《The Tome of UnDeath》 01 - At Applecott Gardens "Y-you''re a Vampire!" The caped figure smiled, hoping it would translate to an eerie smirk. There was fear in the exclamation, of course. Panic. The last throes of agency before the sense of powerlessness would take hold. The usual, stimulating stuff. But there was something else this time, honey to Vampire Lord Crayve''s pointed ears. Awe. [Wait, not honey. Blood. Blood to his ears. Obviously.] "And what if I am?" He made his voice sonorous. Deep as the night, with a honed vocal tremor that some people would die for. Literally. Words did not return to the lips of the Lady Applecott. He couldn''t tell if she even tried. Mouth agape, a remnant of her last words - her last words ever, perhaps? - and quivering. But still standing. Faring better than most. "Cat got your tongue?" The voice still abyssal and melodic, carrying the questionmark as if on a silken pillow. He knew how well it worked, using childish proverbs like this, once his prey was speechless. [Damn! Bat got your tongue! It was right there!] The lips of the Lady Applecott pursed. Not a kiss, no, though it would not be the first time someone would make a desperate attempt at seduction. Would feign being impressed, seek to stroke the ego they hoped was there, hoped would overshadow the bloodlust, the sinister violence of the night. Not he. Not Vampire Lord Crayve. Instead, a whisper. ''Wh''. A little breath. As if she was savouring them. "Wh-?" she was saying. The small, frail sound barely reached him, but it was enough to help her voice return. "What do you want from me?" The words came out quite well. He had to give her that. She was nowhere near regaining control, of course. The control she had displayed so thoughtlessly before closing the garden gate. Her struggle for composure, for dignity, was enthralling. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. He let the silence linger. Sometimes a risky thing, but he liked to think it made the Lady Applecott feel all the more alone. Abandoned by the fancy world, with all its noise, that otherwise so casually surrounded her. More importantly, he needed the silence to consider. Was it too soon to ask his question? [''Ask his question''? I''m not at her mercy. It should be ''make his demand''!] Was it too soon to make his demand? Would he be showing his hand, make her feel like he needed her? It could embolden her to scream. Unlikely to do much good, but one never knows. But no. The Lady Applecott was not the type to scream. She would seek to retain composure, scream only when it became clear that he was a threat to her life. Right now, she was not quite certain of that. She knew he wanted something - he wondered what she though it was - and hoped she may give it without affecting her current life. We get greedy, don''t we, at death''s door? [But also generous. Oh so generous.] There was a reason there had been awe in her voice when she saw him properly in the light of the stars. Caught the silver of his fangs, the crimson of his eyes. She had not spit the word - vampire! - like so many had done. He had heard the capital V. The helpless respect shown to a natural force, not the tangible fear of mortal whims. It was worth the risk. "My dear~," he accompanied the words with a flourish of his gloved hands. "Whence your fear? There is no Blood Moon in the sky tonight." [Such a good line. Properly intimidating. Properly aristocratic.] Vampire Lord Crayve smiled at the Lady Applecott, the intended effect not an eerie smirk any more, but a bemused, indulgent smile. The kind a priest might offer, deliberately or not, to any who insisted they were free of sin. She did not speak. He had to remind himself that this was not a conversation, not yet. The question had been rhetorical anyway, but something more than tense anticipation would have been appreciated. She was steadying her breath, the battle against frenzied fear all but won, but the scream was still right there, ready to pounce into the night. It is a dance, the balance between panic and trepidation. Vampire Lord Crayve was good at it, though not, perhaps, quite yet a master. [''Tis true, alas.] "Word has reached me," he said, relaxing his own stance, but not too much, followed by a raise of one eyebrow. Reprimanding in its effect, he hoped, as well as inquiring. "Word has reached me that you have dabbled, my dear, in our affairs." Stress on the ''our''. Almost guttural. For a moment, the abyss felt just a little deeper, just a little darker. She looked perplexed, taken aback. A little bit too genuinely so for Vampire Lord Crayve''s liking. He let her simmer for a few moments before he tilted his head, letting a coil of ashen grey hair tumble over his face. His next words were spoken slowly, at a deliberate pace, so that their quantity would not subtract from their gravity. "Oh, you know full well what I mean, Ms Applecott. Rumours have spread on leathery wings. Your family" - perhaps, he thought, she would be more likely to confess to a wrongdoing of her family rather than of herself - "has glimpsed into our world. One of your line, yes~ at least one of your line, my dear, has read the forbidden script." A pause, deemed necessary not merely for dramatic effect. He needed to convey the grandness of the thing. "The Tome of UnDeath." 02 - Lucinda Applecott Lucinda Applecott slammed shut the gates to Applecott Gardens, taking satisfied note of the click of the lock. She had allowed a suitor with painfully forced nonchalance to accompany her from the theatre, the throb of his blood all but deafening, belying his rehearsed flattery. The clanging metal, so much louder than the dainty little sound he may have expected, accentuated the distance which now lay between them. He had been granted his time in the sun. Applecott Gardens were massive. An expanse of land surrounding Highcore Hall, the main estate of her family. The outer garden had been made public by an uncle or an aunt some generations ago, a popular move, since there was not much green left in the city, and labourers and idlers alike roamed the pebbled pathways day and night ever since. Some wilderness beyond these prowlers had returned to the outer garden as a result. Vines clinging onto bark, shrubs protruding unevenly, flowers blooming beyond the flower patches. In some places, it had become impossible to walk along the path, carefully following its middle, without a branch scraping one''s dress. Fortunately, her late relatives had kept the inner gardens private, surrounded by a crenellated wall of blackened stone, topped by silver ornaments designed to persuade would-be trespassers of the impossibility of bloodless passage. [A lot of mention of blood. You''d think she knew what was coming.] Though the inner garden was still vast - so vast, in fact, that Highcore Hall looked as if located in the countryside - Lucinda Applecott did not ring for a coach at the empty gatehouse. She never did. She liked the slow, meandering walk towards her home. The stillness of nature made to bow to the whim of her family. The knowledge that all of this was hers. She would later claim, and convince herself into believing, that she sensed something was off. And yet there would have been nothing to trigger such portent. The inner gardens were patrolled at irregular hours, guard hounds, trained to move soundlessly and bite savagely, were free to roam. All was silent that night. Aside from the mundane variances of the everyday, all was as usual, too. Had she truly sensed something was off, she may have followed the main walkway, though meandering still, to the inner courtyard and its stately entrance, all of which illuminated by flickering lamps the brightness of which, at places, rivalled the light of day. It would have kept her visible to the guards stationed by the little watchtower. It would have made her, though not impervious to ambush, a much more dangerous target. But Lucinda Applecott chose to do what she always did. She left the main walkway in favour of the so-called scenic way, though she had no real interest in the views this coiling path offered of the park, the mansion or the city. The lanterns here were more sparse, the path no less familiar for it, and it teetered off near the back of the house to a large stone gazebo, elevated so as to overlook the lush pond. This she would pass, removing herself from the designated walking zones, towards what the particularly eagle-eyed guests would recognize as a well but imperfectly hidden shed. Satisfied with this discovery, this peek behind the curtains, none so far had ventured to see behind the structure to find a much smaller gazebo, this one of dark wood, that overlooked nothing but bushes. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. This was her spot, where she came to unwind, even if she did not feel very tense, before entering the house through the back terrace. This, more so than her lavish chambers, was her sanctum, a place she considered entirely her own. Her visit to this refuge, though she may not admit to it readily, was as much a means of unloading the burdens of being a beautiful socialite, as it was a way to steel herself for the domestic, the one place, she felt, where she was forced to relinquish control. It is possible that this routine, this habitual stroll across Applecott Gardens with its culmination in still contemplation, was of such importance that Lucinda Applecott would ignore her alleged sense of foreboding in its favour. It is also possible that this detour had become *so* routine that her distracted mind could no longer conceive of returning home by the front gate when arriving alone. Whatever she was thinking or not thinking, she sought, this particular night, the darkness and solitude of her sanctum. What she saw there - who she saw there - made her heart stand still. She did not scream. She would later concoct plenty of open as well as hidden reasons for this. Fear of affirming her role as a victim. Fear of relinquishing her moment. Defiance. Dignity. Anything but folly. "Y-you''re a Vampire!" In truth, she would have screamed, if only for the shock alone. The violation of the intimacy of her secret realm may also have sufficed to summon a shriek of indolence, blind anger suffused with panic. She would have screamed at any intruder, should he not have made her utter those very words. For before her stood, unmistakably, a Vampire. All the visual trappings were there - the dark but rich suit, flowing cravat, gloves that could not quite conceal the sharpness of nails; the pallid skin, the hair flowing over his shoulders in coaxing locks, pointy ears protruding from their ashen waves. The hint of two teeth caressing his full but colourless lower lip, just barely visible, prominent all the same. The deep red of his eyes. Not the eyes of a mortal. The scent of blood in the air. [Ooooh!~] Of course, most people placed in the position of Lucinda Applecott would find it trivially easy to identify a Vampire from these traits. Some may even have found it appropriate to express this recognition. But for most, and perhaps even for everyone, the fact that they could tell what it was that stood before them was secondary. The primary thought, the primary emotive response, would have been not recognition, but disbelief. Vampires are not real. For however much people knew of them, no one interacted with them. They were the bogeyman, haunting nightmares and waking hours of small children as well as more than a couple of adults. They were the explanation for the suddenly slain, the wordlessly disappeared, those changed forever with neither cause nor cure any doctor of body or of mind could find. Lucinda Applecott, however, did not subscribe to the common practise of fearing what one expects to be fiction. The Vampire had been myth for so long, even those experts who spoke of myths as manifestations of ancient truths believed in their present existence only half-heartedly. To Lucinda Applecott the case was clear. Among their skills as hunters and seducers - is there a difference? - Vampires are known first and foremost by one thing. Immortality. And so it stood to reason. If even one Vampire had ever existed in the history of the world, one Vampire could still exist today. And believing in one thing, one entity, was a lot easier than to believe in thousands, to believe in a secret, hidden world of nocturnal predators. It was a lot easier still if this belief could fuel the fires of one''s deepest desires. For if such a being existed, it would have defied death. And that meant hope that a human, even at the cost of losing their humanity, may do it too. Even if not, it still meant hope. For it meant that death was not everything. It was not omniscient, all-devouring. It had been conquered, defiled, spat on once before. That alone was worth the faith. Lucinda Applecott did not scream, for hope overshadowed any fear. She did not scream, for Lucinda Applecott was a believer. 03 - The Occult Collection The Lady Applecott was more cautious than he thought. She didn''t open one of the many terrace doors to which she surely had a key, instead removing an unassuming part of a stone ornament and using that to unlock what didn''t look like a door at all, simply a bit of wood-framed clouded glass right in the corner. She replaced the secret key and he could tell, when their eyes met, that she resented sharing this particular secret with him. He wondered idly whether she would find another secret to replace it, once - and if - normalcy would return to her life. This would be the last of his idle thoughts for a while, for after setting foot inside what turned out to be a narrow, dimly lit and unfurnished corridor, Vampire Lord Crayve began to feel tense. Not the tenseness of the Lady Applecott, of course, who briskly lead the way ahead of him, maneuvering several of these corridors alongside heavily carpeted staircases spreading across floors. As if all the walls were hollow, a network of passages hidden from sight. He was tense because, at long last, his search was nearing its end. The Tome of UnDeath. Word of its emergence had appeared across the twilit circles, but it had been unreachable, confined to the obscenely rich and powerful and scrupulous. Augustus Applecott had allegedly procured it from an underground auction. Though it had been difficult information to find, the historic sum paid at that auction had loosened otherwise unyielding tongues. To most, the Tome was first and foremost a historic curio, made enticing by its reputation. More fools them. The Lady Applecott claimed that she knew nothing of this purchase, but she had not shown any signs of surprise. She noted that she had not seen her uncle for at least a week, and that when she last dined with him, he had seemed unusually excited. Crucially, she had also confirmed that her uncle had expressed sporadic interest in the occult, though from her tone as she said this, Vampire Lord Crayve inferred that he was not alone in this proclivity. Whether or not, and to what extent, she told the truth, he did not care. If rumours were true, Augustus Applecott would crumble before him, not out of cowardice or fear, but reverence. He would have the Tome. It was only a matter of time. In order to reach the study of her uncle, the Lady Applecott had lead him across so many hidden corridors that he had no notion of where in the mansion it was that they emerged. They continued down more hallways, proper ones now, five times the width, and decked out with excess off-putting even to him. She was visibly nervous, stepping as noiselessly as she could, and always tilting forward whenever they took a turn. As if she were trespassing down her own halls. He followed with the silence of decades of practice. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. She knocked at the heavy door with a timidness unique to children when they fear displeasing a strict guardian. She knocked again, barely louder, but finally seemed to be willing to take her chances. By this hour, surely her uncle would be in his bedchambers. Augustus Applecott''s study itself looked magnificent and unused. A door stood out by being left ajar, casting a strip of light across the otherwise unlit room. Had it been closed, the opulence of the study would have all but obscured it from casual view. The Lady Applecott froze in place. Most lights across the mansion had been lit, though dimly. The brightness of this room could only indicate the presence of someone who needed it so. Vampire Lord Crayve straightened to his full height and strode towards the door, flinging it open with determination. He saw what could not have further contrasted the sterile, lifeless study if it tried. The room was littered with sheets of paper and carelessly placed books. The walls consisted of bookshelves, but the books they contained were irregular, some piled some tilted over, heavy leather-bound volumes next to dainty felt ones, folders next to paper bound by string. An armchair, a few reading tables, and a desk were strewn across the room as if an afterthought. Nothing about this room was designed to impress, nor even to stroke the ego of its custodian. Said custodian being starkly, disappointingly, absent. Vampire Lord Crayve tried not to slump at this revelation, instead making his way to the most impressive-looking books he saw. Surely one of them would be the Tome. He flung all the disappointments to the floor. Every title he read, every paragraph he skimmed, related to the occult. Some felt more out of place than others - The Stoats Of Winhale Forest & By What Force They Grow So Large - but if it so much as touched upon the workings of unknown powers, the unexplored deemed by so many of the learned men and women to be unexplorable, it could be found here. He recognized several texts he himself had studied, both the blatantly spurious and the incomprehensibly obscure, the niche but popular as well as the outlawed. Most texts were heavily annotated. Not all the scribbles had been written by the same hand. The Lady Applecott had severely undersold her uncle''s proclivity. Augustus Applecott was indeed unusually partial to the studies of the occult. This room was a shrine to his obsession. It was no wonder that he had been interested in the Tome of UnDeath, no wonder that he had paid what even to him must have felt like a fortune to get his hands on it. But it was not here. Of course it wasn''t. He would have locked it away, guarding it jealously. Or would he have devoured it and scribbled all over its margins, like he had with everything else? Had he taken it to his bed, sleeping better knowing it was safely under his pillow? He turned and was ready to tear the man from his sleep, manifest his nightmares right before his eyes. But he stopped when he saw the Lady Applecott who had entered the room, seemingly unfamiliar to her, only enough to pick something from the floor with a trembling hand. It was a quill, but instead of a nib it was tipped by a tiny, razor-sharp blade. The blade was coated in blood. Vampire Lord Crayve was familiar with blood. He could tell that it was not fresh, but neither was it old. There was a scroll of parchment on the floor next to where the blood quill had lain, and he picked it up to find a very poor attempt at using the blade to write, resulting in a cut and blood-soaked page, illegible and useless. The blood, however, was very useful. The cut must have been very deep, and there was nowhere near enough blood in this room to account for it. Fuelled by eagerness, Vampire Lord Crayve launched into action. He dropped to the floor in a crouch, sniffing and glaring at the carpet. Stains. He was in luck. The hunt was on. 04 - The Blood Ritual Of course, Lucinda Applecott knew of the Occult Collection. She knew of what Uncle Augustus referred to as his ''academic interest'', kept largely to himself because, he would often say, ''the coward''s mind resents the daring''. Much of her own interest in things that went beyond what, to her, had always felt so tiringly trivial, she owed to his; though she would prefer to attribute it to her insatiability, to the commendable drive of a pioneer. She had snuck peeks of some works, had dared to read almost half a volume once, on the rare occasions when Uncle Augustus read, among his sappy novels, in the north wing''s library. But she had never been granted permission to peruse the Occult Collection for herself, and so she had not realised that Uncle Augustus was no mere dabbler, no hobbyist she had secretly admonished for being no better than a coward who had taken a few steps into the dungeon, making sure to keep the entrance in sight. The bladed quill, its crimson ink a token of more than just courage, proved her wrong. Uncle Augustus was serious. No, not just that. Uncle Augustus may have been on to something. He may have been the pioneer she, in what was now painfully shown as the foolish grandeur of youth, had fancied herself. [You''re really hammering home her insecurities, you know. Not that I mind.] Lucinda Applecott jumped from her thoughts, which had held her in place in what, she briefly considered, must have looked too much like fear, when the Vampire rose before her like a demon ascending from the depths. He grabbed the quill and - "Lucy?! How dare--" Her heart sank deeper and faster than she ever thought possible. The voice of her uncle, shrill and irate like never before, full with the stinging disappointment she had tried to steel herself against for all her life, but not quite the same. Deeper disappointment, much deeper. The disappointment of despair. Words failed her as she slowly turned around, bracing herself and realising that she was trembling, more scared of this man, this mere man, skinny and weak and not even all that much older than her, than she was of the Vampire. [Ouch. Could have done without that.] But when her eyes fell upon him, she froze all over again. Uncle Augustus was covered in blood. Layers of crimson, from dried to fresh, caked his head, his face, seeping into or through, or both, his clothes. The night gown he wore looked shredded, as if left out in a storm of blades. Most patches of his pale skin looked bruised and cut, but surely not all of that blood could be his, not possibly. It took her embarrassingly long to realize that he had not ceased his admonishment intentionally. His eyes, usually watery and maddeningly tame, now bloodshot and alert, the eyes of both predator and prey, were locked on the space next to her. On the figure of the Vampire. The Vampire''s presence was suddenly comforting. A strange sense of safety overcame her, of standing next to an ally. Without the oppressive force of her uncle''s gaze, she dared turn towards him and felt encouraged in these thoughts. For the Vampire had rose to his full height, taller, she felt, than he had appeared to her in the Gardens, his cape billowing in a breeze she did not feel, his face like thunder. Neither smile nor smirk took off the edge of his features. He looked furious. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. He took a very deliberate step towards Uncle Augustus. In a fleeting moment, for which she would reprimand herself days later, Lucinda Applecott fancied he had taken a protective step in front of her, rather than a threatening step towards the hunter, caged in his own home. "No!" cried Uncle Augustus. "You can not, you will not hurt me!" He sounded desperate, satisfyingly so, with his voice still shrill and strained, but he was speaking with impressive conviction. She couldn''t help but feel impressed, an impression that faded when Uncle Augustus continued, staking his claim too high, biting off more than he could chew. Not knowing his place. "I am your master! I am the one who has summoned you!" The Vampire''s face was obstructed, but he did not appear to react to this incredible claim. He took a second step, no faster or slower than his first. Uncle Augustus winced. "Can you not see?!" he asked - no, pleaded. "The marks of the Blood Ritual upon me! The marks that designate me one of You!" Another step, almost cruel. By this point, Lucinda Applecott felt no fear at all. She was out of the lines of fire, both of them. Tension gave way to, of all things, pity. Her Uncle was no pioneer. He had attempted something big, something powerful, and it had failed. But he had not yet accepted that. The Vampire laughed. A savage laugh, a taunting laugh, devoid of amusement but full of power. She could see the glint of his fangs reflected in her uncle''s wide eyes. Mirrors to his fate. "Insolent Wreck," the Vampire boomed, the force of his words, the first words in her uncle''s presence, seemed to reverberate from the shelves. She heard the rustling of paper. "You claim what has been stolen from Us. You play with it, ignorant, mortal," the word spoken with such visceral disgust, it made her Uncle flinch. "You soil it with your weakness, tainting it with lesser blood." A pause. "You are not worthy." [Shivers.] He took another step, then another, holding out a hand. "Return it to me. Return it to me and you will bless the pain as a mercy." [Not sold on this one, but I wasn''t thinking straight at the time, you understand.] Pressure, overwhelming pressure, made her bloodied, pathetic uncle shrink. "NOW!" But Uncle Augustus would find himself unable to comply. For Uncle Augustus had fainted dead away.
Several hours later, Lucinda Applecott stood by the secret entrance of Uncle Augustus'' ritual chamber, hidden in the catacombs she had never known were there. Several corpses lay on the floor, adrift in a shallow puddle of blood. To her, it looked like a bottomless lake. She dared not make out any of the faces, fearing the stories they would tell. It''s not like she cared for their lives, not really. But while a living person is just another extra, just more background noise accentuating the story of her life, a dead person is a grim reminder of mortality. A dead person becomes a symbol far greater than their lives could ever have been. A dead person held power over her, and Lucinda Applecott did not approve. Amidst the dead, his boots and cape heavy with blood, the Vampire stood over a stone slab upon which he had spread out the scattered pages of the Tome. He cursed and struck the altar with his fist more than once, and though Lucinda Applecott was not listening, she made out just enough to understand two things. First, this was not the full Tome of UnDeath. There were not enough pages. What Uncle Augustus had bought was a pamphlet at best. His broken fingers proved that no pages had been hidden. Uncle Augustus had shown some courage, initially, but Lucinda knew, understood intuitively, that he was not the kind to chose pride over the avoidance of pain. Second, more worryingly, the Vampire could not decipher most of the text. The writing across all pages, though she would only see it first-hand later, was cramped and jagged, looking discouragingly illegible at first, yet still tauntingly intelligible. Uncle Augustus had claimed to have deciphered only very little, his eagerness to obtain the Vampire Blessing - the Gift of UnDeath - taking hold of him the moment he believed to have gleaned enough. The Vampire, it seemed, gleaned even less. How strange, she thought. Why would a Vampire be unable to read his own tongue? Was this something other than the Tome of UnDeath after all? Or perhaps.. But no, it seemed such a ridiculous thought. Her very mind rebelled against it, forbidding it to form. ... Still, could it be..? [Oh no you don''t. I refuse to believe she had any idea. Not this early. No revisionism, please and thank you!] [...] [Well, not this kind at least.] 05 - Vampire Lord Crayve Had Augustus Applecott, frustrated by the lack of immediate results from that night''s bloody rituals, poorly inferred from an incomplete and possibly fraudulent text, not emerged from his well-hidden dungeon, it is unclear by what means Vampire Lord Crayve would have attempted to track him down. Augustus Applecott sought the familiar comfort of the Occult Collection, yearned for the hope and giddy excitement he had, not so very long ago, felt in its warming confines, and which now lay dashed and covered in the blood of wasted lives. Little did he know that his arrival there would offer hope only to someone else. Vampire Lord Crayve would not have been likely to find him. Blood was his speciality, yes. But to trace blood, beyond the limited capabilities of his nose, was not something he had done before. He would have required notable set-up, time and materials and co-operation from the Lady Applecott, who may well have offered it, but only at the terrifying expense of reduced respect and awe. However mythical, however arcane a Rite was, it still had clinging upon it the predictability, the regularity of science, of a mortal pursuit. Structure weakens the unknown. Worst of all, even if the Rite was performed flawlessly, it still may not have worked the way he needed it to. A Vampire could trace blood without the need of a Rite. He did not know this, not for sure. Texts on Vampires were contradictory in the most unhelpful places, and left unanswered many a crucial question while going into excruciating detail on trivialities. But he felt that it must be so. That any Vampire who resorted to the Rite - no matter how well he dressed it up - would appear, especially to the dabblers in the occult, not so much as a Vampire who supplemented his eldritch power with the Arcane, but as only half a Vampire, one not strong enough to draw from the Midnight Forces on his own merit. He would have done it, of course. Risked the blow to his image, or made her see only stars instead. Getting his hands on the Tome of UnDeath was worth far more than even this. But he had gotten lucky. Augustus Applecott had emerged, and he had proven as malleable as any. But hope is a fickle thing. When he saw that the Tome was no Tome but a collection of pages, he already felt his heart sink. When he saw the scrawl upon the parchment, words unfamiliar, not permitting him a glimpse even of this fragment, he felt cold and heavy, like he had been struck in the heart by a dagger forged from the eye of a storm. He had never considered this. Some occult text had been written in ancient tongues, or secret languages, but there had been a common thread across all of these, a canon of secrecy he had learned