PROGENY, PART FIFTEEN

STEFAN BARTAK

When an hour had passed, and you had not yet returned, I started to grow afraid.

I am not very good on my own, Master.  Thinking for myself, making my own decisions...these are skills I have never really had opportunity to develop.  As a young child I watched my mother follow orders, from the men she pleasured for money, from the pimp who collected her earnings, from the Prague syndicate who noticed her son was 'pretty' and took him to make illicit movies.  She didn't even argue with them.  They told her to turn me over and she did.

And then it was my turn to follow orders.  I understood implicitly that my body did not belong to me.  It was theirs to use.  If I ever had my own will, my own volition, I discarded it very early on.

Except for that one time.  

When adolescence started to erase my boyishness, when the drugs started to take their toll and I was no longer wanted for the cameras, I made my way as my mother had.  Down on my knees in filthy bathroom stalls, down on all fours in alleyways.  Just so long as the men could pay.  I think maybe I was dying when she found me, I think maybe I didn't care.  But when I saw her, suddenly I did.

She looks like a statue come to life, like one of those angels you see in churches.  "Your blood is diseased," she told me, staring unblinking through eyes that had watched centuries flow past.  "Luckily it is a disease that can be cured, but next time you won't be so fortunate."

I said nothing.  It had been awhile since I had scored, and the need was very strong.  I was lying in a pool of my own filth, shuddering.  "I too understand addiction," she whispered gently, stroking my cheek.  "My kind understands it as the Quick never could.  But I can save you, child.  Come with me, and I will take care of you.  You will never need to serve these men again."

I remember staring up at her, shaking.  Her golden hair looked like a halo.  "Why?  Why would you help me?"

"The addiction, of course," she replied softly.  "My kind needs what flows in your veins."

That was the one time, Master.  The one time I decided.  I decided to serve her, to serve you, to serve the Progeny.  And I became what now I am.

And being what I am, I need you more than you can possibly understand.  I need to serve you.  And when you did not return, it was like someone had stolen the sun from my sky.

As the hours went by it grew worse, terror gnawing at my insides.  This was my fault.  Mine.  Because you are so gentle with me, Master, because you are so kind, you would not Feed from me after the attack in Geneva.  So you went out to hunt.  You went out into danger because your servant had failed you.  And as I watched the sky start to lighten, dawn drawing near, I hated myself so intensely I could have slit my own throat.

No, I could never do that.  My blood is not mine to spill.  It is yours.

I spent the entire night by the window, watching for you.  That was how I saw the girl, the one from the lobby.  I hid myself carefully, peering out through the narrow slit between the drapes so she couldn't see me.  And I watched her.

She sat in her car, staring up at our room sucking smoke from some bizarre apparatus.  I felt my jaw clench, my hands ball into fists.  Why did she spy on us?  Was she in league with Harrow?  Had she hurt you?  The anger this raised in me was so hot it felt like acid in the back of my throat.  If she had somehow hurt you, Master, I would do things to her far worse than any of the tortures I saw back in Prague.  She would scream for death.

I armed myself, and I waited for an opportunity.  It was morning now, and wherever you were, you were not coming back to tell me what to do.  I needed to act on my own, for you.  Always for you.

She finally gave me all the chance I needed, getting up out of her car and stretching in the daylight.  Then she approached the motel and vanished from my sight.

I moved as the Mistress had taught me, as I was trained to do alongside all of the other Tenebrati Familiars.  Because, my Master, we do not merely serve you by giving our blood.  We are all trained to kill for you, to lay down our lives for yours.  I moved without a sound, and quick, closing the door behind me and rushing down the stairs.  Keeping my head low, I stole a glance at her at the soda machine, and they rushed across the parking lot to her car.  Fool.  She had left the door unlocked.

I climbed inside.

When she returned, I could feel my pulse racing, throbbing in my neck.  I was quivering with rage.  The thought that she might have hurt you filled my head with hot, red images.  I would make her bleed.  I would strap her down and fuck her with the knife blade.  

And when she gave me the chance, I sprang.

"Why have you been watching our room?"  I asked her, pressing the knife just hard enough against the skin of her throat to draw blood.  "Where is my Master?  What have you done to him?  Answer me or I swear I will bleed you out right here." 

Her eyes bulged.  I could see them in the rearview mirror.  To my surprise she didn't struggle or scream.  She barely even breathed.  "Please...please don't kill me.  I won't tell.  I won't tell anyone."

She was pleading, of course, but her voice was very low, almost calm.  I thought to myself that she was either very brave or very foolish.  "Tell anyone what?  Are you spying for him?  Do you serve Harrow?"

She swallowed, and winced as the knife bit just a little deeper.  "I saw in the mirror last night.  I knew what your father...Master...was.  But I swear, I won't tell anyone if you let me go."

Mirror?  What mirror?  I made a mental picture of the lobby, but saw no mirror.  Inwardly, I cursed myself.  It was my job to notice these things, to protect my Master from discovery.  I had been so tired from the flight, and from recuperating.  Had I failed him?

"Please...please...just let me go."  Her voice was very low right now, and a single tear slid down her cheek.

"Why are you sitting out here, watching?"

"I..." she swallowed and winced again.  "...I was afraid for Don, the guy who replaced me.  I mean, I couldn't tell him what I had seen--he'd never believe it--but I was worried your...umm...Master would do something to him."

I stared very hard at her eyes, and behind the terror in them, I felt certain she was telling the truth.  Something inside of me collapsed.  She didn't know where you were, Master.  She had no idea.  

I lowered the knife, and then collapsed into the backseat.  I couldn't stop myself.  I began to weep.

The girl didn't try to run, she didn't scream.  She sat frozen while I sobbed, watching me in the mirror.  Then suddenly, she turned around to face me directly.  She cleared her throat.  "He's...missing?"

I wiped my eyes, looking up at her.  I thought of the Laws that forbade me from sharing the secrets of the Progeny with her, of the dire punishments that would fall upon me if I broke them.  But then I thought of the Mistress.  Of Athena.  Of the orders she gave me.

Forgive me, Master.  I lied to you.

She had come to the Familiars' Quarter, the others bowing and moving out of her way as she approached me.  She sat beside me on my bed, smiling gently.  "You have bonded with young Damien, haven't you."

It was not a question, nor to it require an answer.  We both knew it was true.  

"It happens, sometimes, between Familiars and certain Progeny."  She stroked my hair like a pet.  "Something in the Blood calls out to the Blood.  His Kiss is now an addiction for you."

I nodded at this.

Athena gave a gentle sigh, and tossed her golden mane of hair.  "He's very foolish, this one.  Right now he is planning on running away.  He thinks I do not know about it, if you can imagine such a thing."  She smiled sadly at me.

