Part One: At The Base Of The Sun
“You asked to see me, Father?”
“Ah, Mikoto-kun. Good to see you. Come in.”
I have a good father. He's being overly outgoing and personable today, which means something bad has happened. Trust me, I've known the man for twenty-four years. When the going gets tough, his stern, businesslike facade vanishes, leaving behind the residual kind-hearted person he tries so hard to suppress. I find it endearing, somehow. It's hardly the strangest thing I have to deal with regularly. I sit down opposite Father. The low table is bare, save for a folded piece of paper and two cups of tea.
“Please, have some tea.”
He's even remembered the type I like, that shrewd devil. I drink a little of it. There's a long silence.
“Mikoto-kun, do you remember a man named Yamada-san?”
“Kiyoaki Yamada-san? Vaguely. He's a friend of yours, isn't he?”
Father nods. He has a number of acquaintances, all high up in government or industry, most of which date back to his time at Peers School in the 1880s. Kiyoaki Yamada is one such person. From what I can remember, he's an industrialist. Shipping, I think.
“That's right.” He takes a sip of his tea. “He came to see me yesterday.”
Interesting, but not entirely unusual. Our family has a public life somewhat removed from our private life – membership of the Demon Hunter's Organization is not something one publicises, you understand – and Father receives important visitors fairly often. He takes my silence as a cue to continue.
“Yamada-san has two sons – Takumi-kun, the elder and Touichirou-kun, the younger. I believe Touichirou-kun was a year below you at Peers School.” I nod sagely. I don't have that many fond memories of Peers School, so I wouldn't be able to verify that to any degree of accuracy. “Until a couple of days ago, both were working at the NYK Line branch in Vladivostok. Their father is a senior executive with NYK, so I imagine that was his doing.” Father makes a point of wrapping his tongue around the Russian name for the city. Another one of his little habits.
“What do you mean when you say 'until a couple of days ago'?” I ask. Father, who has been gazing into his tea for some time, looks up at me sharply, as if he's just noticed that I'm here.
“Two days ago, Yamada-san received this letter-” he taps a finger on the folded piece of paper. “-from Takumi-kun. I won't ask you to read it. Suffice to say, it relates a rather unfortunate tale. It appears Touichirou-kun has been murdered.”
Murdered. The word ripples through the room, having much the same effect a raindrop has on a puddle. We of the Demon Hunter's Organization are no strangers to death. A case of demon possession will, in a manner reminiscent of any parasite, eventually cause the death of its host. But we have never termed that as murder. Demons can no more be murderers than a man-eating lion or a disease can be a murderer. To our family, at least (I wouldn't dare presume to speak for the Ryougi or Nanaya clans) the act of murder – the deliberate separation of body and soul – is an unforgivable act, capable of tainting a man's soul for the rest of his life, and then some. But even so, why inform us? The Asakami family are old, rich and powerful, yes, but surely it would be more appropriate to inform the police. Or, if not the police, at the very least the occupation force under General Yui. I mean, what are we supposed to do about it?
Father anticipates my question.
“It is not the fact of his murder that should concern us, but the manner in which it was carried out. The body of Touichirou Yamada was discovered in an alleyway in Vladivostok, half-covered by snow, with no visible wounds – and entirely drained of blood.”
“Drained?”
“Yes. According to Takumi-kun in the letter, it was 'uncanny'. Like he had been dried in the sun.”
Now, that is interesting. Operating on the assumption that Touichirou-kun did not simply misplace all of his blood, the only thing one can assume is that someone else endeavoured to misplace it for him. But – and this is a puzzle indeed – how do you get all the blood out of a person without leaving any wounds?
Father continues.
“When Yamada-san received the letter, he came to the – quite justifiable – conclusion that his son was killed by supernatural means. Recalling the, ah, reputation I had at Peers School, he contacted me in the hope that I could shed some light on this incident.”
Somehow I can't imagine my father as a person who would have a quote reputation unquote, at Peers School or anywhere else for that matter. I'll ask him about it later.
“But that isn't all, Mikoto-kun. This morning I received a reply to a telegram I sent to an old friend of mine living in Vladivostok. It appears that young Yamada-kun was not the only victim. Five more bodies were found in and around the city in the time between the discovery of Touichirou-kun's body and the arrival of the letter to Yamada-san. All were in a similar state. No visible wounds, yet completely drained of blood.”
“So what does that imply?”
“I agree with Yamada-san's conclusion; these murders were not done by human hands. I believe we are dealing with a blood-drinking crossbreed.”
Blood. Conventional or garden-variety demons of the Fiendish Kind don't require such...visceral sustenance. No, the need to drink blood is exclusively the territory of cross-breeds – families that, in the past, interbred with demons to produce offspring with partial demon blood. As such, they're a huge threat to society at large, because for the most part they look indistinguishable from regular people. Hunting down and eliminating cross-breeds is another one of the main occupations of the Organisation.
