Disclaimer: I own nothing but any and all original characters herein, all else belongs to its respective owners.
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Chapter 1:
Intimation
"Oh, what now?"
The exasperated and rather irritated voice belonged to a man half hidden behind the carriage's heavy curtain, pulled back into the corner to give its occupants a better view of the outside. Despite the late evening, the moon was almost full and offered enough illumination to see out ahead on the road, to say nothing of the torches the men carried. There was some commotion about with the coachman and outriders, the mercenary Captain in discussion with a tall stranger.
"Are we taking on another passenger, my Count?"
He glanced back over his shoulder quickly and then back again.
"It would appear so."
The woman that asked the question leaned over him to get a better view through the small window, earning an annoyed look. Across from them, another woman nervously readjusted the folds of her burgundy outskirt, appearing to hesitate between leaning out the window to see for herself and remain seated. A few more tense minutes passed before the Count spoke again, letting go of the curtain apathetically and leaning back.
"Here he comes."
He shifted with a soft sigh and the woman dropped back in the seat next to him, quickly smoothing down her azure dress, the lack of proper lighting making it appear much duller and blending shadows together. The door opened with a waft of freshly cool air and carriage lanterns spilled warm light into the cabin, mixing with moonlight to create a sort of penumbral atmosphere.
All eyes turned to the shadowed figure in the entrance and the woman quickly appraised the stranger inquisitively.
Long black hair framed an angular face, the kind of sculpted appearance one could rarely find outside of those of noble birth and prosperous upbringing. There was a hint of some sort of armour under the heavy robes, the insignia unfamiliar to her. A noble most assuredly, she smiled inwardly.
The man paused for a moment on the carriage steps, keen eyes surveying the interior.
"It would appear that we are travelling in the same direction."
"Yes," Count eyed him distrustfully. "But I doubt our destination is the same."
The man ignored the barb, taking another moment to run his gaze over the other two occupants and then hoisted himself into the booth. After some awkward maneuvering to accommodate his large frame, he settled into the soft bench next to the younger of the two women. For a few minutes the occupants studied each other in mute silence, that is to say; the trio studied the newcomer with varying degrees of curiosity and exchanged meaningful glances. Tangible strain burdened the air, impregnating the silence with contracted tension.
Finally, the woman sitting across from him stirred antsily, to slightly lean forward. In the dim light of the carriage her dilated brown irises melted with pupils to make her eyes appear completely black.
"Shall we introduce ourselves?" she glanced around the carriage booth excitedly, eliciting a bored frown from the Count.
When no one took her cue, she gladly took it upon herself to acquaint everyone.
"I am Dulcinea of Willendorf, and this is my dear sister Pili," she indicated the timid girl on the man's right.
"Pilar," Pilar amended duskily, obviously embarrassed by the diminutive.
Dulcinea paid little attention to her, other than tutting chidingly in a glib fashion.
"I will let the good Count here introduce himself."
She looked at the man on her left proddingly. The Count's face was almost unnaturally pale with thick layer of face powder, some of his natural dark hair visible under a carelessly worn powdered wig.
"Vollmayer," he offered off-handedly.
Dulcinea nodded approvingly with a small smile, then turned to the stranger.
"And your name, kind sir?" she inquired coquettishly.
The man turned a heavy gaze on her, and for a briefest moment it seemed like something unapologetically visceral flashed across his features. She blinked and it was gone, only the flickers of moonlight through the trees casting pale shadows.
"William," he said simply, in a tone aristocratically crisp and tinged with that certain blasé air.
Definitely a nobleman.
The fact that he was unwilling to give his full title indicated either someone with monetary problems or a far shadier sort. But the fact that he was here, with them, spoke he certainly was no peasant or simply a wealthy merchant. Dulcinea looked at the Count meaningfully, but he was too engrossed in scoffing at her sister's cleavage. With a dramatic sigh she folded her gloved hands on her lap, sending a small smile William's way.
The man let his eyes slid from her to the Count, some faint amusement trembling in his voice.
"Shall I presume that you are...together?"
"The good Count here is our patron," she stated matter-of-factly, glancing quickly at her sister.
Pilar shifted uneasily with soft rustling of crepe cloth, while William made a small sound, something between indifference and polite interest.
"I see," he said simply.
Dulcinea's voice lost some of its eager quality as she explained their situation.
"We had to run from our estate, the Sarafan have deemed a village on the Count's land infested by vampires and had decreed the whole area for purging. Dreadful, simply dreadful."
"Things aren't as simple as that, Dulcinea," Count interjected in clear annoyance at having his private matters debated in such fashion with strangers. "Best not to speak of it until the Sarafan court in Meridian decides a judgement."
"Yes," Dulcinea said, abashed somewhat.
The carriage rattled and shook on the uneven road, black trunks of trees passing by outside in the fresh evening. In the distance, threatening stormclouds gathered, erratic deep rumbles always carrying the promise of heavy rain on the wind.
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Heavy boots marched in militaristic cadence over the worn cobblestones, scarce people that were out at this time of day giving the small group a wide birdth. Fear, uncertainty, curiosity were all reflected in the eyes of those who watched, staring in secrecy from their high windows, or dark street corners. The group of Sarafan guards, as ominous and sinister looking as they come, rounded a corner into the narrow alleyway which lead to apartment housings in the part of Meridian known as the Smuggler's Den. They were headed by a nobleman of some sort, flanked by a pair of towering knights. His deep red warcoat swayed in the faint evening breeze, his face a mask of stone as he marched forward determinedly.