"Running?  Why?"

"Because Blood calls out to Blood," she repeated.  "Because I am his Sire, but the Blood of another is also in his veins.  It always has been.  He is my Get, but he is also another's Familiar.  Only, he does not know this yet."

"I don't understand, Mistress."

She nodded.  "It is not necessary that you do.  But he is going into very great danger, Stefan."  She turned and looked at me.  "Terrible danger.  It might destroy him."

I frowned.  "Then forbid him, Mistress."

Athena tilted her head slightly, a faint smile at the corner of her lips.  "But I want him to go, Stefan.  It has been my plan ever since he first came to us."

I didn't know quite how to feel about this, Master.  Athena had saved me, taken me in, given me purpose.  But as she said, I had now bonded with you.

"I need you to go with him, Stefan.  I need you to look after him.  But he mustn't know that you are my eyes and ears.  We must let him think he has slipped the leash."

It was pointless asking her why.  Besides, that is not my nature.  I nodded and did as I was told.

Now, my Master was in the very danger Athena had warned me about.  And I was a boy in a strange country I knew nothing about.  He was missing, and I had no resources to find him.  I didn't even know where to look.  So to fulfil my instructions, to do as Athena had told me, I broke the laws of our Clan.

"My Master went out to Feed last night," I said quietly.  "He never came back."

The girl stared at me, both terrified and visibly excited.  "When you say Feed, you mean he killed someone?"

I shook my head vigorously.  "No.  Not my Master.  My Master is kind.  He takes only what he needs.  His prey seldom even knows they have been Fed upon."

The girl nodded at this, and seemed even more excited to me.  I couldn't understand her reaction.  She should have been afraid.

"So there are good ones," she said.  "Your Master is one of them."

I nodded at this, and something clicked in my head.  Wait.  She is one of those.  She is one of those who has fantasies about your kind.  "Yes.  He is kind, and good, and gentle.  But there are very bad ones as well."

I watched her reaction to this, and she nodded slowly.  Her face was a bit flushed, like a schoolgirl discovering her imaginary friend was real all along.  I realised I could use this.  I could use her. 

"In fact, he is here on a mission.  He has come because their is a very evil vampire in this community.  My Master has come to rid you all of him."

She blinked rapidly, leaning a little closer towards me.  "You mentioned 'Harrow' before.  Did you mean 'Harrow House?'  That old place by the cemetery?"

I stared.  "Yes.  Yes.  That is what I meant.  The evil vampire lives there."

She bit her lower lip, and I knew that it was working.  Good and Evil.  Ha!  Forgive me, my Master, but the people of your country are so simple.  They see everything in Black and White, and always themselves as the White side.  This was an illusion I could work with.  "But I am afraid for him.  I am afraid the evil vampire has done something to my Master."

The girl nodded again.  "You think he is at Harrow House?"

"Yes, I do."  I put on my most innocent, pleading expression.  "Could you...could you possibly take me there?"

She seemed to weigh this in her mind.  A reasonable person would call the police upon the knife-wielding maniac who just put a knife to her throat.  But this girl had always wanted to believe in vampires, in her fantasy of good guys and bad guys.  She was starting to think of herself as one of the protagonists in one of her silly stories.

"Sure.  I could drive you there.  If you can help him."

"Yes," I nodded, genuinely relieved.  "Yes please take me there.  My Master will be so grateful."

The girl seemed to have a second thought, then dismissed it.  She turned and started the engine.

PROGENY, PART FOURTEEN

HARPER

Meredith got me started.  She was my step-mom, sort of--Dad never actually remarried, he just invited her to move in when I was nine.  There was nothing weird about her; she looked just like any other middle-aged woman.  But I remember finding pictures of her back in the day, and she was a total goth.  Black hair, maroon lipstick and fingernail polish, clothes that looked like they'd been yanked off a Victorian corpse.  I guess she grew out of all that.  But Meredith kept something from those days.  On a crummy little bookshelf she kept by her bed, she had just about every book Anne Rice ever published.

I was ten when I "borrowed" the first one.  It was The Queen of the Damned and I guess the title just jumped out at me.  As soon as I realised it was part of a trilogy I went back and read Interview and Lestat.  I was that kind of kid...always with my nose stuck in a book.  By the time I got to Body Thief I was hooked.  For some kids it was Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings.  It was vampires for me. 

I read all the Rice books Meredith had, including the non-vampire ones like the Mayfair Witches, The Servant of the Bones, and the one about Ramses the Damned.  But it was the vampires that hooked me.  So when Twilight came out, I read that too.  I was fourteen at the time.  I wrote a book report about it for Mrs. Fuller's English class and she handed me the paper back with a sour-faced scowl.  She'd given me an "A," but she'd written in red pen I really wish you would turn your attention to something educational.  You are never going to learn anything real from stories like these.

Yeah, right.  At least not until a vampire checks into the motel you are working at.

Not one of Anne Rice's immortals, or Meyer's "Cold Ones," this one was old school.  He reminded me a bit of Angel from Buffy, a combination of his soft-spoken broodiness and that spiky hair. I never believed for a second the pale, skinny kid with him was really his son, but the vibe I was getting from them wasn't a gay thing.  Actually the boy seemed protective of the older guy, like some sort of scrawny bodyguard.  He glared at me the entire time they were checking in.

But the vampire...yeah, he was old school.  The minute I looked up from the computer I caught sight of that mirror on the wall opposite the desk, and I saw.  My reflection was there, and the back of the scrawny kid's head, but the older guy was nowhere to be seen.  I mean, he was right there in front of me, but the mirror was oblivious to that fact.  He had no reflection.

In the books, of course, people either freak at this point (and get killed) or rationalise, trying to convince themselves that despite the bloodless corpses piling up there-are-no-such-things-as-vampires (and this gets them killed later).  But those are stories, and this was the real world.  The guy standing in front of me cast no reflection, and I knew what that meant.  No point in pretending otherwise.

So I did my best to remain calm.  I didn't want to end up like the Evil Ed kid in Fright Night.  

In my defense, I think I should score some points for that.  Letting my obsession get the better of me immediately after that?  Yeah.  Not so smart.

But you probably have never worked the night shift at a fly spot of a motel in the middle of nowhere.  It is a long, dark stretch of hours that never end.  You sit there with a book, or endless informercials on the TV, slowly going stir crazy and thinking you really need a better job.  Only this time, I sat there shaking.  There was a freaking vampire in the motel, and I was twenty minutes away from the closest state trooper barracks.  Except for the few guests who had checked in, I was alone.  Around three in the morning, stuck at a job like that, there is nothing to distract you.  Your mind picks at things the way Ronnie Illes used to sit in class and pick at his zits.  I couldn't stop thinking about what was happening.

