The Dawn (Chapter One)

L'Introduction

Smoke streamed listlessly from the glowing tip of a cigarette which hung limply between the fingers of a white-gloved hand and drifted like a specter, masking the pin-prick blanket of stars above me. "The most important thing to remember, Jineaux," rasped the head of the jester before me, as he took another long drag on his cigarette - Djarum, a premium blend -"is this, and this alone: Know your cell; know it intimately, as you would a lover." I nodded slowly, and pulled my tattered petticoat tightly about my chest to block the bitter wind. "Breathe with the paint; sweat with the bricks." A pristine snowflake fell softly upon his pointed beard, as he lifted his chin to face me. The clove buds crackled and sparked from the orange glow, being the only light illuminating his wrinkled features, as he pulled on the darkening filter, and raised an eyebrow. "Among those within, take care in whom you place your trust, for not all is as it appears." The frigidity which flirted with my exposed skin was one with a vengeance, and I shivered deeply as I struggled to keep my attention on his face.

"And finally, I will tell you this," he pointed a white finger emphatically, "cliché though it may seem: Maintenez vos amis étroits, et vos ennemis plus étroits. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Do not think, though, that I am telling you this to help you defeat these enemies. No, keep this in mind so that you may know them. For when you know your nemesis, it becomes all the simpler to know yourself." The bells which hung drearily from the fool's hat sitting cocked upon his head jingle-jangled as a booming laugh wheezed from his lips. Raising his hand, he flicked the filter, and it twirled and danced a melancholy waltz and illuminated the curled velvet boot which snuffed it out upon the snowbank beneath, and Rousseau the Fool was gone.

The dimly lit alley which stretched before me had not at first seemed so empty and foreboding as it now did, and I felt myself pulled away from it. I could feel my heart beating a solemn rhythm against my chest as never before, while my legs pumped wildly, sending snow flurries clouding my path. I rounded the turns which I had trained myself in months past to know without thought, until I found myself at the entrance to the city bank.

I am calm, I coaxed, and I am collected. All is right in the world; all is for the greater good. Pulling back the mitten-flap on woolen left glove, I reached inside my coat and gripped the Enfield revolver within the concealed pocket. This is your greatest hour, Jineaux. Every moment of your life has been nothing but a stepping-stone to this. Not a single minute, second, millisecond, could be seen as important as the events which are to unfold before you now. I am strong, I took a deep, relaxing breath, and closed my eyes, centering myself, I am brave. In one quick, flowing motion I removed the revoler from my coat and held it, steadily, before me, and took the first step toward my destiny.

Chapitre Un: Les éveils

A doll-like figure lay sprawled upon the floor, sillhouetted against the cold tile, her fingers dancing along it, tracing the pool of tepid blood which slowly grew around her. She blinked back sweat and tears and her bleary vision began to clear. The thoughts swirling chaotically within the tempest of her mind seemed almost foreign even to her. The entirety of her being felt--in some way--hollow, like a vase spilt, its contents lost.

As she tipped her head groaningly to her chest, her eyes surveyed her own body as a surgeon glances over an operating table: her arms and legs were positioned almost theatrically, as if meticulously placed in some sadistic ballet of the macabre. Her memories were as untouchable as a dream shortly after waking: try as she might to grasp even the smallest shred of enlightenment as her head lolled slowly from side to side, it was as though her past was a cloud of smoke slipping tragically through her straining fingers. She turned her arm over, palms to the high sloping ceiling above her, and winced as a fresh wound brushed gingerly across the icy floor. Her dry throat and heaving lungs prevented her even the simple release of a scream. Her eyes danced lethargically in their sockets while she struggled to keep the meager grip she held on her consciousness. She forced them to turn back down to her body, searching for the source of the pain which seemed to burn within her very blood.

She was naked; her supple breasts and torso were riddled with countless abbrasions. Uncontrollable shivers sent her flailing in all directions (Why did the shivers stop at her waist...? Shouldn't she feel the cold all over?), as she splashed like a gasping fish in the thin layer of mixed water and blood.

Around her wrist were thick bands of raw, bruised flesh. It was then that she saw them: in the skin of her palm, three glyphs, violently scrawled. The symbols meant nothing to her. No spark of recognition set fire to memory inside her as she stared at their boldness in dry blood upon her alabaster skin. She strained, every muscle in her body contracting and tensing--the very last of her strength dwindling--to lift her hand to her head.