to navigate flawlessly. But was it really possible? Was it really possible that Vampires, or whoever it was that guarded the access to UnDeath with such unjust jealousy, had a language of their own, no less elusive than UnDeath - no, Immortality - itself? Vampire Lord Crayve did not know. Because Vampire Lord Crayve was, in truth, neither a Lord, nor a Vampire. [Welp. It will never not sting when people say that.] *** The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Conrad Ravell knew more of death than most. [Oh god, please, keep it at Crayve. That other name has not been mine for a long time.] Crayve, before the title, the costume of Vampire Lord had become second nature, before he knew of Vampires at all, was no stranger to death. Even Lords, those remote beacons, mere men who somehow conned the natural order into seeing them as more, whose words founded and felled kingdoms, whose idle thoughts could be measured in entire lifetimes, the blood and sweat and tears of thousands hanging on a passing notion, a flight of fancy - even Lords might as well have been creatures of myth. His domestic life, such as it was - [Stop. Skip the losses. Do me this courtesy. They aren''t important.] Though he hoped, dreamed like all bereft children do, at night when he felt far away from the pains and toils of the day, he knew he could never become a Lord. But when first he heard of the Vampire, those defiers of universal truths, those who could take away all that was finite, and thus made the hearts of lords and peasants quiver alike, he dreamed just the same, but did not dismiss the hope. It had never been a question of believing in Vampires. That was irrelevant. The only question he had asked himself, listening to the tales of the decrepit who had no choice but to earn their crumbs with words, was this - could he, little Crayve, become a Vampire? And soon, this became his power. The thing that made him capable of braving the mornings. Not hope, but certainty. He would become a Vampire. Many a sacrifice littered the path of his escape from - [Skip. The. Losses.] Crayve''s path, from that dreaming child to that Vampire, affected but no less effective for it, who had unleashed his full effect upon the Lord and Lady Applecott, would fill a volume of its own. His singular focus found itself fortunate enough to be paired with rare talent. Every meagre opportunity presented to him he seized, and since this did not happen often, he soon learned to forge them for himself, to tear them from unwilling hands, to elbow aside the hesitant, the cautious. Onward he fought his way, first into the world of the literate, then the learned, then the arcane. Foiled many times, by the world and by his own inexperience, the kindness he had to unlearn, he impressed often enough to claw together means. Connections. Access. He became a medicus, a practitioner of the healing arts who supplements his knowledge of anatomy and disease with the powers of the Rite. He was not the best, but he was one of few. None would have believed the story of his birth, the tragedy of his life. He had more than most. But it had not been comfort or recognition, neither power nor a purpose that had fuelled him this far. He could not stop. When the life of a medicus had become stale, when he had all but exhausted the potential this noble profession offered his true pursuit, he delved further, ever further into the obscure, the uncharted, following the traces of the Vampire. *** It had lead him here, to this, to this abyssal disappointment. He had perfected the Rite of Blood even beyond the uses of a medicus. He had emulated a Vampire''s movements, even some of their spells. [I do make a flawless Vampire, it is true. Perhaps the dying legends will be rekindled by my deeds.] What was missing was Immortality. The Tome of UnDeath had been the only lead his decades of search in the deepest recesses of history and beyond had unearthed. The Tome of UnDeath was real. He traced it to the circles of the Lords he had so long mythologised. They meant nothing to him, but their gilded cages were impenetrable. Then Augustus Applecott had removed the Tome from this clandestine circle, and it had been closer than ever. Now this. The trail threatened to go cold, and he did not know if he had it in him to find, to chase another. For the first time in his life, he felt that drive that had kept him going since he had been a child give way. Not crumble, for it was a powerful drive, forged and reforged in the flames of grim determination. Just a crack. Its foundation was shaking. This could not be the end. 06 - On the Road to Worsenvane "We should talk to the Vice Count." The Vampire had ceased his cursing a while ago, so Lucinda Applecott''s words sliced through the silence. The smell was oppressive, the reek of blood and failure. She wanted to leave this room, wanted to leave Highcore Hall entirely. She was not interested in the aftermath, nor was she afraid of any consequences, neither for her nor for her uncle. Such is the privilege of these ancient dynasties that she did not even realise how free of consequence she was. It was the natural state of things. She wanted to leave because a fire had been kindled within her. Where her uncle had failed, she might not, and she was looking at an ideal partner in crime. One who was desperate to retrieve the Tome of UnDeath, one who would be of use to her whether he held the powers of the Tome himself or not. One who needed her. He turned to see her standing straight, her cream dress accented with crimson, her eyes straight upon him. She held herself like one who is in charge, and she could tell it left an impression. She had been forced into speechlessness enough for one night. She anticipated the question on the Vampire''s lips. He was still hunched over, his eyes wide and burning, brow furrowed, mouth agape. He looked very much not in charge, and yet Lucinda Applecott took note of the fact that, still, he looked intimidating. Forceful, powerful. A creature of legend, caught at a bad moment. It made her doubt her suspicions, and reinforce her plans. "He sells things to the wealthy," she said, not realising that she was making an understatement. "Rare and weird things. I wouldn''t be surprised if Uncle Augustus got those pages from him. Even if not, he has connections. Stingy about his own sources, but, well.." She turned to leave the room, ignoring the sloshing caused by her movement, ignoring the feeling of fabric sticking to her ankles. "..I''m sure he''ll be happy to sing at the sight of you." She walked outside, relieved to feel the dry cobblestone beneath her. He would not follow her immediately. Neither of them were followers. It might make working together a little more difficult, but a common goal makes nothing impossible. She made her way back to the wine cellar, slowly and deliberately, when the Vampire''s voice boomed from behind her, amplified by the narrow, cavernous corridors. "What do you mean ''We''?" And so began a beautiful friendship. [Pff. Is that what we''re calling it?] *** When Lucinda Applecott emerged from her chambers in clean, more suitable dress, she saw the Vampire stood by a tall window, watching the night sky that was just beginning to bloom into morning. "I think it would be best if you were seen by as few people as possible," she said conversationally. For now, acting like equals would be the most efficient way to move forward. He didn''t turn around. "I will arrange for a darkened coach. We can travel to Worsenvane first, I can make a social visit there, all above board. Then we head to the Sinistral Club