So the kid isn't one of them, I thought.  He's like the Renfield, maybe, like the old dude taking care of Chloe Grace Moretz.  And on a scale of one to 30 Days of Night she wasn't really that bad of a vampire.  Maybe it's like the Sookie stories.  Maybe they aren't all bad.  Maybe there are good ones.

This went on all night, my mind obsessing, chasing itself in circles, and I nearly screamed when Don showed up to relieve me.  It was six AM, and the sun was still an hour away, but with Don here I was free to go.  I could escape.

But what if something happened to him?  What if this vampire decided he needed a pre-dawn bedtime snack?  I got out to my car, and sat there with my hands on the wheel, unable to turn the key and drive away.  I couldn't just leave Don there, without any sort of heads up.  But what was I going to say?  "Don, there's a vampire checked into 213?"  He'd laugh me out the door.  Don was kind of a creep, and I was tired of him trying to get into my pants, but I didn't want to see him eaten.  So, well, I guess I got stupid.  I stayed.  

I cracked the window despite the cold and fumbled through my purse for my e-cig, spending the next hour vaping on Skittles-flavored mist.  From my vantage point, I was staring right through the windshield up at 213.  I didn't budge.  But there were no signs of movement up there, the curtains pulled and the door shut.  Maybe he was just passing through.  Maybe he would sleep the day away and then he would be gone.  Maybe, maybe...

The sun came up, finally.  When it was bright enough that I felt sure an old school non-reflection casting vampire would burn to a crisp (rather than just sparkle, I mean), I got out of the car just to run over to the vending machine.  Vaping had given me a headache, and I needed a drink to wash down the Advil I had in my purse.  I was only gone a minute or two, tops.  Carrying my soda I got back into the car.

It was safe enough now, I thought.  But what was I going to do tonight, if the vampire was still there?  I reached down to get the Advil.

He had climbed into the backseat.  The moment I looked away from the mirror he sat up, his scrawny arm putting the knife to my throat.  His other hand grabbed my hair and pulled my head back hard.  

"Why have you been watching our room?"  He hissed, his voice ice cold.  "Where is my Master?  What have you done to him?  Answer me, or I swear I will bleed you out right here."

PROGENY, PART THIRTEEN

Read Part Twelve Here

KATSUYAMA

By the time he left Geneva, I knew three things about this Draegonne guy.  I knew he was drama I didn't need fucking up my life, I knew running after Harrow was going to get him killed (or destroyed, or whatever you call it when Bleeders get offed), and I knew I was already into him in a big way.  Any of those was reason enough not to follow him to the States...especially the last one.  I don't mind hooking up now and again to scratch an itch, but relationships are not my thing.  I like simplicity.  Maybe it came with my Japanese blood.

So it bothered me that I couldn't stop thinking about him.  Not in a school-girl crush way, heart all pitter-patter, but more like wondering if he had been totally possessed by this ancient vamp yet.  I had seen it up close and personal.  That night in die Nachtpalast did something to him...messed with his head.  He was different immediately after it.  To be blunt it gave me the fucking creeps.  I know I had just met the guy, but I read people pretty damn well.  Always have.  And there were moments on the way back to Geneva that it sounded like someone else was talking through the guy.  Especially the bit back at the hotel.  I mean, yeah...alright.  I did give him a bit of a brush off, but I had also done this guy a solid saving his boy toy blood doll like that.  I don't think I deserved the attitude blast he hit me with.

And yeah, it bothered me how much that bothered me.

Screw him, I told myself.  I decided to put him out of my mind the old fashioned way; get over a guy by getting under another one.

I had a friend DJing at Avalon that night, so I put on this new school boy uniform I had been aching to take for a spin, and made sure it was just untucked and tussled enough to look less prep and more punk.  I put on extra eye-liner shook my hair out into a lion's mane.  Kitteh was on the hunt tonight.

The place was predictably packed, a sea of half-naked bodies writhing in the pit.  Bathed in red and yellow laser-light, the music throbbing, it reminded me of something out of Dante's Inferno.  As I descended the stairs into the crowds, a new remix of the old Lords of Acid "Show Me Your Pussay" launched from the speakers.  The timing really couldn't have been more perfect.

It didn't take me long, really.  It never does.  He was this red-haired Danish boy, snuck in the door on a doctored ID and flying high on E.  He had the cutest dusting of freckles over his cheekbones and bridge of his nose.  Ginger.  Kitteh likes himself some ginger.  Without saying a word I went straight up to him, pressed my pelvis to his, and started sucking on his tongue.  We were grinding together on the floor about half an hour before the action moved outside.

Neither of us much minded the cold.  We found an alley about half a block from the club, and he was down on his knees with my cock in his mouth.  Which is when they appeared.

I cursed.  Another minute of two of ginger working my tool and I might have unloaded.  That wasn't going to happen now.

Nikolea.

The boy saw them but it was clear he didn't know the score.  I think what must have gone through the poor bastard's head was that these toughs were gay-bashers.  He got up on his feet, wiping his mouth while I put my dick back in my pants, thinking this was going to get messy.  He held his hands up and told them he didn't want any trouble.

Jesus those fuckers are fast.  Three of them were on the kid, lifting him off his feet and against the wall.  It was a fucking fang-bang.  Two of them had their teeth in his throat, stifling his agonised screams with a fist jammed into his mouth.  A third was sucking at his wrist.  I am no body's freaking hero, but the look of terror and pain in that sweet kid's face brought a snarl to my face.  I would've tried to help him if I didn't have four others to deal with.

They stood between me and him as he slowly stopped thrashing and the light went out in his eyes.  

"I caught your scent," the big one said.  He looked Arab to me, North African, fangs at least three inches long.  Despite the cold he was wearing a flimsy T, muscles rippling underneath it.  "I tracked you.  You some vampire's bitch, boy?  You got the stink of the Tenebrati on you."

Fuck, I thought, glancing a final time at Ginger.  His dead eyes seemed to stare back at me.  This wasn't random.  And I got him killed.

Quietly, I drew the knife I kept in my boot.  I didn't think I could win, but I wasn't going down without drawing my own share of vamp blood.  "I do?  And here I thought I had showered him off."

The Outcasts closed in, slower.  I don't think the knife intimidated them, they just wanted to make me squirm.  Then the one that looked like a snake--seriously, no hair or eyebrows and pale skin that looked like he'd stolen it from a boa constrictor--grabbed the big one's arm.  "No.  Wait.  Wait!"

