Chapter 100: Surprise! (1/2)

Ezekiel clasps his hands and frowns in an attempt to look more respectable.

“Following a, ahem, rather forceful insistence from one of the members of our little coterie…”

Three pairs of eyes turn to me.

“…I shall introduce the arcane mysteries of rituals slightly ahead of schedule. Now, Terrence, please remind us how we normally get the symbolic element of casting.”

“From the prepared circuits in our own gauntlets, or I guess you could slap some on the ground with a bit of chalk.”

“Yes indeed,” Ezekeil answers, bristling at the informal answer, “and what are the limits of such methods, Margaret?”

“They place the burden of visualization on the will of the caster, forcing her to exert herself tremendously,” the dark-haired girl answers with the solemn voice of a bishop at mass.

“Correct. You cannot glance at your gauntlet to look at the runes for help, especially not while in the middle of intensive tasks.”

Such as running away from me.

“And so, the gauntlet and its runes are a convenient yet demanding tool. Rituals, by comparison, allow us to cast spells of great powers provided we have… what, Ariane?”

“Time, material, location, and company,” I automatically answer, quoting Loth.

“Company?”

“Some spells demand several practitioners working in concert. Like Skargard artillery spells. You need three people for that if you want more than a few shots.”

“Yes, yes indeed. Hmm. We will address such spells at a later date. A much later date, as they require a very high degree of training, compatibility, and trust between the casters.”

We all look at each other without comment.

“Anyway,” Ezekiel continues with some embarrassment, “you are correct. A ritual requires a proper surface to inscribe the rune. The materials themselves are quite important as well because using chalk will barely give you an edge. Time is, of course, necessary if you want to write down more than three symbols. A ritual is therefore demanding, but they make casting a spell significantly easier. Any spell with more than twelve symbols will require a circle, even for the more experienced mages.”

I bet Frost could do twenty and look you in the eye with a smirk as he cast it. Not to mention Semiramis. Ezekiel knows a lot of theory but few people.

“It is still a bit early, but you have all been diligent and I think a small break is in order. We shall head outside to a proper ritual location.”

Terrence raises his hand, droopy eyes widened in apprehension.

“When you mean outside, you do not mean the city proper, right?”

“No, Terrence. We will go to an abandoned barn a few hundred yards away. I merely wish to limit the risks of our living quarters catching fire.”

“Okay…”

I am slightly annoyed by the use of that detestable acronym, and so I decide to tease the lad a bit as we climb up the stairs and out into the empty alley.

“What is the matter Terrence, afraid that some horrible fiendish creature will descend upon you?” I ask with a bit of fang.

“Not at all,” he deadpans, “merely that I must call her mother and listen to her whine until the rooster crows.”

I smile at that. Wit! From that bore! Perhaps I judged him too hastily.

“You know, I could rid you of her, for the right price…” I whisper in a sulky voice.

“I’m afraid I must refuse. I would not want to deny the devil his last few years of tranquility.”

Alright, that was not bad. I allow myself a chuckle.

Terrence and I close the procession as we four cross our way through the abandoned district, with Margaret sometimes casting an incredulous glance backward. I realize that I only look slightly older than them, and it was apparently enough for the socially deprived young man to form a bond.

We must be quite the show, them in crimson robes and me in my more traditional blue one. I suspect that any pedestrian witnessing the moment and trying to guess which one of us might be the blood-drinking immortal monster might act on false assumptions. In any case, it does not take long for Ezekiel to lead us to a derelict factory.

The older man fiddles with the rusty lock protecting the gate into the inner courtyard. He finally manages to coax the thing open and we make our way through piles of rotten crates and broken supplies. The building itself is pockmarked bricks and misery, slouched like an old bar fly under a filthy coat of grayish snow. Only after we have entered its innards does Ezekiel allow himself some light and my companions stop stumbling around. The smell of mildew had, outside, been tolerable.

“Jesus, what a dump,” Margaret swears, finally breaking her queen of darkness persona.