right on time for dusk. The Vice Count will be there." The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. It was a good plan. She didn''t need to do a social visit, she didn''t particularly care to do so, but the visitors to the Sinistral Club were usually, officially, just passing by. Heading straight there was not impossible, she had done it before, but given their circumstances it was best not to draw attention before the right moment. More importantly, she wanted to test the Vampire''s commitment to their partnership. She would force him to trust her, by leaving him alone and, technically, at her mercy. But he was like her, and so he sensed the cautious but determined grasp at power. He turned his head, giving her the mother of all sideways glances. He took his sweet time to say anything, but Lucinda Applecott allowed him the play. "You are a smart woman, Ms Applecott." Not the start she was expecting, but she felt, perhaps unduly, flattered by it. "But let us not forget who is at whose mercy. I could end you now and lose nothing but time." He turned fully and smirked, accentuating his teeth. "Not much of a loss to one like me." It was posturing, sure, but Lucinda Applecott knew very well, intuitively, that her life could be ended by far less than a Vampire. It was too soon to be equals. The two of them would balance their powers, she by day and him by night. They didn''t have to be friends, but they did have to be partners. If that meant she would have to humour his ego a bit, so be it. It was on her own terms. "I know very well that you could. No point in lingering on possibilities. We''ve got work to do." [''Humour his ego'' my foot.] "Augustus will hold the fort. Deal with the mess. The morning maid should be in by now. What do you eat?" *** Lucinda Applecott did not use a darkened coach often. She preferred to be seen, to be envied. And though she was never particularly appreciative of the view herself - it had always just been there - she certainly felt its absence when she was sitting across the silent, brooding Vampire with nothing to distract her, and not sure what to say. "What compells you," the Vampire said after a while, crossing his legs and leaning back, tilting his head and delicately resting a fingertip at his temple. His voice was dark and smooth, but conversational rather than accusing or demanding. He had regained his composure, and was easing himself into the role he found thrust upon him. "What compells you to stray so far from the path?" "The path offers nothing of interest to me," Lucinda Applecott said in as cool a voice as she could. This was the kind of dynamic she had been hoping for, but she was not yet convinced of its stability, nor of its sincerity. The Vampire scoffed, rather unkindly. "And yet your path is so very wide, isn''t it, Ms Applecott? The excess of life at your fingertips from birth. Bored of everything, so soon. So sad." He smirked as his eyes caught her steady, unyielding gaze. "And so you seek the little thrills left. The reactions of men, poor and less poor, who struggle to figure out how to play you, you, an instrument that could give them everything they''d ever want. But it''s you playing them, isn''t it? Only a losing hand requires a bluff, but you have never drawn a losing hand. And still you bluff, don''t you?" There was barely an edge to his words. Tinges of bitterness and resentment clung to them like a scent, a natural companion beyond the control of the best performer. He went on, without the smirk. "And now. Now you see a chance to play with the beyond. The thing beyond your world, even beyond your life. It''s fun to you. A little distraction, no? A little game." He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees and glowering at her from under his brows. "But this is no game, is it. And I am nothing to be played with. You know this, and if you don''t, you don''t have half the mind you pretend to have. And so, I ask. A courtesy. What compels you?" Lucinda Applecott withstood the pressure of his eyes. Like a cliff side in a storm she didn''t need to prove she could fight back, only that she could withstand. "You think me shallow and spoiled," she said, allowing a smirk of her own. How she wished, at that point, that she had a name with which to address the Vampire. Still he had not given her one. "You would be wasted as a distraction. Wiling away the hours has never been a challenge to me. Boredom is for the dull. No, Mr Vampire, there are only two things you can offer me." Lucinda Applecott noticed with satisfaction that the Vampire raised one brow, just subtly enough that it may have been genuine. "First, death." She accompanied the word with a dismissive gesture. "For I know very well what danger lurks around you, and around your pursuit. But I don''t fear death." She let the sentiment linger, hoping to find the Vampire at least a little bit impressed, but found only the bemused expression of one humouring a particularly na?ve child. She continued, unperturbed. "You are right, of course. I have much. Life comes naturally to me, easily. I have exhausted many avenues, even in my young years, but I''m not foolish enough to assume I have come even close to have exhausted all of them. People fear death because it is unknown, or inevitable, or because it takes away everything we have. But I refuse to let death hold any power over me as I live." The Vampire leaned back into his seat again, expression still mildly bemused, but she could tell she had moved him, if only a little. "I don''t fear death. But I don''t accept death either. And so we come to the second thing. That which, as you put it, compels me." She arched a brow, knowingly. He grinned. "Ye~es?" he said. "Immortality." The Vampire burst out laughing. 07 - Peddler of Vices Vampire Lord Crayve sat sprawled out in an inordinately comfortable armchair. He did this for several reasons. The first and most principal was that the austere and imposing furniture chosen for the Sinistral Club''s Ruby Auction Room - [God, these rich douches!] - happened to match the very style which Vampire Lord Crayve had made his hallmark. Everything was fabric or wood, dark and heavy and looming. Intricate ornamentation complemented functionality and comfort. It was a small room, but the curtains and hanging carpets, casting dark shadows on the walls, made it feel like an alcove, a little haven within the abyss. Vampire Lord Crayve himself completed the picture beautifully, in colour and in theme. If he had claimed that his was his domain, none, not even the one who had painstakingly furnished and maintained the room, could have disputed it. This was why the Lady Applecott had brought him to this particular nook. And it was also why Vampire Lord Crayve had chosen not to welcome the unwitting peddler of vices in his usual refined manner. A man like the Vice Count was used to people trying to impress. To exert dominance by removing his home advantage, by dethroning him before their eyes ever even met, therein lay the secret, the greatest chance at making this work. And it had to work. It also didn''t hurt that the luxurious pose eased some of the ache accumulated across the lengthy journey. [I swear those coaches aren''t half as comfortable as they look, and they don''t even look that comfortable.] He reached for the crystal goblet which had been filled with wine. It was unwieldy and rather heavy, but he insisted on holding it casually, balanced on his fingertips rather than his palm. He tested a few sweeping gestures as he held it, trying not to spill. Across from him, on a well-cushioned love-seat, sat