“So are we going to be taking action?” I ask. I mean, it's obvious that's what he's been leading up to.
“Perhaps. It's outside the country, which complicates things. Our more...conservative associates might object to us taking action over there when, in their view, we should be concentrating on incidents inside the country. It's all politics, really. I'll discuss it at the next meeting of the family heads, in two days' time.” He takes another sip of tea. “But as it happens, that wasn't why I interrupted your morning practice.”
Even if that last five minutes of conversation turns out to be completely irrelevant, Father, I cannot thank you enough for interrupting practice with Hakko-sensei. She's actually given up on teaching me anything and spends most of her lessons trying to kill me in increasingly creative ways.
“Then what did you need me for?”
Father reaches under the table and pulls out a book, roughly half an inch thick, bound in the Western style in black leather. The title is lettered in gold on the spine. There's a small golden lock installed in the book – without a key, no-one will be able to read it.
“This is a reproduction I had made of the after-action report my father wrote for the Hakurei Shrine Operation.” He barely suppresses a shudder as the words pass his lips. “Nasty business. Eight went through, only Father came back alive...and even then...” He trails off. I've only heard bits and pieces about the Great Hakurei Shrine Exorcism of 1885, mostly because it's an unwritten rule about the house that that is one of the things you do not ask about. Supposedly my grandfather, Hiro Asakami, committed hara-kiri immediately after finishing his report. It's an unlucky topic, let's leave it at that. Father manages to pull himself together, and continues speaking.
“..hmm. Yes. Anyway, I'd like you to run a small errand for me.” I try to avoid wincing. I still remember the last 'small errand' my father sent one of us on. Ichirou-niisan still hasn't fully recovered, and that temple gate will never be the same again. “There's a Buddhist temple up north, in Fuyuki. The abbot there is a friend of your grandfather's. He's been after a copy of this report for thirty years now. I want you to take this to him.”
“Aren't reports usually thicker than that?” I ask, thinking back to the last one I had to read to prepare for one of Hakko-sensei's gruelling examinations. Father smiles cunningly.
“You didn't think I'd actually let him read the whole thing, hmm? I've taken the liberty of removing the more...sensitive parts. Some things have to be kept in the family, you understand.”
That shrewd devil. I should have expected nothing less from a patriarch of the Demon Hunter's Organization.
“Well, Mikoto-kun, I think that's all. A car is waiting for you at the West Gate, so you'd best be off.”
I finish the last of my tea, take the book, and stand up. I bow respectfully, and leave the room.
Fuyuki is two hours away by car. I've been there a couple of times before on operations – mostly minor possession cases, nothing severe. It's a nice enough place. Much more agreeable than Misaki. Now, allowing two hours to get up there, two to return, an hour, maximum, to reach the temple and deliver the book, I should be back by four o'clock in the afternoon. Which allows me to avoid Hakko-sensei for the rest of the day. See, I told you I have a good father.
I step out into the chilly January morning. A weak sun is shining through the branches of the cherry trees along the path to the West Gate. I pick up the pace. After all, the eleventh of January, 1920, is going to be a long day.
Rome, Italy
“I won't allow it.”
Deep within the labyrinth of chapels, vestries, catacombs, archives and offices that comprises the Vatican City, there exists an room untouched by sunlight for the past two hundred years. It resembles a wood-paneled study, exquisitely furnished, lit only by candlelight. Two vacant suits of armour stand to attention on either side of an expansive mahogany desk, they original occupants long since perished in the Crusades. Two figures sit in the dim room, one on either side of the desk. On the side adjacent to the entrance, there sits a young boy in the habit of a priest, his dark hair framing an angelic face. Ironic, considering the boy is something closer to a true demon than anything remotely angelic. Opposite him, behind a block of hardwood thick enough to stop a rifle bullet, sits a woman with hair the colour of Alpine snow and eyes as blue as the Mediterranean. She wears a man's clothing – a waistcoat, trousers and cardigan, in a manner unfitting her ladylike air. The woman is, at this moment, very unhappy.
“Why not?”
The boy speaks in soft, melodious tones. His angelic face is a mask, revealing nothing, absorbing everything.
“I am not going to let some upstart cardinal dictate operational doctrine. My predecessors would never have allowed it, and I'm not about to start.”
The woman's name is Narbareck. Of course, that's less of a name and more of a hereditary title, but it's the only one she knows. There is a continuous chain of Narbarecks, dating all the way back to the establishment of the Burial Doctrine under Pope Alexander the Third. As the technical leader of the Burial Agency, it is her responsibility to oversee the Holy Church's counter-vampiric warfare division.
“The upstart cardinal you refer to happens to be the reigning Pontifex Maximus, so technically he has every right to dictate operational doctrine.”
“Oh, yes, technically. But there's a convention, Solomon. His Holiness leaves us to do as we please, and Europe is not overrun by vampires. A fair trade, I think. It's how things are done.”