The big one growled, clearly hot for my blood.  This made the snake even squirmier.  He raised his voice.  "No!  I know who this is!  He's the one who went to die Nachtpalast.  He was with the Draegonne!"

My eyes flicked to the big one's face, and it looked like something big and scary had just reached out and squeezed his balls to pulp.  He staggered back a step.

And before I could make a smart alec remark--and I can spit those fuckers out like machine-gun fire--the whole pack of them vanished, racing off into the night.

I swallowed, trying to coax my heart back into my chest from where it felt lodged in my throat.  Then I went over to Ginger.  

Too late for him.

My hands balled into fists, and my eyes went back to the mouth of the alleyway.  He doesn't just scare the Dragons, he scares the fucking Nikolea as well.

"America, here I come," I whispered.

  

    

   

PROGENY, PART TWELVE

Read Part Eleven here.

The Motel 8 was new.  Growing up, McCarthy's "Farm Fresh" produce stand had stood where the parking lot now was.  Long gone and paved over, the plot was now lit by halide lights, a bright island in a dark sea of rolling hills and dairy pastures.  On the opposite side of the interstate, reached by a new overpass, was a Subway sandwich shop and a convenience store.  There was nothing else for miles around.

Pulling into the motel I tried to remember the taste of the sweet corn my mother and I used to buy from McCarthy's.  It was the highlight of every summer.  We'd search through the bins for just the ripest ears, heaping them in the little bushel baskets.  I loved that corn, and even after I had grown up and moved away, the memory of it made my mouth water.  Now the hunger for it--like the hunger for sex or scotch--was gone.  It had died with my mortal body.  I felt every bit as soulless and lifeless as the parking lot itself.

Stefan helped me get the bags from the trunk, and I glanced around the lot.  There were only three other vehicles parked here.  I knew there was a Best Western further into town, but had consciously decided against checking in there.  Damien Draegonne was missing, possibly even presumed dead considering his medical condition.  Re-appearing in my hometown, alive and well, called for explanations I didn't feel like giving.  It was better to avoid the chance of running into familiar faces by staying on the outskirts.  My new passport, license, and credit cards all read "Alasdair Vaughn."  The plan was to get the lay of the land and confront Harrow as under the radar as possible.

The girl at the reception desk looked equal parts young, bored, and sleepy.  I thought she might be one of the Ag and Tech students earning tuition money.  Her bleached blonde hair was cropped short and shaggy, and she wore enough eye make-up to be a cross between Avril Lavigne and a raccoon.  But she made the effort to give us a bland smile when she stood and welcomed us, more effort than I expected from a clerk at 1 AM.  I gave her my card and asked for a pair of twin beds.

She started her spiel about check-out times and complimentary continental breakfasts, but I paid little attention.  I caught sight of the novel she had been reading when we came in, now partially tucked under the counter, and suppressed a smile.  It was one of those Charlaine Harris books, the ones that inspired True Blood.  Distracted, I barely noticed that she had stopped speaking, her voice trailing off mid-sentence.  When I looked back up at her she was staring at me.

"Is something wrong?"  I asked her.

She blinked a few times and then shook her head.  "No.  I mean, no.  Sorry.  Just me.  I'm real spacey sometimes."  She cleared her throat and handed me the room keys.  "Enjoy your stay."

I glanced at Stefan and nodded to him, and collecting our bags we headed out to the room.

Neither of us noticed the mirror on the wall opposite the reception desk.

The room was bland and boxlike after the one in Lake Geneva, white walls and cream colors with generic, uninteresting art.  It smelled faintly of lemon polish and plastic.  Tossing my bags on the bed, I glanced around.  First, I checked the bathroom, more out of habit than need, and then the locks on the door.  They seemed sturdy.  The drapes looked heavy enough to block out the sunlight, and the sprinkler system was modern and in good repair.  Though I could endure sunlight, fire could still easily destroy me.  It was extraordinarily difficult to rouse myself during day sleep, and I didn't much like the idea of being cremated in my rest. Sprinklers were important.  Satisfied the room would serve for a night or two, I started to help Stefan unpack.

The dull, constant throbbing in my veins was strong tonight, like fine wires throughout my body being pulled taut.  My entire body was starting to ache with need.  I still hadn't Fed from Stefan since his attack, and the Hunger was becoming a constant companion.  I realized I was staring at him right then, watching the artery pulse in his throat.  He was looking back at me with a curious mix of terror and longing in his eyes.

"You should Feed, Damien.  I am strong enough now."

I could tell he wanted to mean it...that he was addicted to the Feeding nearly as much as I was.  But his hands had balled into white knuckled fists, and there was a slight tremor in his body.  It wasn't desire this time, it was terror.  The attack was still fresh in his mind, overpowering his own cravings.  I shook my head and used the same excuse I had been practicing since we left Switzerland.  "Not yet, Stefan.  You still look pale to me."  He knew I was making an excuse, and let me do it with a nod.

Besides, I had other options.

I thought, briefly, of the clerk downstairs.  An image--a surprisingly vivid image--of slamming her against the wall, tearing open her blouse, and fondling her breasts while I tore open her throat played in my head.  Coming to myself, I quickly submerged it, shocked by how my entire body hungered for that.  I couldn't deny it...this was the farthest gone I had ever been.  It had been five days since I last Fed, the longest time since my Embrace.  I knew, from what Athena had assured me, I was strong enough to go another week at least before Dusk took me and I slid into vampiric dreaming death.  The thought didn't comfort me...it terrified me.  A dull, aching Hunger radiated from the centre of my chest, the cavity where my heart used to beat.  It was a fucking black hole.  I could barely think of anything else than tearing flesh and trying to appease it with the wet rush of hot blood.  If this was five days...what on earth would I be like in a week?

I went to the window, allowing my senses to reach out and scour the dark.  The clerk was one option, but she was risky.  She was awake and alert, manning the front desk.  Now, feeling the tremors in the air, I sensed at least five other heartbeats, all in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.

Much easier prey.

"I am going out," I whispered, partly to myself and partly to my Familiar.  In the window glass he looked up at me, staring.  I could see the worry in his reflection, even though my reflection, which should have been just inches from my face, was nowhere to be seen.

Before he could protest I let myself out, pulling the door closed behind me.  My hand was shaking, and I closed it into a fist to stop the tremors.  Just like a fucking junkie.

The night air felt cool against my face.  I felt it brush across my skin.  It was chilly enough that I should have been cold, if my body felt cold any longer.  But cold was now my base state, and it was the heat of the sun and fire I had to fear.  Cold could do nothing to me.

