A Step Too Far

On Saturday afternoon, Mark Manners was in a fight for his life. For the first time in a long, long time, he was ill-equipped to win it.

Stan and Adam, a couple of Mark's fellow paramedics to whom he offered martial arts training, were the first to arrive for the morning class Saturday morning, and they were the ones to find Mark and his mentor Greg Wheelock passed out, heads atop their desks.

When both men failed to wake up despite the attempts by Stan and Adam to revive them, the two young men called 911. While waiting for the ambulance, Stan started feeling weak and vomited once, for no apparent reason. Recognizing the symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning, they immediately got both men out of the building and into the open air.

In just a few more minutes the ambulance arrived and took them to St. Paul's hospital which was only a few blocks away. When they arrived, they were both put on high-oxygen respirators and put under the watchful eye of the ward nurse.

Mark awoke late Saturday evening feeling like he hadn't slept at all, and all over covered in sweat. His rest had been racked by nightmares, which was unusual for him. He slammed his eyes open, then immediately screwed them shut, with a hiss of pain; Someone had dialled the lighting in his hospital room up to 11.

He just lay there for a moment, breathing slowly. In, and out, in. And. Out. Presently, his breathing slowed and he noticed something else: The familiar sounds of the hospital were amplified somehow, as if he were getting playback through a hi-fi surround sound system that had been turned up way too high. The room smelled strongly of antiseptic, whatever brand the hospital used.

Underneath that was...something. Something underneath the antiseptic smelled...simply wonderful, exotic and dangerous and delicious all at once. Mark opened his eyes again, this time much more slowly and less completely, squinting against the glare that greeted them.

He was in the critical care department of St. Paul's hospital for some reason, even though he felt in excellent health aside from the sensory overload. Mark rolled off the bed and stood woozily. He took two careful steps, passed aside a curtained wall, and waved the duty nurse over. After a certain amount of fussing and tut-tutting, she allowed Mark to leave, if he promised to take it easy for a couple of days. "It's not like you don't know what to watch for, after all," she said with a chuckle as she handed over the bundle of his clothes and other possessions. "Stan's waiting to drive you home. You gave us all a scare, you know!"

Three hours, two large pepperoni pizzas, seven cheeseburgers, five large cokes, and a truly obscene number of french fries later, Mark was starting to get worried about how hungry he still was. No matter how much he ate and drank, he still wanted more.

He knew his stomach was full, but still he hungered. Mark was trying to decide if he was going to order another pizza when there came a knocking on his front door. Mark opened the door to find himself faced with a grey-haired man of average height, brandishing a crucifix and carrying an old-fashioned super soaker.

The man at the door looked at Mark's eyes, a searching look, and then he lowered the super soaker. "Excuse me," the visitor began, "but are you Mark Manners? My name is Bob. Father Bob Hillbauer. I think you and I need to speak. May I come in?" Mark stepped aside and the priest hurried into Mark's foyer, into the living room,

"Hello Father. I was just going to order dinner. Would you like something?" Father Bob looked around the living room at the multitude of wrappers scattered around. "Actually, I was hoping to speak with you about that. May we sit?" both men took a seat; Mark in a plush armchair facing the couch, and the priest on the couch. The priest looked decidedly uncomfortable as he gathered his courage and his breath.

"Mr. Manners, have you been noticing that sounds are louder than usual today? Perhaps lights are overly bright?" The priest gestured to the lights, three of the four were turned off, leaving the room darkened except for a very dim glow. "Obviously you're overwhelmingly hungry. I would like to help you." Mark sat back in his chair. "Help me with what? What's wrong with me?"

"Something has been done to you. I'll do whatever I can to help you, but I need to show you something. Will you come with me to my parish, to see what I have to show you? I will bring you back home if I can't convince you."

The two men pulled up to St. Frances Xavier parish three hours after sunset. Father Bob let Mark in through a side door. He led the younger man down a set of stairs, stopping their progress at an oaken door inlaid with a crucifix of iron.

"What I'm about to show you is very disturbing, and I won't think less of you for being frightened by it. Don't look it in the eyes, and don't step over the circle. May God be with us." The older man crossed himself, and unlocked the door with a silver key, leading Mark into a stone cellar, containing an unholy abomination.