the Vice Count, an unassuming man in impeccable dress, whose fuzzy beard and even fuzzier eyebrows made reading his expressions more challenging than expected, though judging by his actions he seemed just the right amount of awestruck and cooperative. Most gratifyingly, he was apologetic to a fault, occasionally stealing quick, nervous glances at the Lady Applecott, no doubt constructing in his mind a narrative that made sense of his current predicament. "I deal in fragments often, you see," he was in the middle of explaining, the quiver in his voice just as likely a result of age than of uneasiness. "Especially with things like this. Mighty obscure, the Tome of Undeath, and no-" "UnDeath," Vampire Lord Crayve corrected him, taking a sip from his goblet. "Y-yes, of course. Un-death, yes. Well, with old.. er, primordial texts like that it''s rare to find them complete. Damage, neglect.." instantly regretting the potential insult against Vampires, who surely must have been the custodians of the Tome, though they didn''t seem to be so any more, he swiftly corrected, "..just the general exposure to the elements, you understand. Lacking interest, stigmatization, you know.." Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. He was beginning to get a little too comfortable rambling on, so Vampire Lord Crayve raised his free hand to silence him. "Please. All I want from you is the location of the Tome," a knowing look, "the Tome of UnDeath, which has found itself muddled away across mortal hands." "Oh, but with respect, my Lord," the Vice Count said, and Vampire Lord Crayve could tell that he meant it, "if a complete version of your sacr.. er, crucial text has made its way to us, it certainly has not made its way to us, you, er, understand. Certainly not to the lower classes. And me, well, my feelers reach into the obscure, it''s true, but also, ultimately, the desirable. And we don''t live in an age where, well, your kind, erm, hrm.." The traipsing around an unimportant point annoyed Vampire Lord Crayve, and he tried to theatrically break the goblet with one hand to express this sentiment. He managed only a crack, but fortunately its crisp, crystalline sound effected precisely what he had hoped of the shards. [I wish to reiterate that this was not a glass but literally a goblet. A chalice, basically. Super thick glass. Honestly, it''s impressive I got it to crack.] "I-It''s not mere mortal hands you should deign to inspect. Something of this calibre I can only expect to find among the Arch Mystics. A-across their secret library, maybe? The Library of Eternities, I think they call it? You would know of this, I''m sure?" Vampire Lord Crayve tried his very best to keep his face even, though he had just completed an internal somersault. The Library of Eternities was a well-known secret within occultists'' circles, but it had been a dead end. Every lead had lead simply to a normal library, usually private, with normal books, usually dull. Digging too deep was treated as a taboo, and he had lost a handful of valuable contacts because of it. "Of course," said Vampire Lord Crayve, hating how he thought he could hear nervousness in his voice. "But I found it cumbersome to navigate, you see. Mortal hands removed the Tome from our crypts, so I wish to tear it from mortal hands, too. Not pluck it from some clandestine collection, like a thief." "Quite so," the Vice Count said, nodding in most sincere agreement. "In which case you may have found it helpful to speak with the curator of the library?" This time, Vampire Lord Crayve could not conceal his reaction, and the Vice Count noticed immediately. He began to fidget. "O-oh, perhaps you have not? I''m sorry, you must forgive me. My contacts are my bread and butter, I''d hate for them to think, well, you understand, yes? That my confidentiality counts for nothing." But the Vice Count soon found himself more than willing to share all he knew. *** "Vampire Lord Statian?" The Lady Applecott looked bewildered, openly taken aback by the mention of a Vampire Lord. This was the point when Vampire Lord Crayve realized he had not formally introduced himself, though he did not hasten to rectify this. The Vice Count had shared simply a name - Hiram Statian. The Statian dynasty was old and influential, though not nearly as flaunting of their power as the Applecotts. They had produced a fair share of occultists, or ''Arch Mystics'' as they preferred to be called, but their focus had always been on the Rite itself. They tended to be archivists of the obscure, not explorers. He had visited one of their libraries once, it had been linked to rumours of the Library of Eternities, but had found nothing save a statue. Vampire Lord Statian. Patron of the Library of Eternities. Those had been the words engraved beneath a statue of a proud, regal figure, welcoming visitors to the library with open arms. Of course, what it actually said was Lord Perceval Statian. Respected Protector of Knowledge & Founder of the Statian Archive. But the decorative symbols engraved around these letters told a parallel story, discernible only to the scholar of the occult, and only to an attentive one at that. He had found nothing else of interest there, no further context on Perceval Statian that even hinted at the forbidden secrets he was looking for. The trail had gone cold. The journey had not been wasted, however. Consolation prize had been the persona of Vampire Lord Crayve. The look, in part, but the title especially. A self-important title which Vampire Lord Crayve may otherwise never have dared to employ. Back in the darkened coach, trotting across well-paved roads in the night, he had told the Lady Applecott of this statue, of this inscription, and that, perhaps, there was more to the story than he had been forced to believe all those years ago. "They are not a dynasty of Vampires," said Vampire Lord Crayve with conviction, and the Lady Applecott agreed on the back of her own interactions with the Statian family. If they were guarding more than just rare books, it was a secret kept very tightly. The Lady Applecott stroked her chin ponderously. "I wonder if we-" she began to say. Then there was a cry, a sudden, violent veering of the coach, and the deafening roar of an explosion. 08 - Hunted Lucinda Applecott''s ears were ringing with a sound almost like silence. She didn''t really hear the explosion, nor the deafening crash as the coach landed on its side, wood splintering. The windows were covered on both sides by wooden panels, intended to block the view but now with the added benefit of keeping the shards at bay. She didn''t really feel the pain as she was thrust against the wall, fortunate not to hit the iron sconce. Her entire being had, for the moment, been reduced to one single, pressing thought. Is this where I die? The thought was amplified by the fact that she was here, heading from mildly familiar towards unfamiliar lands, and not at the theatre, or the club, or her room, precisely for this not to happen. Which malicious god, she thought, with a bitterness only the subconscious can muster, was watching her? The Vampire rose to his feet with gritted teeth as she still lay there dazed. His movements seemed blurry, like he was moving through smoke. She noticed blood running down the side of his face. She was not sure whether there was blood running down her own. He didn''t check on her. He barely even looked at her as he slammed himself against the ceiling, which now held a door. What felt like black snow, or rather like black hail, settled around her. Even through her detached senses, she felt