'Kay! Early posting is early! Picking up the story-pace, with smidgens of violence, shrieking, death-threats, decapitations, and, er—Diva and Nathan? O.o

Expect blood-n-gore, ladies and gents.

Hope you enjoy! And review, purty please! ;)


Attaca: an attack; to proceed into a musical movement without pause.


Solomon Goldsmith's high-rise on Upper West Side, one of the earliest properties he purchased, serves as both a private oasis and a de facto family nest.

It is here that Solomon retreats to unwind after a hectic schedule, here that Diva is often housed, here that a shopping-bag laden Nathan stops by during frequent trips downtown, and here that Karl spends the night instead of at his hotel.

The apartment, a gleaming blend of classic and minimalist, is decorated with abstracts and antiques, gathered during Solomon's travels. A floor-to-ceiling window at the dining-room overlooks a palatial terrace, framing the city skyline.

Solomon likes to stand by the parapet at night, and watch the skyscrapers.

So high up, unshackled by gravity, his thoughts are always clearest.

But tonight, he has no time to enjoy the view.

Brother Amshel, seated at the dining area's polished table, is here on business. It isn't like Amshel to make such visits; usually, Solomon is summoned to see him. But the fact that he's made this trip personally indicates he has important matters to discuss.

His presence always makes Solomon uneasy. His big brother has a way of looking at him, as if he can see through the expensive suits and cool poise, into the hapless, directionless young man Solomon was before becoming a Chevalier.

His eyes, always evaluating, judging, in a way Solomon finds deeply unnerving.

Once, late at night, in a confidential mood, Solomon had murmured this to Karl. And Diva, cuddled between them, her dark hair tangling their bare skins like a spiderweb, had giggled, At least when Amshel looks at you, he sees the real you, silly.

Solomon never understood why his Queen's words felt so disturbing.

Pouring two glasses of blood, he quickly brings Amshel up to speed on the situation in Vietnam. He's convinced Red Shield's dissenter to put doses of the Special Ingredient into the Vietnam team's water supplies. As a result, one out of three Red Shield operatives have transformed into Chiropterans since last week. The US, wary of the sudden death-toll, have sent stiff inquiries to the organization's chief of staff, ordering them to curtail the problem.

"...At this rate, the United States will drop Red Shield as an ally," Solomon says. "Goldsmith holdings will soon have the floor."

"Hm." Expressionless, Amshel sips his drink.

Solomon hasn't expected glowing praise. Nonetheless he was hoping for a few sparing words of approval. But Amshel is always so difficult to please. Nothing Solomon does is ever good enough for him.

His own father had been precisely the same way.

Pushing his drink aside, Amshel says, "This process is taking longer than anticipated. I want you to double the results."

"Double them?"

"Yes. Get in touch with Red Shield's dissident tonight. Tell him to increase the Special Ingredient's flow. I want Red Shield's teams infused with higher doses before February."

Solomon blinks, setting his glass down. "Before February? But brother. I already convinced him to smuggle 54% into the team's water supplies a fortnight ago. In order to increase the amount, we need another means to transfer the material."

"Then find one. I expect the US to eliminate all ties with Red Shield, before the Vietnam War is over. Our laboratories will have perfected their experiments on the D-base by then. We will be able to launch into the next phase of our operation."

Solomon nods. This is nothing Amshel hasn't told him before, but he would never dare to say so. "I'll talk with Red Shield's dissident. Perhaps I can find some way to convince him."

"There is no 'perhaps', Solomon. Either you can, or cannot. At your age, I would have perfected the operation and sealed its results by now."

"Yes, big brother. But... circumstances have changed since then. There are no such things as face-to-face transactions anymore. The hierarchy of middlemen between both parties takes time to—"

Amshel's face is like granite. "Excuses. There are no 'changes' in the world of business, Solomon. Faces alter and titles shift. But basic tactics remain the same. It is the center, not the framework, you must focus on. Remember what I always tell you. Give me control of a nation's money and I care not who makes her laws. Because money is what determines everything else. If you cannot complete this simple duty, I will assign it to James. And send you back to Paris."

Assign it to James?

Though he offers no visible reaction, Solomon cringes inside. If he fails, James will never let him live down the disgrace. Succeeding at this task is not just a notch on Solomon's credentials; it is a means of proving himself to Amshel. He's worked hard and long in Paris, completing each task he was assigned, to earn the privilege of undertaking this major operation in New York.

If he's sent back to Paris, it is equivalent to a demotion.