The creature was seven feet tall, rubbery skin lightly covered in black ichor and stretched too-tight over bunching muscles. It had something attached to its back that might once have been wings, but now were stumps that looked to Mark as if they had been cauterized. The creature's limbs ended in clawed feet and large powerful hands, each digit ending in a wickedly curved talon on both hands and both feet.

It raised its head when the two men entered, looking first at Father Bob, and then at Mark, trying to catch his eyes with its own jet-black orbs. Mark tried to look away, but found himself growing ever more fascinated by the great head, reminiscent of a massive bat, and especially by the eyes. Those eyes looked fully black, but there might be some light in them...if only he could focus properly...

The next thing Mark knew, the priest was stepping between him and the creature, brandishing a crucifix that was suddenly glowing with a white light that was so bright that it was painful to his eyes. He looked away, and heard the priest's voice: "This is the creature that attacked you in the hospital, Mr. Manners. It was trying to make you like itself. If you will allow it, I will help you stay a man, rather than a demon. Have you seen enough to understand what I'm telling you?" Mark looked at the creature again then, taking care not to examine the eyes. After a solid minute, Mark finally looked away and whispered, "I've seen enough."

Father Bob lowered his crucifix and walked to one of the chamber's walls, to the left of the door they had come in through. He pressed a button on the wall at shoulder-level, and great quantities of water bathed down from what must have been cunningly hidden pipes in the ceiling directly above the creature. The monster howled as the water touched it, raising foul-smelling steam from wherever it touched and draining away through drains hidden just as cunningly in the floor. Five minutes later, there was nothing left of the creature except for that wretched stench, hanging in the air like an embodiment of all Mark's so far unasked questions. Once the creature had been disposed of, Father Bob turned to Mark and said, "Please come with me, young man. I will answer whatever questions you have, and some you haven't thought of yet, in the rectory."

"That was a vampire of the Red Court."

Those words stayed with Mark in the days and weeks ahead, as Mark moved from site to site, learning about the three major courts of western vampires and how to fight them effectively. The Red Court, which Mark's would-be sire belonged to, was a group of blood-suckers that walked among humanity hidden behind flesh-masks they gathered around themselves, fashioned of ectoplasm.

Their saliva is narcotic, and their eyes (Mark had learned the hard way) had the ability to beguile and enthrall. Vampires of the Black Court are the ones people have heard of, the walking corpses with ridiculous strength and speed. They invariably killed when they fed, and most of the powers and lore detailed in Bram Stoker's work were accurate.

That brings us to the final major western court: The White Court. White Court Vampires are psychic parasites, using their powers to force their victims to feel whatever emotion they feed on, slowly killing them and making them crave it in the process. While they lack the raw strength, speed, and even durability of the Red and Black courts, they also can walk in the sunshine.

The creature that attacked Mark in that hospital bed took much from him. It took from him the easy carefree moments with friends, for the forseeable future. It took from him his calm and his peace. The Brotherhood of St. Giles, for that is who Father Bob represented, taught him new methods of meditation, to restore a small measure of his peace of mind, rituals to keep this new darker nature at bay.

Mark absorbed these with alacrity, being already very experienced with meditation. He learned to tune out the extra sensory information that his dual nature afforded him, filtering out the scent of the blood that constantly threatened to overwhelm him. Bit by small bit, Mark Manners rebuilt himself from the inside out. Eventually he felt ready to leave the Brotherhood and return to his life. Little did he realise that this would present difficulties of it's own.

"What do you mean, I have to join the Brotherhood? I've been telling you for half a year now that I'm not going to do that. I understand that you are doing good work here, but I'm not a commando. I teach self-defence. Now that I've learned to deal with this" Mark gestured at himself with a sweeping hand. "I'm going home." He was sitting in Father Bob's study, located in the Brotherhood compound buried underground in the exlusion zone of the island of Montserrat.

Where the walls were not covered in bookshelves, they were furnished with old-fashioned tapestries depicting Jesus at important times in his life. Father Bob himself sat behind a battered large desk, made of a wood that Mark didn't recognise. There was a well-used file cabinet to the priest's left. The priest leaned forward with steepled fingers:

"Mark, we've talked about this before. Without the Brotherhood tattoos, and Brotherhood support, you won't be able to help yourself. You will attack someone, and you will become a vampire of the red court. Then you will prey on the people you should be defending"

"That's not quite true, Father. There are some red court infected who live independent of the Brotherhood. I can be one of those."

