shoulder and ran straight into Paolo Ciapetta, who stood in her way.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, her heart leaping out of her chest. “Pardon me, sir,” she said, walking around him.
“Where are you going, child?” Paolo asked, seizing her by the arm.
“Let go!” she exclaimed, wrestling against him.
“This is not a good place to be so late at night. I do not approve of what you do, but I do not wish to see harm come to you. Go back to your home, and I will not report this to the authorities,” he commanded, turning her back down the alley from whence she came.
“I’ll do that,” she said hoarsely, not so afraid now. She felt fortunate to have run into a priest and not another shady rogue like the one who’d led her into the alley and abandoned her. As she turned to go back the way she had come, she wondered about the priest. How strange his clothing is, she thought. Why is he out?
She had traversed the alley again when she stopped abruptly. “Oh! I beg your pardon. I didn’t know you had come back,” she said to the man standing in the alley. Relieved for only a moment, fear chilled her arms and neck when she realized the man she’d met was not Decius. The stranger, dressed in a dark coat and wearing a hat, held a walking cane in one arm.
“What d-do you w-want?” stammered the girl, suddenly deciding she was through working as a prostitute.
The man smiled wickedly at her as his brown eyes turned yellow. A crackling sound came from his limbs as they grew and sprouted dark fur. His smile erupted with long canines, and his nose bulged forward into the snout of a wolf. He snarled loudly and broke out into a long howl as the girl turned and fled for her life. Stooping down low, the werewolf chased his victim down the alley, back toward where Paolo had been. In seconds he was on her heels.
Screaming for help, the girl dropped the heavy pouch, which exploded on the cobblestone and sent coins skipping across the ground. She felt her right foot snag something on the ground, and she fell. Rolling over just in time to see the werewolf pounce, she screamed again. She felt its hot breath blast her as it lunged. Suddenly she was hauled up into the air, pulled by the foot that had tripped. A sharp claw brushed her cheek as she soared upward, out of reach of the werewolf. Hanging upside down, she shrieked, sure that the werewolf’s swipes would claim her until a pair of arms—those of Macius—pulled her to the safety of the rooftop.
Below her the werewolf snorted and growled in anger, barking at the man who had stolen his victim. When a bright light flashed, lighting the alley, the werewolf squinted and turned to look toward the source. Paolo calmly strolled down the alley, one hand held high, the bright, painful light coming from his palm. At that moment Decius’s voice came from behind, reciting a spell. As the werewolf whipped around to face him, the cobblestone beneath his feet gave way, and he plummeted into a pit of collapsing earth and rubble.
“Is this the one?” Paolo asked Decius, who had joined them and was now standing at the edge of the pit, peering down inside.
“This is him. This is the infamous Ripper,” said Decius, smiling proudly as he took a small chunk of silver from his pocket. With one finger he drew on it, reciting a spell as he did. The tip of his finger glowed red, leaving a luminous inscription on the surface of the silver. “Stand away,” he warned Paolo, who took a few steps back. Tossing the chunk of silver into the pit, Decius held an arm over his face and waited. A loud concussion rocked the ground, followed by a howl of pain. The chunk of silver had exploded and severely injured the werewolf, who gave up his struggle and lay quietly in the trappers’ pit.
When he awoke as a man, the werewolf captured by Decius could not discern where he was, for a blindfold has been tied around his face. When it was untied and pulled away, his eyes were stung by bright daylight. The angry roar of a crowd surrounded him on all sides. People pelted him with rocks, old fruit and rotten vegetables. He found himself standing atop a wooden stage in the middle of a large public square, where he was an easy target.
“This is a monster! A werewolf!” cried a loud, metallic voice that hushed the crowd. “For those of you who do not believe they are dangerous and incorrigible, here is evidence!”
A man in a white uniform paced the stage in front of the werewolf. He wore a black executioner’s hood and held his hands calmly behind his back as the loud voice spoke from the steps of the nearby courthouse. Whose voice it was, neither the werewolf nor the crowd could identify. The man speaking was obscured by a number of other presiding judges and nobles attending the execution. Whoever he was, his authoritarian, unnatural voice held the crowd’s rapt attention.