She ran her fingers through the wild tangles of her hair. I must stay...awake...a-w-a-k-e...e-k-a-w-a...a strange word. Why should I believe that I am awake even now? How am I to know that my preceptions are clear, when I have no thought of reality to cling to? Her head dropped to the side with an empty thud,and another electric shiver rattled her spine. As darkness closed around the edges of her vision, she could feel herself succombing to the urge to sleep. The heaviness of her eyelids was nearly too intense for her to resist.

She willed her head to roll upward, straining her neck, giving her view of the back of the room. It sat as empty as her memory. Its glistening white bricks and non-sensically patterned linoleum held nothing for her but mocking; every inch was a barren wasteland pulling her deeper into a world of confusion. In this world, nothing existed; in this world, the only thing she knew was the pain she felt, and her desire to end it. Except...

The fantastic madness of what she saw then almost forced words to escape her bloodied lips. Almost. It was like something out of the storybooks she read as a child. Did I read as a child? I suppose I did. Every child reads, don't they? I don't recall reading. I don't recall even being a child. Well that's just silly. Of course I was a child. I'm here now, aren't I? ...Am I?

Scanning the floor surrounding her quivering frame, her eyes stopped on a small bottle to her left. Under it, sealed in black wax with the same glyphs she had found carved into her palm, was a small note. Along the seam, in a regal,
swooping script read:--a word? A name?--

Syrna

The familiarity that she had so longed for found her then, but it found her wanting. Something, she did not know what, triggered deep inside her with those five simple letters. Is this my name? It would be nice to have a name. A name...what's in a name? A rose by any other name...Rose...that's a fine name, isn't it? Again, her mind began to slip. She dragged her hand along the floor, inching it--painfully--closer and closer to the bottle. Her fingertips brushed it, knocking it over with a soft clink, and it rolled just beyond her reach. She closed her bloodied hand tightly over the letter, and brought it into focus before her wearied eyes. Inhaling expectantly, she cracked the seal, unfolded it, and was awe-struck at the words:

Bienvenue, ma fleur petite,

My part in the puzzle which I am confident plagues you now, will be revealed in time. Those such as myself--although there are not many such as myself--must choose the timing of certain revelations carefully. What I can tell you is that you will, in days soon to come, require my aid. The use of your legs will be regained by the contents of this vial. It pains me deeply, my lovely, to put you through such agony, but I had to ensure your complete cooperation. You are the Key, ma fleur petite; you are All That Is, and Will Be. You will come to see this soon enough. Drink the vial, ma belle poupée, fullfill your destiny. If you do not, then All is lost.

Have not a single thought of tricks, my sweet, for no matter how strong you are, do not believe that the fire will not burn you all the same.

Rousseau the Fool

The note, which she assumed should have made her hopeful, or something of the sort, only succeeded in confusing and frightening her even more. This Rousseau, there was something in the way he spoke: the teasing pet-names he used for her, the arrogant tone; there was something about the smell of the paper, spicy and sweet, that chilled her far more than the hypothermic spasms she felt. And yet, she knew this was the only way for her to find her answers.

With an anguished moan, she rolled onto her side. Her fingers closed tightly over the vial and brought it into her line of site. It was a small, finely crafted carafe of frosted glass, containing a cloudy green liquid. Firmly closing the mouth of the bottle, was a cork displaying the same symbols which marked her palm and the note gripped tightly in her other fist. She dropped the note and puled the cork slowly out of the vial. As it released, a hypnotic aroma filled her nostrils and calmed the spasms like a mother's sweet lullaby. She stared down inside the vial cautiously for a moment, before lifting it slowly to her lips. It's time to go down the rabbit-hole, Alice. Here's to hoping those ears are more than just a mask.