“Yes, well, at least we do not risk collateral damage,” Ezekiel replies defensively.

“Except on ourselves,” I finish. I can survive a falling building, but between the frail mage and a support beam, I would bet on the harder contestant.

“I assure you that I have used these facilities before and we are quite safe. Here,” our fearless teacher says as he goes around the derelict building, lighting lanterns. They cast dancing shadows on the walls as they come to life one by one.

In the center of the empty floor sits a silvery circle dug into the grimy floor. Contrary to my expectations, the interior is clean besides some dust and the terrible smell fades away from the continuous influx of fresh air coming from the still-open door at our back.

“The circle you see will serve as a base for the following ritual. You will draw the remaining symbols of the classical mage bolt using the paste you will find in the container by the entrance, then cast the spell at this target.”

At the end of the factory, Ezekiel has painted a series of large concentric circles with a bull’s eye in the middle. I can tell from the numerous impacts marring the wall that we are not the first to test the old wreck’s structural integrity.

“Let us start the exercise. Margaret, you go first. Do you remember the runes?”

The young woman straightens her back and marches through the dust like a duchess at her own wedding. She picks up a pot of paint and brush and marches right back. The impression is only slightly ruined by her difficulties opening said pot. Eventually, she applies a thick paste inside the circle forming the four necessary runes for a bolt: power, momentum, projectile, and direction. They are all rather basic and it does not take long for her to succeed, then link them together according to the western standard runes of inscription. Power comes first, then she links momentum and direction together as a secondary principle with direction as the catalyst. She delicately places the pot and brush on the side and stands in the middle of her work with a hint of worry.

“You are doing well, Margaret. Just cast,” Ezekiel encourages her. She turns to us and we all show signs of support. Reinvigorated, the apprentice witch raises a naked hand and bellows:

“Bolt!”

Her croaking voice does not prevent her success. A translucent bolt of force erupts from the edge of the circle, distorting the air in a wide area. A thud sounds as the missile impacts the far wall and more dust rains down from the rafters.

The mortals sneeze.

Ezekiel trots over to open the door of the far end to create a draft of fresh air before tuberculosis and the Watcher knows what else wipes out the newest generation of mages in one fell swoop. I have rarely been so glad not to have to breathe.

Ezekiel’s foresight is proven when he steps to the circle and peels off the now solidified paste, removing the symbols cleanly and easily. We will each have the opportunity to work with a pristine setting.

Terrence is next. He appears much more worried at first, and yet he calms down and focuses as soon as the tracing begins. He takes no break between drawing and casting. The pot is barely down before he, too, successfully impacts the target.

We clap as soon as our arms are no longer covering our heads.

Finally, my turns come.

“Hold, Ariane. I know that casting does not come so naturally to you, and I made some inquiries. I believe that you would perform better if we were to add a blood rune to your construct.”

“I thought we would work without blood magic?” I ask, a bit surprised.

“Indeed, and this will be valid in the future. In this case, we will make an exception. It might take too long for you to activate all four runes and the purpose of the exercise is to experience ritual magic anyway. Adding a blood rune will bring the spell closer to… the nature of your condition,” the man finishes hesitantly.

Ah, I see. I was repeatedly told that vampires take on blood magic more easily than its less sacrificial counterpart. It would be unfortunate to limit myself to learning what I am good at, but for the sake of the exercise… I suppose.

“Remember that power is no substitute for technique and effort.”

“I know,” I inform the man somewhat drily. I take the brush and step in the circle. I trace the runes at four times the speed of the mortals, drawing both on my control and my drawing experience. Power. Momentum. Projectile. Direction. I finish and place the pot on the side.

The last part will be done without a brush.

I pull my sleeve up to reveal a pale forearm, place a talon against an artery and slice deeply. The two young ones hiss in sympathy but I ignore them. The pain is nothing compared to…

“Which fingers?”