Grabbing the rail I hopped over it, and fell 20 feet to the ground.  I landed without sound on the sidewalk below.  The highest concentration of heartbeats, calling out to me like taiko drumming in the dark, was down here.  For some reason--maybe being home again--my condition was never more clear to me as it was then.  I was a dead thing...my flesh was dead, my skin, my eyes...and the only thing that kept me up and ambulatory was the stolen life oozing through my veins.  This was me.  This was me for all of eternity.

And it didn't matter.  I was too hungry to think about it.

I went to the first door.  Quietly, I gripped the handle and turned it.  Locked.  No matter, my plan was to try the doors of the occupied rooms and see if any had been left open.  This idea seems absurd to you, gentle reader, who grew up in the city, but from where I was raised, most people left their doors unlocked.  All I needed was one in five.

I moved to the next.

They say the third time is the charm, and in this case it proved true.  I turned the knob and it turned easily, unlocked.  A smile crept over my face.  I tried to remain calm even though the Hunger in my veins was screaming EAT RIP TEAR BLEED DRINK in my brain.  

I entered the room.

She was sleeping just a few yards away.  I could tell from her pulse she was a woman, possibly in her late fifties.  I would have to feed gently so as not to kill her.  I might have preferred younger prey, but hers was the open door.  She had all but invited me in.

I moved silently across the carpet, my fangs sliding slowly from their sheaths.  My entire body trembled with need for her...it was like being sixteen and needing to fuck so badly you mind was hijacked with it.  It was being so hungry that your friend across the room started to look like meat.  It was...

Well.  You get the picture.

I pulled the blankets from her, and slowly rolled her over.

Then I leapt back, as if I had just touched hot coals.  My entire mind froze.

She seemed to sense it, sitting up suddenly, looking around as sleep fell from her eyes.

On pure instinct I crept backwards, straight into the wall.  On the bed, my mother looked around the room, blind in the dark.

Sleep now, the voice purred. It came from the dark across the room.  Immediately, in response, my mother collapsed back into the pillows and began to snore.

My eyes must have bulged so wide they could fall from their sockets.  I stared into the shadow as it stepped from the corner and took on the proportions of a tall, spindly man.

Young Master Draegonne.  At last.   

PROGENY, PART ELEVEN

Read Part Ten here.

Thirty thousand feet below me, the Atlantic was a black abyss.  In my mind's eye I could see it, reflecting the starlight like polished obsidian, the surface rippling as the things beneath it swam about their business.  I'd never been comfortable flying, especially over water.  Not even death had changed that.  I had this dream, this re-ocuring nightmare as a child, of falling out of the sky, spiralling down and down and down, the sea waiting to receive me.  I'd awake in horror, my sheet soaked in my own piss.  I wasn't a child any more...nor did my body produce piss.  All the same, I gripped the arms of the seat tighter than I should.

Katsuyama and I had come back from der Nacht Palast a day late, sharing the master bedroom despite Richter's less than subtle suggestions that I might prefer the crypts below the palace.  These had not been on the tour, and the idea of sleeping in a mouldering grave beneath this ancient house was just a little too Bela Lugosi for me.  But as I closed the heavy wooden doors of the bedroom behind us, an image of the mausoleum outside the courtyard walls suddenly came to me head, the heavy stone sarcophagus with the knight slumbering eternally on its lid.  This is the resting place for you, a voice seemed to whisper in my mind.  You are the lord here now.  I shut it out, violently, uncertain whether it was Harrow's voice or my own...uncertain which possibility was worse.

I found myself strangely reluctant to leave the next evening.  It was almost as if the blood of my ancestors was calling to me from the soil of the place.  Was this, possibly, what they meant when they spoke about vampires and their native earth?  I wished, as I did thousands of times a night, that Athena was there to answer my questions.

It rained lightly all the way back to Geneva, and as we climbed into the Alps it slowly changed into a gentle snow.  Kit dropped me in front of the hotel, but made no sign of getting off the bike.  I glanced at him, puzzled, snowflakes swirling in the air around us.  "You aren't coming up?"

He lifted the visor of his helmet.  "It's been fun, handsome.  And I really did enjoy the fuck.  But I've got things to do."  The Cheshire Cat grin crept across his features.  "You haven't fallen in love with me already, have you?"

I don't know why--this was just the way Kit spoke, and had never bothered me before--but I bristled at this.  "I prefer dogs to alley cats.  More loyalty.  Better morals.  Look after yourself Katsuyama."

He looked strangely at me as I turned and walked away, never saying a word.  The motorcycle didn't pull away until I was halfway across the sumptuous lobby of the hotel.

What the Hell was that?  I asked myself as I approached the concierge.  A second voice in my head spoke up reassuringly.  It's better this way.  Being around you is dangerous.  You'll get him killed.  Besides, I still had no idea who he even was.  I had no idea what he was...given those strange visions filling my head as I Fed upon him.  No.  I definitely didn't need the complications Kit brought into my existence.

All the same, the twinge I was feeling, the pull, was not unlike what I had felt leaving the Night Palace.

"Ah Mr Draegonne.  A package arrived from Herr Schnidrig for you."  The concierge smiled blandly and waved for one of his underlings to retrieve it.  "Also your, 'son' has returned with your 'cousin.'  I believe they are waiting for you in your suite."

Which 'cousin,' I wondered.  Roman or Noetia.  He handed me the package and I headed for the elevator, bracing myself for a fight.

She was sitting on the sofa, arms folded, in the centre of the suite.  The room was dark, back lit only by the reflected glow of the city filtered through the windows.  I closed the door and stared back at her, wondering who was going to speak first.

Noetia Drachen turned her head, nodded at the second bedroom.  "Your Familiar is in there.  He is much improved, but I don't recommend Feeding from him for a few more days."

I nodded, taking off my coat.  "Thank you, Noetia.  I owe you and Roman both."

"Spare me your thanks," she spat, and despite myself, I chuckled.  Her face twisted up at this.  "I amuse you, abomination?"

I nodded.  "Actually, yeah...yeah you do.  I was trying to thank you.  I get that you don't like me, but you don't need to be such a cunt about it."

And it was out with the fangs again, her eyes blazing.  Her next words were going to be something like I ought to tear your throat out or I should rip your head off.  She was predictable, this one.  Like Roman.  Like any good chess piece it moved the same way every time.  

Something laughed softly in my brain.  I think it was Harrow.

"Watch your tongue with me, abomination, or I will tear you to pieces."

Ah yes, VERY predictable.

