THE GATHERING: I -- THE MESSENGER

She walked carefully on the bridge. Careful not to slip, not to fall. There was no reason she would, but even this tiny stream could be deadly to her if she did. She was only a fledgling, a mere babe of a vampire. Even rain could destroy her, if she was caught outside. She had been walking since the last light drained from the sky, and already the pit of her stomach burned with that fire. The hunger.

But this was no hunt. She was on an errand far more dangerous, and far more important than that. Under her bodice, pressed close against her chest was a leather folder, branded with the messenger's sigil. She had a letter to deliver. And if she failed, the cost would be higher than her unlife alone.

She crouched at a low stone wall, and looked at the stronghold, dark and forbidding against the night sky. Braziers were fastened high up against the walls, illuminating the larger-than-life carvings of the clan symbol. Raziel. The enemy. At least, what she had been taught to think of as the enemy, in the short months since her awakening. The Razelim were powerful, and deadly. She had heard tales of their knights and captains. They were elegant as cats, and thrice as vicious.

She had made it this far, but what she should do now she wasn't certain. Her letter, her mistress had stressed, must only be delivered to Lord Raziel himself. But how was she supposed to reach him? Just as she thought of the Razelim as the enemy, so surely they would recognise her as one. She was not afraid for her life, such as it was, but if this missive fell into the wrong hands, the cost would be unimaginable.

There was nothing else to it, she would have to try and find a way in. The main gates were of course guarded. Silently, she moved around the side wall, looking for another way. At the back she found low stone buildings, apparently cells that were built half under the ground. That was her chance.

Moving as quietly as she could, she crouched by the damp stone wall, and leapt up high. Grabbing on to the roof-edge, she swung herself up and, crouching, looked around again. The only light here spilled from small, barred windows in the wall of the keep. Slowly, she crept nearer to look inside. By the light of the torches on bare stone walls, she could see only the corner of an empty cell, iron shackles riveted to the wall. Someone, far away, moaned, and the hairs on the back of her head stood on end. She tried to determine where the sound was coming from, and noticed too late the shadows approaching her.

A small sound attracted her attention, and she turned round, panic seizing her by the throat.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" the smaller man said.

"Does your mother know you're out this late at night?" He was tall, with black hair, his armoured shoulders broad and solid. The words stuck in her throat, nothing would come out. She could see their eyes shining in the dim glow from the window.

The tall one reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder, then let go suddenly as if burned by her. "Damn," he said, shocked. "She's no human."

"Isn't she?" the other man asked, equally surprised. He grabbed hold of her and dragged her a few feet towards a door she had not even noticed yet. It burst open and he dragged her into the light. She struggled, but his three-fingered hands were strong as iron. She could not break free.

"Is she one of ours?" the tall one asked from behind her. She could not see him, but looked around desperately for an option, an escape.

"Doesn't seem to be. Whose are you, Melchiah's?"

"No, Rahab," she answered, without thinking, and immediately realised her mistake.

"A spy then." The next moment, she was flying through the air, and rolling down the stone steps. She tried to shield her face, but still landed bruised all over at the bottom, and before she could scramble up they were upon her. The smaller man was red-haired, his face was handsome and smooth. Cruel laughter filled her ears as he dragged her to a wooden table, and pinned her right hand down on it. She was forced to her knees.

"Let's play a little game, spy. If you win, we let you go. If not, we get to watch you burn." She screamed. She tried to fight. She tried to think, work out a way to escape, but she was mesmerised: she couldn't look at anything but her own fist. He held it pinned to the table with one hand while drawing a slender knife with the other.

She screamed again as he cut four deep lines into the back of her hand, and she fought to get free. She might as well have tried to push over a mountain. His clawed hand was immovable. He carved a cross in one corner of the square. Tears ran down her face.

"Your move, dear. Where should it go? Come on, be a sport," his mocking voice continued calmly. She had to escape, she had to get away...

"There," the other man indicated the middle of the square, and her hand was impaled by the knife. She heard herself howl, and, in her pain, she found herself thinking of Lord Raziel. He knew her mistress. If she could just find him somehow, he would stop this. He would make them stop. Another cross in the corner. She looked through her tears at the bloodied mess of her hand, and knew the game they were playing. She also knew that she had already lost. The letter, as long as they didn't find the letter...

With two more stabs through her hand into the table, the game was over. With a self-satisfied smile, the red-headed man drew a line through his three crosses, and licked the blood from her hand. Immediately, he made a face. "Ugh, Rahabim."

She curled up on the floor, whimpering, cradling her hand. She had no thoughts of escape anymore. Her mind blankly registered their cruel jokes.

"I always thought of them as rather tasty actually. Their blood has a certain... tang to it."

"No, way too salty."

"It's better than Melchahim."

"Well, she's yours if you want her..."

It occurred to her that perhaps they seriously meant to drain her dry. She wished they would at least burn her as well. The letter should not be found. Her mistress had said so clearly, in the wrong hands...

She was dragged up from the floor, and flung backwards over the table. She looked up into the tall one's glittering green eyes as he leaned over her. He grinned, hungrily, his fangs long and flawless. With a single, violent rip he tore open her bodice.

An earth-shaking curse tore from his lips and he pulled out the leather folder.

"She's an official messenger!" he shouted, and showed the letter to his friend.

There was a moment of silence as she tried to cover her breasts again, and then she realised the men were staring at her.

"You're a messenger," the redhead queried, pointing at the symbol branded into the leather. She nodded. "Who's this letter to?" he asked.

"Raziel," she gasped.

"Lord Raziel," he repeated. She nodded. "Himself." She nodded. He threw his hands into the air. "Kain's blood! Why didn't you say so?"

"I..." She reached for the letter. "Only he must see it." Her voice was weak and trembling, but she was given the letter back. She clutched it to her chest.

"Yes, we'll take you to him, just..."

She didn't hear the rest. Faint with relief, she slumped to the floor.