"My son, would you truly like to chance it? The tattoos are the best chance I can give you to block out the hunger. Those poor souls who do without them live their days in a constant battle. I wouldn't wish that on you. Why would you take that on yourself?"

Mark took a deep breath to steady himself before responding. When he did, his voice was calm and steady. "When I was a young man, my family offered me anything I wanted, as long as I did exactly what they wanted me to do. No demand was too outrageous, nothing was too expensive. All I had to do was be exactly who my family wanted me to be: The perfect scion. I decided a long time ago that I was going to be defined by who I wanted to be, not by the blood in my veins. I appreciate what you've done for me Father, but I have to do this."

I have to do this

The words hung in the air for over a solid minute. After a time, Father Bob nodded to himself and stood up. He walked to the file cabinet in the corner of the room to his left. He rooted around in the cabinet for a moment and removed a manilla file folder.

He put the folder on the desk, opened it and passed Mark a letter. "Since you feel so strongly about it, I think I have an idea that will give us both what we need. I have a friend in the venatori umbrorum who requested some help from us. I was going to tell him we can't help; all of our operatives are deployed right now.

You could go along on his operation in your professional capacity as a medic. If you're willing, I would like to send along another friend of mine to evaluate you. If he thinks you'll be okay, I'll sign off on your returning to your previous life. I'll ask Sister Constance to make the arrangements.

Two days later, Mark walked off the plane and onto the asphalt at Fort McMurray International Airport in Alberta. He queued up for his luggage, and when he had it in hand, he called the number he had been given for his contact.

A recorded female voice directed him to "Walk out the south exit, turn east for 20 feet, then sit on your largest piece of luggage. You will be approached." Mark did as directed. Eventually, two men approached him. One of them was a stocky man just below average height.

He was dark of hair and eye, wearing charcoal slacks and blazer over top of a sky blue button-down shirt. On his head he wore a trilby, whose band matched the shirt. Mark noticed that while he wore loafers, they had heavy-duty rubber soles on them, and decorative steel studs along their edges.

"Mark Manners?" The dark-haired man asked, extending his right hand to shake "My name is James Tyveck. It's a pleasure to meet you. This is Eric Becker, with the venatori umbrorum. I understand you're a medic?"

"Hello James. It's good to meet you. I've trained as a paramedic. Mr. Becker, Father Bob didn't tell me what your operation is. Care to fill me in?"

The second man was intense. His body language spoke of restrained fury, and his cold blue eyes were painfully bright. He wore a canvas trench coat overtop of a ballistic vest and at least three hidden weapons. They were well hidden. Before Mark's training with the Brotherhood, he never would have noticed them.

The intense man glared at Mark, and pointedly did not offer a hand to shake. James looked over at Eric. "Say hello to the nice man, Eric." James said mildly.

"I am not friendly with vampires" Eric spat. "You know that."

"Fair enough. Mark will come with me then. You have a team to prepare anyway. Meet up at the same place as yesterday?"

Eric nodded, and backed away from Mark for several steps. Then he turned and walked to a waiting car, and drove away.

"Don't mind him, Mark. I know you're not dangerous to the team. That's why Father Bob called me" James tapped his right temple with his middle finger. "I have the second sight. You'll be just fine. Come on, let's get you some dinner. We've got until morning to get set up, and get you up to speed."

The next morning, Mark found himself wearing a paramedic uniform with a ballistic vest underneath, driving an ambulance with six heavily armed men in the back, where the stretcher would normally be. James was in the passenger seat in a similar uniform, without his hat. A rifle case sat on the floor between them.

Mark followed the GPS to an empty field in a bend of the Clearwater River. James directed Mark to stop just outside a small shack in the middle of the field. Once the ambulance had come to a complete stop, the six men in SWAT-style gear trooped out of the back, and surrounded the shack, some model of assault rifle at the ready.

They affixed night-vision goggles to their faces, then one of the men kicked down the door and they all trooped in. After that, the only contact was from the radio James held.