The thought makes him seethe.

"Of course, brother. I will see to the matter immediately."

"Good." Amshel's tone brooks no argument. Taking his glass, he swirls the blood around. "Remember, Solomon. This is a crucial stage of our operation. The duties assigned to your brothers are important. But yours plays the central role. James is our eyes and ears, and Nathan and Karl the arm and claw. But you are the mouth." His eyes meet Solomon's—a gaze that grips vitals and throat in a ruthless ice fist. "And you are equipped with fangs. Use them. Or I will tear each one out."

The message is eerily clear.

Solomon nods, unable to look away. Amshel terrifying when he is in these moods.

Moreso because Solomon knows he means every word he says.

"I-I will not let you down, brother," he says. "You will have your results. Depend on it."


In a brilliant rain of glass, the Chiropteran falls headfirst out the apartment window.

Over the clamor of breaking shards, Saya's murderous battlecry rings.

She clings to the falling Chiropteran, pinioning it's leathery body with her sword. Gravity tugs. Plummeting, glass and Chiropteran fall to the pavement below. The Chiropteran, heavier in mass, lands first. The impact, a bone-crunching thud, leaves a rough crater across the sidewalk.

The Chiropteran roars as Saya wrenches her blade free from its belly, residual glass hailing around them in a cataract.

Her eyes blaze red, mimicked by the blood streaking the sword's groove.

Snarling, Saya swings her sword down, plunging it deep into the Chiropteran's throat. The reaction is immediate. With an unholy bellow, the beast rattles into crystallization. Its spewing blood ignites into ruby-colored stardust.

"Saya—behind you!"

Sword at hand, Saya whirls just as the remaining two Chiropterans leap out the window.

Haji, cello-case slung on shoulder, is not far behind them. He lands beside Saya, light as a pouncing cat. Across them, the Chiropterans collide like airborne demons across the tarmac.

Immediately, Queen and Chevalier slide into attack stances. Haji can feel the adrenaline fizzling off Saya's body; smell the bloodlust radiating off the Chiropterans.

Both sets of predators' eyes glow an ominous red.

Without warning, the Chiropteran on the left charges. Haji moves eyeblink-fast, swooping forward and hurling his silver daggers in a pindot spray. The blades bite like individual fangs into the Chiropteran's flesh. Blood and saliva splatters the air as the beast roars.

But Saya, utilizing the disruption, has already struck.

Ethereal blue tracks her sword as she swings it scythelike across the Chiropteran's chest. With a lurid squelch and a spurt of hot blood, the blade sinks right to the bone. Saya's blood fuses into the creature's system.

Gray cracks blossom across tough-pebbled flesh. The Chiropteran, a howling stone golem, shatters across the tarmac.

The third Chiropteran, sensing a combative breach, pounces toward Saya. At once, Haji swings his cello-case forward like a battering ram, catching the Chiropteran midair and flinging it back with impact.

Thud.

Bones crunch. The Chiropteran is tossed brutally sideways.

Behind Haji, Saya darts out in a flash, pirouetting to sink her sword into the battered Chiropteran's arm. The creature's head flies back in an enraged bellow—but the sinewy body does not crystallize.

Haji realizes, too late, that Saya forgot to recoat her sword in blood—

—A moment before a monstrous arm lashes out, claws plowing through Haji's chest.

White lights explode before his eyes. He feels searing pain and hears the crunch of splintering bones.

The world tilts in a riot of color as he is hurled back. Skidding across rough concrete, he has just enough time to see Saya darting out of the Chiropteran's way before gleaming jaws snap for her skull. Rolling into a protective couch, arms crossed across her body, she swivels and jabs her sword across the Chiropteran's massive legs.

But the beast, sensing the oncoming blow, evades with astonishing speed.

Haji watches shamshīr-sharp claws swipe at Saya's head. She swings her sword in time, blade held vertical, countering the blow; the shrill clang of steel resonates amid fleeting sparks.

Her thumb grazes the sword's sharpened groove, blood painting a liquid stripe.

The Chiropteran charges for her again, just as she leaps away, spinning in the blur of a dervish, weapon sweeping forward.

The creature, slavering, frenetic, attempts to dodge her blow. But in that much time, Haji has regrouped to lunge forward in a zigzag volt. His cello-case batters the creature sideways, placing it directly within trajectory of Saya's sword.

Muscle and vertebra sever. With an almighty grunt, arms straining in effort, Saya slices her blade clean through the Chiropteran's throat.