-------

"All I can say is that his neck fit perfectly between my hands," breathed the Hunter, leering maniacally at his prey struggling for footing on the floor of the dingy janitor's closet, "My first kill. I had watched him for weeks: from the tree beneath his window I waited; I observed. I had studied him like a fine art, learning everything I could possibly gather of his movements, his routines, his sexual habits--though he had little to speak of: anything that could possibly get me on the inside." The Hunter's eyes closed in recollection, loving the flow of memories, caressing them in his mind's eye like a soft, bloodied fur, "When I finally felt that my field of beautiful death had been cultivated to its peak, I resorted to my charms. Do you think I snuck in through the window? Do you think I scaled the wall and climbed down his chimney like some trigger-happy Pere Noel? Not my style. I dressed myself in the finest of silk suits, and walked right up to his front door. 'Bonne soir, Mr. Devereaux, I am here today to talk to you about your...life insurance policy.' I said with my toothiest of smiles, and the lamb led the lion straight into his pasture. I will spare you the gory gory details so as not to oh, how you say, spoil the surprise, but from the moment I stared into his sullen, bulging, nearly lifeless eyes, Lady Mort had me baited on her hook like a flopping, gasping salmon. I am her slave. Death holds me hostage, as she refuses to take me fully."

The Hunter took a moment to observe the young man's reaction: he barely reacted at all. After a few attacks of protest, it seemed that he had conceded to his impending demise. "Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to die, Jean?" mused the hungry Hunter who was, by this point, nearly shaking with anticipation, "Fascinating thing, death. We fear her so much, on the surface, but she enthralls us; mesmerizes us. Who are we trying to impress in our fear? Are we just placating God?" The Hunter made a quick, darting movement, and like a wisp of smoke, appeared crouched by Jean's side. His thin, entrenched arms outstretched and his spidery hands closed around the man's throat. As he made attempt after futile attempt at breath, opening and closing his mouth, gasping against the ever-tightening grip, the Hunter shuddered from the sheer pleasure of it all. He held so much power--He was Fear now; in Jean's mind, he was God himself. "Life, and its purposes, can be condensed down to be summed in one word: choice; my choice to knock you out and drag you into this closet, to wake you up, to kill you"--Jean flinched at the word--"and your choice to fight back--fruitless, but endearing." The Hunter stifled a smile, "I'd often thought about what it would feel like to kill a man. Everyone has the urge at some point in life, the rush of adrenaline, the feeling of control, as another man's fragile life slips between your very fingers, but again, it comes down to a choice: do I submit, or resist? Well, I suppose we know the answer to that question, now don't we?" He'd kept this up for about three minutes, now, by his calculations. The body gives in to oxygen deprivation after four, and the Hunter was beginning to bore. He laughed heartily, and released his grip. He watched in quiet amusement as Jean struggled in fresh panic to his feet, only to realize that the Hunter was now crouching defensively in front of the door, ready to strike.

"What sort of game are you playing, Adrienne?" he croaked, rubbing his neck.

"It's funny you would call it that," he smirked, "'There is no hunting like the hunting of men.' Hemingway. It's one thing to track a deer and shoot it from twenty or thirty feet, but it's something else entirely to hunt a man. Men are unpredictable, yes, impulsive, certainly, but in the end, we're all animals." He flashed a sadistic, hungry smile, and his teeth glinged, even in the low light which flooded through the crack beneath the door. As his lips pulled back, sharp canines revealed themselves, to the terrified bereavement of the younger man. "Some moreso than others."

Jean's honey-colored hair dropped softly over his face as his head hung slowly in defeat. The Hunter reached out and stroked his cheek tenderly, bringing his finger down under the chin, pulling their eyes level. He locked his gaze, inflicting a forced serenity upon him like a weight, lulling him into a state of acceptance. "You know, Jean...I have powers within my grasp which would make asphyxiation seem like simple parlor tricks." The corner of his mouth turned up with smug satisfaction. Jean's jaw dropped and closed as if he were about to speak, but could not find the words. Taking this as a sign of submission, the Hunter brought his hand down from his face and used it to unbutton the top-button of his shirt.

He was always dressed so properly, Adrienne had noted; pants always ironed to perfect creases, cuff-links never undone, "I must tell you, Jean, this little encounter of ours has been rather refreshing. I think this is the first time I can ever honestly say I've seen you show any sort of human emotion whatsoever--it was a bit of a pleasant surprise, to know you as biological rather than bionical. Needless to say, I could smell you regardless..." His fingertips traced the pristine lines of the man's collarbone, up to the faultlessly defined muscles in his neck. He leaned in and inhaled his intoxicating scent; it was almost dizzying to be this close. With this his eyes narrowed, his nature taking hold, gripping him like a vice. The pain of thirst always shocked him anew every time. Every muscle in his body tightened like an orgasm of anticipation, and his mouth curled up in a vicious snarl, revealing again his menacingly sharp teeth. Jean looked up in spite of himself and stared in awe at the Hunter's jaw-line. "Adrienne...you're a Nature Offender...?" Adrienne felt a fierce roar rumble deep within his chest and throat as he brought his mouth down upon Jean's tender neck.