I push the memory away and smear two fingertips with dark blood. Tracing the last rune is a time-consuming and tedious process, not least because I need to add ‘paint’ several times. Eventually, the work is done.

The blood rune is visually different from the rest. Power is square and undaunted. Momentum is lithe and spiked like a lightning fork, but blood is alive. It twists organically like some nightmarish being. I feel kinship with this one. It was drawn from another script, more ancient and primal than the well-ordered code now used by astronomers and mathematicians. It speaks of dark caves lit by a tentative fire while a storm roars outside, of defeats and victories. Of squelched organs.

I expose my still butchered arm and feel the ritual ease the spell into my mind. Power from blood. Momentum and projectile from power. Direction given to the birthed arrow.

A trail of dark fluid snakes up from the jagged tear into a needle-thin dart. I feel more pain now, deeper, more intimate as the aura is forcefully dragged from my essence. The arrow is me and from me and it awaits my will.

Never since casting that first darkness spell have I felt magic click so easily. I understand blood on a fundamental level that no mage can ever hope to attain, no matter how hard they study. The ancient power is there, for a price. One I have paid many times.

“Blood bolt.”

This time air is not displaced, and the noise is not a blunt sound of impact, but the ghastly crunch of material brought over the edge of its mechanical resistance. There, in the bull’s eye, now stands a minuscule hole. Beyond that is the black of the night.

I lower my hand. The power is spent.

“And this is the might of well-executed blood magic,” Ezekiel ends in a satisfied voice.

“This is just plain stupid! How can we hope to stand against her kind with that pathetic little blast you showed us? We should learn blood magic too,” the girl whines.

“You will learn magic my way and at my speed, Margaret. First, it will take you years of practice to wield blood with such mastery, and second, if you think it will be enough to save you from a vampire, then I’m afraid that you are sorely mistaken. Enough! We are here now, and you will keep casting until I give you leave.”

“This is just unfair…” the woman eventually grumbles.

“My presence is giving you the wrong sort of expectations, Margaret. You are infinitely more likely to face a bandit or an enemy practitioner than you are to face any one of us. Besides, Ezekiel is correct. You do not want to fight us, even with magic,” I explain in a rare attempt to better our relationship.

“If you are so bloody strong, why do you even learn magic to begin with?”

“Given the same choice as me, would you not?” I answer with patience.

Margaret stops to consider, her black brows furrowed in annoyance until she comes to a realization. Her expression softens then, until the naked ambition fades to reveal the rather young mind under it.

“It’d be a shame not to.”

“Precisely. Magic is a versatile tool. Combat spells are but a small part of it.”

With this, we return our attention and efforts to ritual casting with one major difference. As each student painstakingly redraw his runes, the other leans towards me like a Florentine conspirator.

“Is it true that you can slap a man’s head off without blinking?”

“Yes, we do not need to blink.”

“Can vampires get erections?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Margaret. Also, yes.”

“If you only drink blood, does it mean you only have to pee?”

“We are magical creatures, Terrence. We do not ‘digest’ per se.”

“If you wake up at twilight, does it mean that you can wake up inside a steep valley then run up the mountain and then it’s day again so you fall asleep?”

“I have no idea.”

“Is it true that you can slip under a steel door?”

“Technically yes, but the steel door will not survive the experience.”

And so on and so forth. Eventually, the questions tarry as the pair starts stumbling around like drunkards, yawning terribly. Ezekiel wisely decides to call it a night and we escort them back to their quarter where they promptly collapse.

“A moment of your time, Ariane. I have prepared what you asked. Are you quite sure you want to proceed that way? I could still come with you.”

“Do not concern yourself. I have a plan.”

And now is the time to implement it.

Mireille of the Rolands is tall, with wavy black hair and piercing green eyes that remind me of a discount Lady Moor. She could be the old harpy’s plain and less bitchy cousin. She wears a sensible dress the color of pine needles, of thick fabric, padded to ward off the winter air. She is not submissive. I would say that she acts carefully polite as she sits on her throne-like chair in the middle of a cozy boudoir. Mireille is a Courtier and her aura is not fully under control. It sometimes surges and bursts like a bubbling pot.