“This man you see has been brought here today as a warning,” the loud voice cried, �
��to the clans of werewolves and cults of vampires who terrorize the good people of England!”
The werewolf on the stage, slumped over with his hands tied above his head, watched the executioner pacing around him in circles. He recognized the white uniform. It belonged to one of the men who had captured him.
“This man, a werewolf, is guilty of killing more than a hundred innocent young women!” the unseen man went on. The crowd roared noisily again, raining garbage and stones on the werewolf. “For this reason, his judgment will be the most severe kind! This man and monsters like him are guilty of crimes too great to be rectified by death!”
Heads in the crowd turned to their neighbors. No one knew what to make of the man’s words. How did he intend to punish the criminal? Like excited children watching a magician, their eyes followed the executioner as he stepped in front of the werewolf and raised one hand, pointing his palm at the werewolf like a gun.
“This man … this beast … is not fit for even the lowest Hell! Therefore, to prevent him from polluting Purgatory, his soul will be destroyed!”
A bright point of light appeared in the executioner’s palm. It vibrated rapidly, producing a high-pitched whine. At the words, “Anima discerptum,” it leapt from his palm, passing through the werewolf’s chest and exiting his back, carrying a ghostly after-image of the man with it. The crowd gasped, many people pushing and shoving to see what had happened; others backed away in fright. The werewolf struggled in terror against his restraints for only a moment, his wolf features bursting forth. In the next moment, he hung motionless.
“From this day forward, all clans and cults within the domain of England and its territories will submit to the authority of the Crown.” The authoritarian voice spoke again. “Terror and violence will not be tolerated, and the enemies of England will be punished severely. Long live the King! Long live England!” the voice shouted. The crowd cheered loudly as the judges and nobles dispersed and the body of the werewolf was removed from the stage.
*
Have you chosen a Seventh?” The Eighth sat behind his desk, looking through papers and keeping his face out of view. This annoyed Corvessa, who didn’t like it when others spoke to her as if they were better than she.
“Yes,” she answered, intentionally being short with the man.
“Excellent! I assume it is the same individual you spoke of the first time we met,” he said, pulling drawers out from the desk and fiddling with things inside them.
“Udbala is a powerful sorceress. Aside from that, she has no firm loyalties to the people of India and is willing to cooperate with us. It’s a fantastic opportunity for England.” Corvessa spoke convincingly and without a trace of insincerity. It was a skill she’d had thousands of years to practice, and she had mastered the art many times over. What the Eighth didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, the ageless vampire reasoned, not just yet, anyway.
“I trust your judgment, Corvessa, but I’d feel much better if she could demonstrate—“
“Do you recall,” Corvessa interrupted, “the sudden death of Fahkir ibn Abdul-Hadi in Morocco? The windstorm that ravaged Tangier?” she asked.
“A year or so ago, yes. Why?”
“It wasn’t a windstorm. It was Udbala. I sent her to assist the Fourth in seizing the throne. She is a powerful sorceress, Mr. Abrams.”
“Oh, Corvessa I’m sure she has her own agenda just as you and I do,” replied the Eighth, relaxing in his chair. “I certainly agree with you, however. Anyone who can turn over a city in such a calamitous manner is certainly worth our allegiance. Speaking of disruptions, how are your efforts in Paris coming along?”
“The Black Coat Society has been undermined,” she answered, toying with her fingernails, dismissing the French society of vampires without another thought. “The Society here in London won’t survive for long without it, so that’s one problem off our shoulders. If we have any trouble removing them, the Red Legion is prepared to assist us.”
“And you are going to unite your cult with the Red Legion, correct?”
“Yes, now that Don Violanti has no say in the matter and Sylvia LeRouge has expressed no interest in the position, I’ll be assuming the title of matriarch.”
“Isn’t it exciting,” asked the Eighth, getting up from his chair and spreading his arms. “knowing we’ll see the day that all the world is joined under our wisdom and guidance? No single king! No tyrants! Only eight equal immortals, who will build a perfect world.”