Something was wrong with me, or rather, something was different.  The same way I had snapped at Kit I had no patience for Noetia Drachen now.  I found myself crossing the room towards her, slowly, a smile on my face.  "I am laughing at you because you and Roman are such cartoons," I heard myself reply.  "You aren't going to tear me to pieces because you don't want to start a war with the Ravens, remember?  And my Sire sits at the left hand of the bloodline Patriarch.  You don't need a Blood War with the ally helping you fight the Outcasts.  So either keep a civil tongue in that pretty face of yours Noetia, or get the fuck out of my hotel suite."

I made a point of walking right past her, bumping shoulders, and opening the window.

She whirled around, livid, too furious to speak.  So I did the speaking instead.

"Do you really think you and Roman can scare me?  Seriously?  There is a creature out there right now, a vampire nearly a thousand years old, with his sights set on me.  A vampire that makes little girls and little boys like you and Roman piss yourselves.  And you think I should be more frightened of you and your little temper tantrum?"  I turned around, smiling politely at her.  "I am not your enemy, Noetia, and I am grateful for what you have done.  But I am getting tired of hearing you say 'abomination' again like a broken record.  My name is Damien.  Use it or don't speak to me."

I was expecting another tantrum...she would leap across the room and grab me by the throat, gnashing her teeth.  But then, the little chess piece did something unpredictable.  Her eyes widened, and her mouth closed into a tight, bloodless gash in her face.  Unbelievably she backed away a few steps.  I don't even think she knew she was doing it.

"Blood of the Source," she whispered.  "You went there, didn't you?"

I raised an eyebrow.  "Again with the 'cryptic?'  What is it with you, Noetia?  You read too many bad vampire novels before you were Embraced?"

"The Night Palace.  You went there."

I showed my teeth in the coldest of smiles.  "Oh yes, terrifying isn't it.  A Draegonne back in the Night Palace.  Your worst nightmare."

(damien what is wrong with you)

Some small voice was whispering in my head, and it sounded almost like Athena's.  I realised with a start that I had crossed the room again, closing the distance between Noetia and I.  I had reached my hand out and gently taken her by the chin.  And she was trembling like a leaf.

I didn't remember doing any of that.

"You should never have gone there," she whispered, now clearly terrified of me.  "You don't understand."

I dropped my hand from her face.  "Then for fuck's sake tell me.  What did Harrow do to you people?  Why did you make him an Outcast?  Why does he scare you this much?"

She backed away again, wetting her lips.  I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head.  She was realising now that keeping me in the dark had been a bad idea...she was thinking if she and Roman had told me everything maybe I wouldn't have gone to the Night Palace.  She wondered if telling me now might avert the thing she was most afraid of.  I lowered my voice persuasively.  "Just tell me, Noetia.  By not telling me all you have done is let me walk deeper into his trap."

She hissed at this, jumping back.  "Are you in my mind?  How?"

"Tell me."

She froze, staring, and I stared back, our gazes locked.  After several moments, possibly even minutes, she looked away.  She half turned from me and folded her arms across her chest.  "Simon Draegonne, the one you call 'Harrow,' was the worst mistake the Dragons ever made.  Worse even than the Impaler."

"Come," I heard myself say.  "Surely not as bad as that."

She glanced at me, still refusing to make eye contact.  "The Impaler's crimes were against the Quick.  Draegonne's crimes were against the Progeny, and his Patriarch."  She rubbed her arms, a leftover tic from her breathing days.  The Undead did not feel cold and didn't get gooseflesh.

I watched her pace the room, slowly, wrestling with herself.  "We don't speak of him.  Of them.  Of what happened.  It has all been stricken from the histories.  But...you are right, abomi...Damien."  She paused, shooting a glance at me again.  "You are right.  The Old Serpent is uncoiling again and either you know or you become his creature."

Finally.  We are getting somewhere.

"Simon the Monk was an alchemist and sorcerer before he was Progeny.  The Church cast him out of his order for diabolism.  I am not certain how he got himself Embraced.  We can't know, because Simon later killed his Sire and his Sire's Sire.  He was obsessed with the Blood...he believed he could decode the mind of Lachiel, steal fire from the Source.  He was made Outcast for killing and draining all the Blood of his Sire, and as I said his Sire's Sire, and then his Sire.  He managed to work his way all the way back to the Patriarch.  He discovered the resting place of the Great Dragon, and thought if he could drain him dry as well he--Simon Draegonne--would assuming the powers of the Patriarch.  He was caught and apprehended halfway through the process."

She was sitting now on one of the barstools.  The mirror behind the bar showed the bottles, but not her.  It was still part of our condition I couldn't get used to.  I crossed the floor slowly, so as not to startle or threaten her, and sat on another stool, leaving one empty one between us.  Curiously, I found myself wanting a glass of scotch.  I shook the craving away, knowing it would do nothing for me.  "Why didn't they kill him?"

"Because they were afraid," she replied, and something in her expression made me think she wished she could have a stiff drink as well.  "Draegonne's necromantic powers were terrifying.  You see, he didn't just take the Blood from his Sires.  Somehow he had made them Shades.  He had the spectres of his elders bound to him, doing his bidding.  And..." she lowered her voice at this.  "He had drained half of the Patriarch's Blood.  Half of the Patriarch's spirit was within him.  They were afraid that with this connection forged, killing Draegonne might kill the Patriarch as well."

"Jesus Christ," I whispered, the old Catholic boy inside me blaspheming in shock.  "Jesus Fucking Christ."

Noetia nodded.  "They say the Patriarchs begged Lachiel to intervene after that, and the Dark Angel did.  Since then, it is impossible for us to strike out at any Patriarch.  One cannot even physically unsheathe his or her fangs in their presence.  Because of Draegonne.  Because of what he almost did."

"So they exiled him.  Made him Outcast.  Sent him to the New World."

She nodded again.  "Yes, but there is more.  And this is the part you need to hear."

I braced myself as she slid from the stool and started pacing again.  "Draegonne had adopted the sons of his brother, and these Quick relations continued to rule the family estates.  But the Old Serpent also sired Gets from his family bloodline.  Simon Draegonne only made his own blood kin into vampires.  By the time he was banished, he had been Embracing Draegonnes for six centuries.  There were dozens of them.  It was decided that an Inquisition was required, to investigate House Draegonne and see if any of these lesser Dragons shared in their Sire's great crime."  

She turned an looked at me, hard, her black eyes grabbing mine.  "I was there that night, the night we went to der Nacht Palast.  And it will haunt me the rest of eternity."

I sat up straight, hanging now on her every word.  The strangeness that influenced me before seemed entirely banished.  I was myself again.

"There were twenty-seven vampires in the House Draegonne.  They were Simon Draegonne's not only by Progeny Blood, but my human blood as well.  They were his own kin.  And not a single one of them was left."