“A killer you say?” my host asks with a frown. The light of her hearth covers one side of her face like carefully applied powder while the other remains deathly pale. Her concern appears genuine.

“Yes.”

“I was made aware of the deaths you are referring to. The lack of reaction of affiliated factions led me to believe that those were just accidents.”

“Those are, without a doubt, murder. The signs are clear.”

“Hmm.”

I already explained the reasons for my involvement. Mireille accepted my explanations without comments and with her undivided attention. I am pleased that she does not share Noel’s apathy.

“This is extremely preoccupying. So far, we have maintained a rather hands-off policy in the hope that it would lure more mages here. I can tolerate squabbles on my territory. An indiscriminate murderer is a different matter, one I cannot ignore. I will track them down. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

“I would not come to you with just suspicions,” I interrupt her. “I have a way to track the culprit.”

“Do you now?” she answers with obvious surprise. I nod and take a compass-like contraption from a satchel by my side. It is clearly magical in nature and emits a faint aura.

“I suspected that the scenes of the murder might have been destroyed to hide what, or who, was taken from them. That is why my associate and I scoured the houses of the victims for personal objects in an attempt to work a tracking spell. It seems that I was wrong, as there were indeed no survivors that we can tell. There was, however, one hit. A faint one. According to the mage who made the working, it should link to a personal belonging with some blood on it. Hopefully the killer made a mistake and left it in their lair.”

Mireille is suddenly more animated. She tilts her head, eyes unblinking.

“Would this work? Should we go now?”

“That would be for the best. I was hoping that we could go together for my own tranquility of mind.”

“Naturally. As long as you agree that this is my Hunt, as we are operating on my territory.”

“I understand.”

I do not. Torran let me have the lead on a few Hunts and I am not sure how he managed to shelf his pride. She is weak, or at least, weaker. I took the initiative. How DARE she…

But no. I must be patient.

I grab my cloak and fasten it as Mireille equips herself with a short cutlass. We leave her small mansion, passing a few maids on the way. The atmosphere is relaxed and the mortals barely spare us a glance. Business as usual.

Outside, I activate my tracking spell. The construct awakes and the needle spins once in its glass before settling west. Mireille and I walk on foot through fields and forests, leaving no trace behind and requiring no light. We are two ghosts in the night.

It takes us an hour before the air grows wet and the smell of frigid water hints at the appearance of the Schuylkill. The forest grows denser now and we are forced to circle around snow-covered thickets until we find a path cut through the vegetation. Barely larger than a deer trail, it carries us deeper until the sky is crisscrossed by layers of naked branches. We soon emerge onto open ground and the river now flows before us, placid in all its murky glory. A single chair made from severed logs and rotten twine thrones in its middle. Empty bottles line its feet in single file like goslings following their mother. A fishing spot.

“Right,” I say in a low voice.

We continue with some difficulty. Undergrowth as dense as this one is not easy to navigate, especially now with the biting cold making every twig a rigid claw waiting to shatter. There are no thick trunks we could latch onto and jump either.

Fortunately, fate is on our side. The line of trees recedes in favor of waist-high grass growing on uneven ground. We hop from tuft to tuft for a few minutes longer and finally arrive in view of our destination.

A few dozen yards away, at the river’s bend, someone built a tiny misshapen lodge hanging over the flowing waters. The main floor is at the top of a small mound, then a covered corridor dips towards the river and a small room that will be washed down at nature’s first tamper tantrum. Not a light in sight, as I expected.

“I hope this trip was not in vain. Shall we?” I offer.

“What if this is a home?”

“A home would be lived in at night,” I reply with conviction.

We approach from the low ground and I force a shutter open. The snap of flimsy wood causes no reaction.

I climb in, Courtier in tow.