The boy's name is...well. In truth he has no name, although there are some who call him 'Crown'. For the purposes of convenience he has taken the name Merem Solomon. Surprisingly for a member of an agency which hunts vampires, he is one himself. He is, in fact, one of the twenty-seven most powerful vampires in the world. Truly, he is an oddity among oddities – a vampire so obsessed with collecting holy relics that he joined an agency that, by rights, should be his worst enemy, purely to gain access to their huge storehouses of artifacts.
“Evidently the current Pope feels differently. I suppose it may have something to do with the nature of the task at hand...”
Narbareck scowls. More so than she was previously.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Look. Not to put too fine a point on it, you haven't had much success in retrieving the artefact. It's been, how long now, three hundred and thirty-eight years since you lost it-”
“It was STOLEN. We do not LOSE relics, Solomon.”
“-since it was stolen, and it has still not been recovered. And now that we have a possible lead on the artefact's current location, can you really blame His Holiness for wanting to make absolutely certain that the recovery is successful? After all, relic recovery is the Eighth Sacrament Assembly's speciality. I'm quite certain His Holiness feels just as strongly about recovering it as you do.”
“Is that what you believe, or are you just playing Devil's Advocate?”
The boy smiles.
“Oh, it would be a fine thing, if someone like myself were to play the Devil's Advocate.”
“Even so, I don't like the precedent it sets. If the Pope sees fit to send SOE along on this mission, what's to stop a future Papacy from sending them along on other missions? What's to stop them sending SOE with us to Aylesbury? Gott im Himmel, that would be a mess.”
“That's a long way off. You can always take the Alexander the Sixth option if your objections are that strong.”
“I don't think we can get away with that these days.”
“The current Pope is not long for this world, in any case. I can smell it. His little request seems to be more indicative of a personal feeling than any significant change in our management structure. Once he's been succeeded, things should return to normal.”
“That's not my only concern, though. If our intelligence is accurate, we're dealing with a Dead Apostle Ancestor that's been assimilating Sealing Designate magi for over three hundred years. The Eighth Sacrament Assembly is just not equipped for this kind of operation. It doesn't matter what they're expecting. I don't have the time frame or the inclination to train SOE operators up to the point where they can last more than a minute in a fight against a Dead Apostle, let alone this particular one. I don't think the Pope realises that no matter how many he sends, no matter how well they're equipped, SOE are going to get slaughtered.”
“Hmm...” The boy gives a wicked grin. Satanic, you might call it. “Well, they do say that the best rewards are the ones paid for in blood...”
“You think it's worth it?”
“This relic? Oh, certainly. It's something far more than the usual trinkets I find lying around. This...this is the cornerstone of the Christian faith. No price would be too high.”
“Hmm.” The woman appears lost in thought for a few seconds. Suddenly, she looks Merem Solomon directly in his blood-red eyes. “You know, Solomon, you're absolutely right.”
“You have a plan, don't you?”
“Of course.” The woman gets up from her desk, matching Solomon's grin as she does so. “Have Rats call ahead and tell the Camerlengo to wake His Holiness. I've got an idea.”
Vladivostok, Russia
Blue sky.
White snow.
Confusion.
Yes. Confusion.
We are confused.
We look. A man. In the snow. A man.
Not moving.
Blood. Man has blood.
No. Had blood.
Empty now.
None left.
All gone.
You drank it, didn't you?
We...drank it?
No. No. No. Couldn't have. Couldn't be. Not us. Not we.
It was delicious, wasn't it? Like nothing else on earth, wouldn't you agree?
No. No. No. NO. NO. NO.
There's no sense in denying it, you know. I was there. I watched you.
Watched. Watched us.
Who?
Hehehehehe...I'm you, don't you know? More accurately, you're a part of me. I know you drank blood, and I know you enjoyed it...because I drank blood, and oh, did I enjoy it.
Us...You. Part. Part of you.
No. Can't be. Not us. Not we.
It's times like these I think that I should have kept your brains when I ate you instead of just your Circuits and Magic Crests.
Us. Ate. You ate.
Us?
Of course. How else would you be a part of me? I ate you because I needed what you know, and I discarded the bits I didn't need. You lot are just the remnants. Usually you're dormant, but you come out a lot when I need to drink. And you know what the best part is? YOU NEVER REMEMBER! I get to have this conversation as many times as I like! Isn't that just something special?
Understand. We.
Don't. Understand.
Maybe you should open your eyes. Or maybe I'll open them for you?
We...see.
Face. We see face.
That'd be mine. Great things, these reflective glass windows, aren't they? Ooh, I think there's a still a drop on my chin. I'll just lick it up, shall I?
Lick. Taste.
Drink.
Blood. Red.
More.
Want.
Want more. Want more. Want. Want. Want!
I knew you'd come around eventually. You always do.
Always.
Al...ways.
All ways.
Ha. Haah. Haha. Hahaha.
Hahaha! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Fanfic Plot - Help Required
and (2) because I need some help fleshing out what I have here. Here's a summary of what I have so far:
Reply With Quote