The feeling could never be understood by the inexperienced. There was, of course, the exhilerating thrill of the kill itself, but there was also the intense release, almost like a burst of sexual pleasure--there was something about draining a kill that somehow seemed to walk the line between the brutal and the beautiful,  the sadistic and the sensual. You are instantaneously in the grip of the relief from a thirst that seems to hold life itself at bay if left ignored--of course, it reaches a point at which ignorance is an impossibility, but that was no-man's-land to a vampire. The Black Veil, the vampire's sacred text, and one that Adrienne took--in part, anyway; there were sections of the text that would mark him a damned man--quite seriously, was quite clear on this. Adrienne took a moment to meditate on its words:

"We cannot and should not deny the darkness within.
Yet we should not allow
it to control us.
If our beast or shadow or darkside is given too much sway,
it clouds our judgement, making us a danger even to those we love."

As far as Adrienne was concerned, he was completely in control. His nature, in his mind, did not drive him to kill, he used it like a tool to spread his horrors. Jean moaned in hollow agony in his semi-conscious state, as the Hunter's teeth sank deeply into his skin, and he felt the blood rushing from the wound as its deep crimson spilled over the man's lower lip and down his chin. He drank long for a moment, letting the release wash over him pleasurably, his very nature changing, intensifying with the recognition of his urges. Jean caught a fleeting glimpse of the man's eyes radiating with some sick luminescence, going from an earthy hazel to deep, menacing onyx. The Hunter's shoulder's tensed and relaxed, and he reveled in the warmth creeping down his throat and striking down his entire body. "You haven't been..." Jean gasped, "...taking...your EC-10...? They will...find...you, vampire...the Midnight Guard. They...will strike you down. You know that..." The man's final breath rasped out slowly and his head slumped forward.

The Hunter stood from his crouched position and wiped the blood carelessly from his chin and mouth, flicking the remains on the fallen man's shirt. From his pocket, the god-among-men pulled a bottle of pills, its government label curling up at the ends, obscured with the filth of time and neglect. He tossed them like a meaningless scrap of paper next to Jean's body and stepped back from them. Before stalking from the room, he spit in Jean's face and pulled the collar of his trench coat up over the ponytail halfway down his spine. Scratching at the thick sideburns down the side of his face, he added one final note to Jean's sad story. "Such faith in your deified 'Midnight Guard' you have. There will come a day, just you wait, when the Midnight Guard, and that infernal puppet of theirs, will quake in the shadow of an Atlas far beyond anything this city has ever seen. And I await that day, and hold fast to the hope that I have a part in it."

On the discarded bottle, the following words were printed in fading ink:

EC-10
Take 2 capsules a day to supress
the vampiric, werewolf, and other preternatural genes:
BY ORDER OF THE NEW MIZERIAN GOVERNMENT
TO BE ENFORCED BY MEMBERS OF THE 'MIDNIGHT GUARD'
ALL NATURE OFFENDERS NOT UNDER GOVERNMENT SANCTION WILL BE TRACKED DOWN AND EUTHENIZED.

--------

The meticulously bleached walls of the Central Bank of New Mizéria held the city’s inner sanctum; the very core of its existence. In a metropolis of such scrupulous grace, so bound by order and logistics, currency is its blood; these four walls the impenetrable veins. As I pushed assuredly upon its large wooden doors, I felt as though I were cracking the seal on some prophetic scroll, I the Moses of my generation, the Commandments of my era just within my reach. My stomach lurched anxiously, but I quickly suppressed the feeble reaction. Your feelings will make you weak, Jineaux. The strong man is the disconnected man; emotion defies all logic. I turned hastily to my left, my trenchcoat billowing up behind me as a shadowy cloak and wrapping around my legs, and pointed my revolver directly between the eyes of the Kari sitting drearily behind the security desk.