the sting of neglect. He must have succeeded in what he was doing, because suddenly he was gone. She wasn''t sure how long she was lying there alone before finally the cries reached her mind. Eyes snapped open. She sat up, recoiling at the burning pain that dominated the right side of her body. Leaving her arm unsupported felt as though someone was trying to rip it off, so she struggled to stand up while cradling it. Was it broken? Surely it was broken. She had never felt such pain before. But she was determined, more than ever, to live. The pain fuelled her, because it meant she had not yet lost. When she finally managed to poke her head out of the door, she saw the Vampire chasing someone down. With the billowing cape, his pale skin and ashen hair contrasting the surrounding darkness, he looked truly terrifying. The light of flickering flames, struggling to gain hold on the heavily coated wood, illuminated a well-maintained but simple dirt road and flat, grassy fields speckled with trees. They could not be far from a main road, and they definitely had not travelled on an unguarded road. This meant that, whoever had attacked them, had done so either very meticulously, or very impulsively. She hoped it was the latter. Lucinda Applecott had no intention of waiting to see whether the fire would end up winning, and eventually managed to make a rather undignified exit from the coach, tumbling to the floor where she was just about ready to cry from the pain. Fortunately she did not, for when she had regained some composure she saw a dishevelled man wearing shabby clothes and nursing deep wounds, like claw marks, that left red stains. He was looking at her with abject fear. This emboldened her to rise to her full height and, while still cradling her arm, approach him with a determined step. But the man''s fear instantly shifted onto the Vampire emerging from the night, his fine clothes bloodied, singed and torn, his face a grimace of scorn. He was dragging a whimpering woman behind him and all but tossed her next to the man. "One got away," he snarled. Blood was running down his face, across his lips, dripping from his chin. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. The man was catatonic. He made not a single sound. The woman was hunched over, shivering, muttering to herself. The Vampire loomed over her, pulling back her hair to force her to see his face. She screamed, but the Vampire stifled it. He spoke only one word, but it may as well have been a thousand pitchforks. "Explain." But the only explanation that was forthcoming, among spluttering apologies, bouts of weeping and recitations of superstitious curse wards, was as unexpected as it was absurd. "We were told to do it, m''lord" she managed. "We were told to do it by a Ghost." *** Lucinda Applecott was sitting on the grass, her back against the comforting firmness of a tree. She watched the Vampire set up his magic for the third time. The Rite, he called it, and it had saved the coachman''s life, even though he had appeared to her too far gone. Richard Stoakes was his name. She had not cared to remember it before, even to know it at all, but she would remember it now forever. Richard Stoakes had been first. Lucinda Applecott had all but forgotten her pain when she saw the torn tissue reconnect like desperate hands, the burnt skin first coagulate, as if liquefying further, only to remain smooth and firm and healthy. Just how long it took the Vampire to set up this Rite only became obvious to her the second time he did it, this time for her, to mend the broken bone of her arm. He sourced materials from the coach, from the very fire that caused this, and he did so quickly and with determined urgency. But he had taken his time to spread out and form the ashes into a pattern only known to his mind, and then took even more time to just stand there, agonizingly inactive. Had she not seen it work on Richard Stoakes, she would have despaired at this display of mockery. But she held her tongue and bore her pain, for she did not know what thoughts were essential to this magic, what invisible corridors the Vampire was traversing. She did not know how devastating an interruption may be. Her arm was healing long before she took notice. The pain was the last thing to go. She now moved her arm, still in disbelief at what she had seen, as the Vampire started the process all over again. He was drawing this pattern of ash for the benefit of the bandits. He did not seem to care about the horse, which appeared to Lucinda Applecott to still be clinging to life, and be a far more worthy receptor of the Vampire''s boon than those who would have been their killers. But the Vampire was not interested in ensuring their means of travel. He was desperate for information. He hurt them, then taunted them with his healing, now ready to relieve them as it had Richard Stoakes and Lucinda Applecott hersel. Pain made them more cooperative, but not more helpful. They insisted that it had been a Ghost that commanded them, that they had complied out of fear but would never have done so if they had known a Noble Vampire was travelling within the carriage that was to be their target. They gave the spot where the Ghost had caught them in their nightly scavenge, but they swore that they had not seen the Ghost since, nor knew how to contact it. They described the Ghost as a haggard man, naked save for a thin cloth, his entire form colouring what he was supposed to obscure in a blueish tint. But they said no more. Not for lack of want. Their words, their worlds, had reached their limit. To the surprise of Lucinda Applecott, the Vampire stayed true to his unspoken promise and performed his Rite on them, before he chased them away. Then he forced Richard Stoakes, grateful, bewildered and afraid, to lead the way on foot, abandoning the coach as well as the horse. Lucinda Applecott walked alongside him, trying to keep up with his long stride as efficiently as she could, grateful for her functional choice of dress that morning. She stared ahead at Richard Stoakes, leading with a young and spry body which had been crippled not so long ago. She did not dare break her silence, one she had kept since she first saw this miracle. "A Ghost!" scoffed the Vampire after what may have been hours of walking. "Someone, somehow, has been made aware of our search, and is trying to stop us." He sounded annoyed, even angry, but there was another quality in his voice as well. He sounded almost thrilled. Reassured. Vindicated. Lucinda Applecott had assumed the same, that jealous guardians of immortality had tried to stop them while they were still mortal. But she did not linger on the fact that, if true, this guardian was not a Vampire but a Ghost, an incorporeal being, immortal perhaps but not in a way she thought desirable. Nor did she linger on the fact that this made the Vampire''s claim to the Tome of UnDeath appear less certain than he had made her believe. He, too, was facing resistance. He, too, had an enemy. No. Lucinda Applecott''s mind went back to the horror with which those peasants had looked upon her. She remembered the looks that Richard Stoakes had given her, so very unlike those he must have stolen before. They were just like the looks he gave the Vampire. However spurious, however uninformed the inference, she was seen as One of Them. And now the Vampire had said it as well. Casually, in passing, secondary to the point he was trying to make, as if it was a fact barely worthy of stating. He had called it our search. In spite of having brushed against death, Lucinda Applecott felt invincible.