They walked in complete silence, confidence oozing from them, the kind of certainty that could only come from serving an absolute power. Stopping at an apartment building door, the nobleman re-adjusted his black gloves, nodding toward the door meaningfully. Two burly guards broke the door down with a loud crunch, the rest of the Sarafan pouring in like wasps. Their leader waited a moment or so, already first screams of startled panic and crashing sounds could be heard from inside, then casually walked in after them.
The building's foyer was seedy-looking and poorly lit, nothing of a hindrance to Faustus as he ascended the creaking wooden stairs with all the reserve of a foppish nobleman. Sarafan guards bristled around him, breaking down apartment doors and dragging out frightened tenants into the hall, thrashing the apartments in the process of violent search. Faustus walked past the commotion to a specific door at the end of the first floor hallway; it was already broken in, sounds of struggling coming from within along with a flickering glow of candlelight.
Inside, three Sarafan were ransacking the place, with two knights in heavy armour kicking a man in his nightshirt on the floor, an older man holding back what must have been his daughter. She cried out with a mixture of anger and despair, her father glaring murderously at the Sarafan. Faustus surveyed the scene from the doorway for a moment, one languid hand resting on hip. The Sarafan paused in their 'searching of the premises' to send expectant glances his way. With lying complacency Faustus pushed himself off the doorframe with his shoulder.
"Guard the door," he said simply, nodding toward the door behind him.
The guards acknowledged his command silently, hoisting up the unmoving man they were kicking a moment ago, and effortlessly dragged his limp form out of the apartment. The girl gave a desperate cry as her teary eyes followed them, her father finally loosening his grip on her, his gaze no less distant and resigned. He stared after them with a set jaw, his face locked in a grimace of quiet hatred.
Faustus regarded them stoically, the palpable extent of their misery twisting the corners of his lips upwards, every drop of their emotion-enriched blood calling to him through their frail bodies. Slowly, he made a couple of nonchalant steps around the apartment, still saying nothing. The false green of his roving eyes concealed the aureate horror beneath, more than anyone could imagine. As he poked at torn and scrunched up pile of papers with a gloved hand, he felt the girl's presence approach.
"We did not do anything, why are you treating us like we're common criminals?" the young woman asked pleadingly, her voice shivering with unshed tears.
Faustus directed a cold gaze down at her, pulling his hand up in a slow and deliberate manner to backhand her. The girl's eyes widened even before his fist struck her, sending her tumbling to the floor with a muffled cry of pain.
"No!" her father roared, throwing himself at Faustus in sudden rage.
Before his fist could connect with the vampire, Faustus spinned explosively, striking his heel into the man's face like a sledgehammer. With an abrupt crack and a sharp change of direction, he was sent backwards into the wall, collapsing to the floor like an empty sack.
"Silence, bitch," Faustus drawled quietly, derisively, as he glanced at the sobbing girl.
She was curled up on the floor, covering her ears with her hands tightly as if trying to block out the cries and sounds of Sarafan ravaging the building. As he approached he noticed she was bleeding from a broken lip and her nose was swollen with trickling blood.
Faustus stood over her for a moment to appraise her critically, taking in the alluring scent of fresh blood, then leaned down to pull her to her feet with surprising gentleness. She still shook with panicked sobs, her eyes speaking of nothing but fear and tension as she recoiled back from his touch. He regrabbed her more firmly, like a stern parent, but with none the affection and all the cold loathing, pulling her hands away from her ears forcefully. Her feverish eyes spotted her father then, crumpled in a corner against the wall with blood covering his lifeless face, which was now nothing more than a gaping mess of bloody tissue and ruined bone. She gasped and whimpered, closing her eyes and shaking her head furiosuly.
"Open your eyes, girl," he delivered a mild slap, just enough to snap her out of her blind panic. "Stop that. Open your eyes."
The girl stopped sobbing, a sort of mad numbness in her tempestous eyes as she stared back at him, her chest heaving erratically. Faustus let his steel gaze linger on her own momentarily, before letting go of her wrists. Her hands fell to her side lifelessly.
"We know your family is involved with black market and illegal smuggling. This will not be tolerated," his eyes darted to the crumpled body nearby, and the girl's gaze followed, with a quick sob. "And I know this is not really your family."
Last words were spoken harshly, in a colder tone as he grabbed her arm again in a threatening manner, bringing his leer closer. She stared up at him in growing horror, her eyes fixed widely on some random point over his shoulder; his breath smelled like mortuary. Abruptly he whirled his head around, barking for the guards waiting in the doorway.
The girl started crying again as they dragged her out and down the stairs, Faustus' lingering stare on her until she was taken out of sight. Being left alone in the thrashed apartment, he turned to look around slowly, his eyes settling on the body of the girl's father finally. His attention lingered there for a moment, as if only for being somewhere while some hidden thoughts coursed his mind.
Some vague sounds of shuffling and hushed whispers drifted in from the hallway. Frowning and snapping from his momentary transfixion, Faustus walked over in quick steps to crouch down next to the body. He looked it over pensively, then slowly reached out one hand under the limp head, fingers tightening casually around the neck. With a quick snap he cracked the spine and thus ensured death, even if it enticed no reaction from the already dead man.
Faustus cocked his head as he listened in a brief moment of placidity, the noises from the adjacent apartments subsided to soft sounds of crying and angry, half-muttered curses as the survivors sifted through the debris.
With a deep breath he straightened again, idle stare falling over the broken furniture as he brought the back of a gloved hand to his lips, smelling, tasting the stain of crimson on black velvet. Her blood, fresh and vibrant with youth. He savoured the small amount of this flavour on the tip of his tongue, smiling as he imagined how a full rush of this invigorating heat would feel streaming down his throat.
He gave a soft chuckle despite himself as he slowly walked out of the apartment, his boots echoing hollowly on the wooden floorboards.