Kari are ideal for security positions:  not the brightest creatures, but capable of lifting ten times their own weight without struggle. Their lumbering, tall bodies are mountains of muscle; it’s often hard to tell where one part of them ends and another begins. Their thick, brown hide is tough, but they are far from bullet-proof. Before the oaf could even burst out in incomprehensible protest, there was viscous black blood running down the bridge of its snout and dripping off its chin. It fell behind the desk with a muffled thud and I turned to wait for the reinforcements. So much for alerting the masses, I thought, sneering slightly, now for the fun. I dropped the revolver carelessly, slid out of my trenchcoat and pulled my beloved from her sheath: sixty-five centimeters of razor-sharp folded steel, forged from the Deep Fires by The Fool himself. I gripped the shaft tightly and narrowed my eyes, itching for a fight. Within seconds, every door in the building burst open, flooding the foyer with no less than thirty stumbling, snarling Kari. My blade screamed through the air and struck home just above the shoulder of one of them, severing its jugular and showering me in ebony spatters. The nearest guard to my right grabbed firm hold of my wrist, its jagged, yellow nails digging deep tracks into my pale skin. I let out a faint yelp, but quickly shook it loose and removed its eye viciously from the socket with a quick stab of my bare hand. As the now half-blinded beast yowled in helpless agony, my beloved caught her sweet vengeance, disemboweling it with a straight incision from neck to navel. After two more quick, sweeping slashes in a regal figure-eight, three squealing brutes dropped heavily to the floor. By this time, the blood of the Kari had already begun to soak through my thin leather boots. I lifted my felt foot and shook it slightly, trying to remove whatever evidence I could. I dropped my hands to my sides, stabbing my blade into the skull of one of the charging Kari for safekeeping. “To the Depths with this,” I said to none of them in particular, as my fists balled in smirking, maniacal rage.

As always, the flames began at my feet: swirling fires of purple and blue, climbing up past my ankles and shins, covering my lower body and moving slowly upward. My eyes smoldered a deep, menacing amethyst, overtaken by the madness within me. As the blazing inferno stretched over my forearms and down to my hands, I opened them, palms forward, and spoke the words of an ancient tongue, in a voice which was not my own. “Hajrïsh-malæ!” At the citing of such deep, dark magic, the likes of which are hardly considered in such times for fear of loss of control, the Kari cowered in horror. Burning, searing heat, blindingly bright, intensity which made even its maker close his eyes to stop the scalding. Scorching whirlwinds of flame extended from my open hands and the vile stench of burnt flesh filled my nostrils. Where I was once concerned with fighting for my well-being, I now stood, a towering Emperor, watching with sadistic pleasure as the Kari aimlessly ran circles around one another, ablaze and loudly proclaiming their agony.

Once the last of them had settled down and submitted to the inevitable, I figured it was time for me to do the same. As I pulled my sacred blade from the Kari’s torched skull and replaced her in the sheath on my back, its ashes crumbled to the floor. Taking one final calming breath, I fell into lotus position just as the sirens started to wail outside the doors.

As they burst open, I realized that I had nearly forgotten their soft glow: The Midnight Guard quickly marched to my side, their full, white wings fluttering with irritation. Other than these, and the slight luminescence to their skin, there was nothing particularly special about any of them. Certainly, they were all breathtakingly beautiful, with their piercing cyan eyes the shapes of radiant, sparkling almonds, which could bring even the most hardened of criminals to his knees; their flowing white hair soft as down; their sinewy bodies perfect in every conceivable way, but when it came down to it, they were barely superhuman. Even so, I felt a slight shudder run through me as Joephi, the High Veryn, locked the autocuffs on my wrists and pulled the dark silk bag tightly over my head. Though it prevented me from speaking, I could clearly hear Joephi’s lilting voice ringing softly in my ears. “You, Jineaux Desjardins, have been found guilty of many crimes. I imagine I need not remind you of them, as I am sure you know the wrong you have done. By order of Cardinal Fouqué, I am placing you under arrest, and you will remain under Guard supervision until your Moral Review. Do you understand the rights which have been extended to you, whelp?” At this, he gave me a swift, but somehow graceful kick in the spine. I lurched forward with a silent grunt and nodded my head exaggeratedly. “Very well, then.” I felt myself lifted by two steady sets of hands, and carried without pause out into the bitter night air.