"Empty corridor...clear...coming onto a wider room ahead...Contact! Team two, two contacts...both down...Team three, we have hostages! James, bring the medic in...two lefts and a right. We'll guard the room."

"Can do, we're on our way down." James gathered up a first-aid bag, and tapped Mark on the shoulder. "Let's go, it's time for us to get in there." Mark nodded and off they went. When they arrived, they saw a dozen people crudely bound with chains padlocked to one another. Mark moved quickly, assessing them and hooking them up to small bags of saline solution with quick professional movements. Once they were stabilized, he started heading back to the ambulance for more supplies, only to be stopped at the 'door' of the chamber by two of Eric's men.

"You can stay here, vampire." Said the one. "We don't need you running around making a nuisance of yourself." Mark was about to protest, when the radios in the room came to life: "...Contact! Team one needs assistance! Five contacts in the lowest chamber! Active contacts, Becker is down! Repeat, five contacts, Becker is down, need assistance!"

During the mad rush that followed, Mark had to follow behind the armed men, not least of which because they had the layout, and he didn't. When they arrived, the fight was already over. The vampires (red court, Mark noticed) were down; the other team had arrived ahead of them. One of the commandos was bent over the prone form of Eric Becker, putting compression on a huge wound in his chest and neck. The smell of human blood hit Mark like a wall. He nearly lost his breath and took an involuntary step forward before he got himself under control, breathing carefully in the Brotherhood patterns and mentally repeating his sutras.

Once he was in control of himself again, Mark moved forward. When the commandos moved to block him, he met their gazes one at a time: "That man needs help, or he will die. You can shoot me if I start going nuts, but let me help him!" Then he rushed over and opened his bag.

Once Eric Becker was stable enough to move, the remaining commandos went to fetch a stretcher from the ambulance, since the area was clear. Besides, James was watching 'the vampire' anyway. Once they were alone, James turned to Mark: "I have a job offer, if you're interested. I understand you're headed to Saskatoon, to your dojo, right?" Mark nodded. "I work in Saskatoon, dealing with crimes that are supernatural in nature. I'm putting together a team to do just that. If you're willing, I would like for you to be a member of that team. It will be dangerous," James pointedly looked down at the recumbent Eric "but you'll be able to help people who need it, along with other people like you, drawn between worlds. Think it over, no need to answer in this cave." James handed Mark a business card.

Three weeks later, James was writing a report on his most recent case when he heard a knock on his door. When he went to answer it, he found Mark Manners on the other side of the portal. "Mark! What a pleasure to see you. Please come in." Mark came in, and set himself up in one of the visitor chairs across the desk from James' swivel.

"You really did mean what you said, about letting me think things over. Father Bob says you told him I don't represent a danger to myself or others. He said that on that recommendation, he'll let me get on with my life. My dojo is running again, and I've decided to run it full time."

"I'm glad to hear that. By all accounts, you're an excellent self-defence instructor." Mark frowned at that.

"You've had people checking up on me?" James waved a hand at the city map on the wall behind his desk, with several pins of different colours in it. Some were green, Mark noticed, and one of those was pinned at the location of his dojo. Another was at the Five Corners intersection on the East end of the Broadway bridge. The bridge itself, he saw, was a yellow pin.

"I keep an eye on any number of supernatural citizens in this city. Even the peaceable ones." James smiled "I'm a police officer, after all."

"This help you were talking about. Do I need to be a police officer to do it? I don't think that's a very good idea."

"No, I'm putting together a group of consultants under my oversight. No paperwork for you, all you need to concern yourselves with is solving any supernatural problems that come up. I'll deal with the administration as necessary. Can I count on you, Mark?"

Mark looked this odd policeman in the eye, searchingly. After a few moments, he nodded. "I'll help you in whatever way I can."

James reached into a top drawer of his desk and pulled out a shiny badge, laying it on the desk before Mark. "Welcome to the team Mark. I'll call when I need you."

Five minutes after Mark had left, James took a cell phone from the rear pocket of his slacks and dialed a number from memory. When the call went to an anonymous voicemail box, James spoke sixteen words into the receiver: "Mark Manners is on board. You are welcome to join us. See you later, Eric." Then he ended the call, and tucked the cellphone back into its pocket, whistling a jaunty tune. It had been a good day for recruitment.