I had no idea what she meant, but the back of my neck was tingling again.  "Go on."

"I told you he killed his Sires and stole their Shades?  Draegonne had done something similar with all his Get.  None of them had any individual personality, Damien.  None of them had minds or wills of their own.  Draegonne had hollowed them all out, and placed copies of himself inside each.  They were all him."

I couldn't move.  If the room had caught fire at that moment, I would have burned to death, unable to budge from my stool.  Because I knew, now.  I knew.  Why he had been feeding me his Blood secretly in my breathing years.  Why he was giving the Night Palace and his fortune to me.  I knew.  He was planning on becoming me, or rather, on making me become him. 

Twenty-four hours later, suspended over the Atlantic, I turned these thoughts over in my head.

Stefan and I were the only passengers aboard the Gulfstream.  Herr Schnidrig had arranged it all.  As I sat replaying my conversation with Noetia, the boy was sleeping across from me, his dark hair falling across his face.  After she left me that night I went into his room and sat beside him as he slept. He still looked pale to me, but I knew he was going to be alright.  As I sat there stroking his hair, the way a Quick might pet his dog, I let my mind wander down the paths of Blood and enter into his.  I saw the entire attack there, feeling Stefan's terror and pain.  Foolishly, he had not obeyed me.  Leaving the hotel to follow me despite my warnings.  That was when it happened.

The Outcast had come out of nowhere, seizing Stefan and slamming him against the alley wall.  Ice-cold fingers groped his face, twisting it painfully to expose his throat.  The boy kicked his legs and wet himself, urine gushing down his leg in a hot rush.  And then the searing white hot pain, teeth tearing open his throat, and the wet, hungry sucking sounds.  The difference between the Feedings he was used to as a Familiar, and this attack, was as great as the difference between lovemaking and the most brutal rape.  The scars on his throat were healing.  I was not so sure about his soul.

And I was going to kill the son of a bitch who did this.  Assuming I survived what lay ahead of me.

The plane shook again, violently, or so it seemed to me.  I had this vision of the fuselage shredding open, dumping us out.  Like my dream I would spiral down into the raging sea.  Would that be enough to end me, or would I sink to the bottom, lost in the airless and frozen dark?  Vampires couldn't drown, but I wonder how they did with extreme pressure.

Bu then the pilot's voice was on the intercom, and Stefan was stirring, his blue eyes coming open.  "America," the pilot had said.

I was coming home.

     

  

   

PROGENY, PART TEN

See Part Nine here

Katsuyama drove like he did everything else; hurling himself head first at breakneck speed, acting on impulse, a grin etched on his face.  We weaved between the traffic, racing stop lights, until finally we escaped the city and he could push the engine to its limits on the open road.  He was wearing his headphones under the helmet, and I could hear him singing some German punk song at the top of his lungs.  Singing was not his forte.  I sat behind him, holding on, the wind and the darkness whipping through my hair.  Had I been Quick I might have been in fear of my life, but I was already Dead.  I wondered what Kit's excuse for his fearlessness was.

High, thin clouds like shreds of ice cut across the moon, turning the white-peaked Alps silver.  As the kilometres shot by, we descended into the heavy German dark.  To my eyes, the night was a dazzling tapestry of colours, but I had no interest in the scenery.  My mind was anywhere but the present, divided between what lay ahead at the end of the road and what Kit Kat had told me in the hotel suite.

"I think I can tell you a bit more about your mysterious patron," he had said, hopping naked off the windowsill and scooping up his smartphone.  He flopped down beside me on the bed.

"What?  How?"

He shrugged.  "I had time to kill while you did your corpse thing, so I searched the Internet."

I raised an eyebrow, sitting up.  "I've spent years doing that, though.  I haven't found anything."

Kit flashed his toothy grin, like he'd just dined on canary.  "Ah, but you were looking in the wrong places Herr Blutsauger.  You had the French and English versions of his name.  I found his original."

Now he had my full attention.

"You've never bothered to research your own family name, have you."  It wasn't a question.  “With what Roman told us, I decided to start there.  And with this Night Palace.”

I nodded.

“Back in the 12th century, Frederick Barbarossa granted reichsgraf status to a lieutenant who helped him seize the throne.  The guy’s name was Harrau.  He was from Styria, originally.  With the title came land in the Black Forest…the place the Night Palace is at now.”

A tingle started pricking the back of my head, slowly crawling up my scalp.  I knew, of course, that Athena herself was nearly a millennium old, but for some reason the idea of Harrow personally knowing Barbarossa drove home the point of what I was dealing with.  I was good at chess, but Harrow had been playing it for at least ten centuries.

“I don’t think that Harrau was your guy, though.  He had two sons, see.  Towards the end of Barbarossa’s reign, the elder Harrau died, leaving the lands and title to his first son.  But suddenly—and their were rumours of poison involved—this son died and his younger brother claimed the estate.  He was called ‘Simon the Monk.’”

I nodded, leaning forward.  “That’s him.  Simon.  He’s used the name before.  It’s the one I first knew him as.”

Kit nodded.  “Unsavory reputation, that one.  He was a monk who broke his vows, and later there were whispers of witchcraft.  I couldn’t get exact dates but it looks like he ruled his lands for the better part of eighty years.  Quite a feat, back then.  But here’s the juicy part; a few years into his reign he changes his surname and that of the family to ‘Draegonne.’”

The cold tingle spread to my limbs.  “The family?  He had sons?”

Kit Kat shrugged.  “Not sure.  Actually it looks like he took in his brother’s kids after the poisoning.  Who knows?  Maybe you are descended from the brother and not old Simon himself.”

We entered the Schwarzwald, the forested peaks closing in around us.  The road writhed and coiled like a snake through the mountains.  Just past midnight, we reached the outskirts of Oppenau, a quaint medieval town of just over five thousand souls.  It looked like something out of a movie.  Kit raced under the old city gate, and then followed a narrow road past the ruins of an ancient abbey.  The minute I saw them, pale fingers of deja vu started plucking at my memory.  Had I been here before?

Near the abbey, Kit pulled to the side of the road and tugged off his helmet, shaking his mane of blue hair.  There was a sign there, in both German and English, showing the outlines of the Black Forest and the positions of various tourist attractions and historical sites therein.  Karlsruhe, Baden-Baden, Schoss Eberstein, Furstenberg, Staufenberg…nearly a dozen palaces and castles were listed.  But no mention was made of the Night Palace.  As far as the historical and cultural landmark society was concerned, it didn’t exist.
“How do you hide a palace?”  I asked aloud.