In one corner of the room sat Decius, having paid no attention to any of the conversation. His mind was elsewhere. He did not care about politics. He didn’t care about colonization or conquest, not of France or England or India, unless Matsuda Ine was hiding in one of them, and then he would be the first to draw a sword and fight. He had had her in his sights, and it burned his insides that he’d been foiled and shamed by that troublemaking pirate, Thomas Crowe. But even more than he hated Thomas, he hated the Eighth.
It was the fault of the Eighth that Decius and Macius now unconditionally served the Bureau of Immortal Affairs. The two friends had been equal partners and master thieves, using magic to successfully complete grand heists. But the Bureau captured a pirate, Chera Rocha, and turned her into a mercenary, ordering her to find Macius and Decius and seize their magic. When Chera caught them, she shot Macius. Trying desperately to save the life of his friend, Decius attempted to lend Macius his own. Instead of bringing Macius back, Decius had split his own life, and now Macius was a mindless body carrying half a soul.
Once caught, Decius and Macius had to take orders from the Bureau. When Decius was ordered to find and capture Matsuda Ine, he believed fortune had smiled on him. The young Japanese warrior girl carried a sword that had some kind of dominion over the laws of life and death, and Decius knew immediately it was the answer to his prayers. He swore to himself that the first thing he would do, should he capture Ine and the sword, would be to avenge Macius. Until then, he would feign loyalty to the Eight.
In another corner of the room, Paolo Ciapetta stood, hands folded behind his back as he looked outside at the city. From high up in the offices of the Bureau, London looked dark and grim. Paolo thought back to a similar moment in his past, when he’d stood before the Archbishop Serafini. Without raising his voice or condescending, the Archbishop had simply told Paolo the Church had no more patience for him, and that Paolo’s title of bishop was stripped. As though that weren’t enough, Paolo was warned to stay away from the Vatican; if he returned, he would lose any chance of entry into Paradise.
For years after, Paolo had followed the Order of the Blood Moon, the only family that had a place for him. Despite Paolo’s fame for having initiated more than ninety members into that werewolf clan, he’d met Jack Darcy only a handful of times. During his time with the Blood Moons of Sardinia, Paolo was mocked for his past affiliations with orders of Italian mage-priests—those who study holy magic used primarily against werewolves, vampires and demons. Tired of ridicule, he left and joined a smaller band of Blood Moons unrecognized by Jack Darcy. The smaller band traveled through Habsburg territory as nomads, occasionally attacking traveling wagons or other small non-Blood Moons.
After some time he left the nomads as well, not because he felt unwelcome but because his curse had begun to change. Like the other Blood Moons, he would often have trouble controlling transformations when the moon was full or stronger than usual. However, unlike the others, his fur would turn brilliant white, giving off a powerful light—something he guessed was left over from his days of studying holy magic. Paolo realized the holy magic he carried and the darkness of the Oath of the Blood Moon were struggling against one another for control of his body. Horrified and afraid for his sanity, he had left the Blood Moons and begun a personal crusade to salvage his soul. One by one, he had hunted down every person he’d ever infected with the werewolf curse, using holy spells to destroy their souls and the evil he’d created in them. By doing so, Paolo believed, he could slowly remov
e the darkness from himself and perhaps be forgiven for his deeds. As he stood in the Eighth’s chambers he could think only of how far he’d come, and that he hadn’t much farther to go.
“Today’s execution was a great success,” the Eighth was saying. “The people will support anything the Bureau does if we show them the ugly face of those troublemakers. How fortunate we are to have such talented trappers! And think what a hero Mr. Ciapetta will be—a man who represents the people’s faith and protects them from harm!” The Eighth smiled excitedly, the creaking of metal on metal resounding from the corners of his mouth. Corvessa looked away from his face, repulsed by the patchwork of skin and steel that fought for space on his cheeks and under his eyes. “A champion for our most righteous cause!” he exclaimed. “I dare say we have found our new Second!”
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