“I know where it is,” Kit said nonchalantly, and I was about to ask him “how” when he put his helmet back on and revved the engine.  I set the question aside, and we took the narrow road into the forest.

Click to enlarge

We seemed to constantly be exchanging roads for smaller and smaller ones, until finally we raced up a leaf-strewn path barely wider than a sidewalk.  Ancient trees leaned in on either side, their intertwined branches forming an arched corridor.  Razor blade shafts of moonlight cut through the canopy of leaves.  And then, suddenly, it was there.

Kit Kat killed the engine.

“My God…” I whispered, wide-eyed.  

Click to enlarge

Rising above the trees I could see the massive central dome of the Night Palace, and the smaller central domes of the towers around it.  The wind rustled the leaves, and somewhere, an owl called.  Just ahead of us was a massive stone gate.  I approached it very slowly.

“Damien,” Kit said behind me, nodding.  I followed the line of his gaze.  There were ancient graves scattered amongst the trees, and down a short path what looked like a mausoleum.  Something inside me stirred when I saw it, a flutter of excitement in my core.

Come, Damien.  Come.

I headed in the direction of the tomb.  Through the iron gates that sealed it, I could see a massive stone sarcophagus, a knight carved on the lid, wearing a helmet and bearing a sword.  My eyes went up to the weathered letters etched into the stone over the entrance.  DRAEGONNE.

“Do you think this is his resting place?”  Kit asked from behind me.  I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“It might have been,” I said.  “But I think Harrow is still back in the States, at Harrow House.  He insisted I come there first.”

“So you came here first, you rebel.”  Kit grinned.

I said nothing, turning back down towards the massive stone gate.  I climbed the flight of steps up beneath it, walking into a wide courtyard, my eyes immediately drawn to the palace itself.  How the fuck did you hide something like this?

Click to enlarge

It was a baroque masterpiece, a massive heap of pale grey stone adorned with arches and columns and those magnificent domes.  I realised immediately it was not abandoned…two iron lamp posts at the entrance flickered with gaslight, and from within the palace I could feel heat and heard the dull beat of human hearts.  Mentally, I compared the well maintained palace and courtyard to the rotting husk of Harrow House back home, wondering why Harrow would keep this place in such good repair while living in a ruin.  

“Well, what now?”

I glanced back at Kit and smiled faintly.  “We go inside.  We are expected, I think.”

Kit looked puzzled, and I started straight across the courtyard towards the front entrance.  Climbing the wide steps, I paused before the twin bronze doors, glancing around for a knocker.  There was no need.  One of the doors swung back, slowly, a tall, withered old man in black velvet looking back at me.  To my surprise, the old man went down on one knee, bones and sinews creaking painfully.  “Lord Draegonne.  The Night Palace welcomes you home.”

“I am nobody’s ‘lord,’” I replied, a bit embarrassed by the display and more than a little irritated that once again Harrow was two steps ahead of me.  he knew I was coming here.  He’d known for weeks, long before I had even heard of the place.

The old man rose to his feet.  “As you say, sir.”

“And you are?”

“Richter, sir.  It is my privilege to supervise the staff of the Night Palace.”  His wrinkled face cracked a yellowed smile.  “Everyone will be pleased that you have arrived.   I took the liberty of preparing rooms for you and your guest.”

So you have been watching me since Geneva.

“We were not planning on staying.”

“As you like, sir.”  The old man stepped back and gestured for us to enter.

Kit whistled through his teeth, the sound echoing around the room and soaring up to the dome.  I understood the sentiment.

Click to enlarge

Standing at the entrance, the main chamber of the Night Palace was a massive, open space of air and darkness. Beneath the great central dome, a pool sparkled in the moon’s rays streaming from above and the reflected glimmers of the firelight.  Twin statues, bearing braziers of flame, knelt on either side of the pool, and beyond them were openings to other chambers.  In the distance, my gaze followed the curves of two massive staircases sweeping upwards.  I took a few steps forward, my eyes dragged up into the moonlit dome.  Bats circled around inside it.

“Nice digs,” Kit Kat whispered beside me, repeating his comment from the hotel room.  

I felt cold, staring down into the pool.  “This kind of wealth comes with a price.  I am not sure I am willing to pay it.”

“Would you care for a tour, sir?  Ot perhaps some refreshment after your journey?”

I glanced at Richter.  “How long would it take to look around?”

“A few hours, sir.  I am at your disposal.”

“Lead on,” I shrugged.  I needed time to think, and following Richter around listen to him babble about the history of each stick of furniture and each objet d’art seemed a good way to buy myself time.  I let Kit Kat do the oohing and ahhing for me,  my eyes scanning the somber stone walls, trying to learn more about Harrow from reading them. 

There was everything you would expect from a palace, an echoing throne room, a ballroom, a chapel.  There was a grand dining room with forty chairs around the table, a surprisingly intimate parlour, elegant bedrooms and a sprawling library.  None of this was gothic, Hollywood stuff; but there was nevertheless a kind of shadow beneath the opulence, a dark twist in the bronze statues that made them look almost like slaves, a desperation in the faces of the portraits.  The Night Palace was impressive, certainly…but its walls seemed mortared with blood and pain.  And yet, passing through the massive kitchens beneath the palace, it struck me what the fundamental difference between this place and Harrow House was.  The Night Palace was still very much a house of the living…it was meant for the Quick to inhabit.  I had never been inside Harrow House, but its haunted and decayed exterior gave the firm impression that nothing living endured within its walls.

Two hours later, in the parlour, Richter served Kit a sherry, which seemed to amuse Katsuyama no end.  When he left us, Kit approached me as I leaned against the mantelpiece, staring into the flames.  “Whatever it is, it’s not here.”  I said aloud.

“What’s not here?”

“The answer,” I said softly.  “Whatever it is Harrow is playing at.”  I turned and gestured around.  “This…all of this, is the bait.  He knew I would come here first, he wanted it.  Let me see up close everything that he was offering me…reel me in before dropping the hammer.”

Kit nodded.  “Still, as far as bait goes…”  He grinned.  “What will you do?”

I frowned, looking up at him.  “There is only one thing I can do.  Go to Harrow House.  To him.  Find out what this is all about.”

Kit Kat considered this.  “Or you could run away.”

I laughed, darkly, more at myself than at him.  “I could, and God knows I should.  But it isn’t just the wealth…and that is what pisses me off the most.  How easily Harrow played me.  It’s not the money or the palace…it’s my family name over that tomb door.  He’s tempting me with the one thing he knew I couldn’t resist.”

“Which is?”

“History,” I sighed.  “Simon the Monk knows exactly how to give a fellow scholar what he wants.”

Read Part Eleven here.