A vast cascade of blood erupts, splattering Saya and Haji's faces. The Chiropteran's decapitated head arcs through the air, tumbling across the street, leaving an erratic trail of blood behind. The body, jittering, succumbs first to paralysis, than gritty dissipation.

Glitters of blood-crystal float eerily though the air.

The battle concluded, the night is still.

Panting, bloodsmeared and barefoot, Saya leans on her sword, propped blade-first against the tarmac. Around them, the Chiropteran's carcasses resemble gargoyles tumbled from their plinths, gruesome in an impotent, shriveled-up sort of way. Drying blood paints the street with gleaming black patches.

With quick efficiency, Haji's eyes flick Saya's body for wounds. "Are you all right?"

She nods, breathing a tad sharper than he is accustomed to. Her eyes are on the dark stain across his shirt, the claw-wound beneath already healing.

Her gaze shades. Haji watches that familiar self-hatred fill her expression.

"Haji—I—"

He has no idea what she is going to say.

Because in the next breath, their flat explodes in flames.

The shockwave is intense. Caught off-guard, he and Saya are flung against the far wall. The momentum—a physical attacca—crushes the air out of Haji's lungs. Grunting, he slumps across gritty cement, feeling Saya squirm beside him.

Debris rains everywhere. Glass, wood, metal, stone. He feels searing heat; sees a world plunged in hellish yellow. Though the explosion was high above him and Saya, he smells acrid flame and suffocating smoke.

Blinking through the haze, he sees fire devouring the apartment fifteen floors above him. In the residual aftershock, people, screaming, panicked, rushing from the fire escapes, bursting through doors and windows.

And, over the thunder of flames, he hears the sudden whoop of fast-careening sirens.

Beside him, Saya's eyes glow red. She says two words that dispel Haji's horror into understanding—then icy rage.

"Red Shield."


"Nathan?"

"What is it, precious?"

She sits up in bed, the blue goosedown quilt and green pillows a peacock-colored landscape. Perched cross-legged behind her, Nathan brushes her hair. One hundred strokes, so it spills satin-black into his hands.

Diva can see him in the ornate mirror beyond. He looks vaguely elfin with his hair in bumblebee-curls around his face, shirt open to the waist. His expression is dreamy-eyed. But also watchful.

Even in the most delirious moments, a part of Nathan always seems to be watching from the sidelines. Meting out endless mockery and judgement. Like an actor performing in a drama.

Or a playwright directing one.

"Nathan—why is the place so empty? I can't feel any of the others."

"That's because they've all gone, Diva dear."

"All gone?" The words are a bitter premonition on her tongue. "Where did they go?"

Nathan tilts his head. "Well, Amshel is busy man. He's at some big-shot meeting uptown. James is off making arrangements for his trip to Vietnam—you know him; everything must be handled in advance to save time for you. As for Karl; I told him I'd be seeing to you tonight, so he left in a sulk like the Prince of Dorkness. And Solomon—we-ell, he's either conducting negotiations with the enemy, or stuffing some new conquest. Or both."

"Stuffing?" She giggles. Mind swirling with images of basted capons and roast pigs with apples in their mouths. Human food that reminds her of that banquet at the Zoo—and it's guests. Their blood had tasted of the foods spread on the long white tables—ladyfingers, éclairs, glazed fruits and sweet scintillating terror.

But the tastiest blood had been Joel's.

By drinking from him, Diva had imbibed all the colors of his spectrum, more intimately than Sister Saya ever had. She had tasted the iceberg of him, while Saya only saw the pure white tip sparkling in the sun.

Recalling the banquet, her succulent vengeance, Diva sighs. And the languorous sound puts her in mind of Solomon.

"I want to play hide-and-seek," she says. "When will Solomon be back?"

"I'm afraid he didn't say." Nathan brings his face alongside hers, so he can smirk into the corner of her eye. "Why though, you naughty girl? Are you on some all-blonde diet tonight?"

"But you aren't a real blond."

A cackle. "Well aren't you a little kiss-and-tell!"

She smiles. "What's the point of a kiss if you can't tell, silly?"

She can tell all sorts of things from her Chevalier's kisses. James' insecurities and Solomon's emptiness. Karl's despair and Amshel's madness. Their kisses are like music, and when she tastes them, sometimes they form perfect notes in her head, perfect routes in the mapwork of their futures.

Of James crumbling to stone as he whispers her name. Of Karl crumbling as he whispers Solomon's. Of Solomon dying to the image of chainlink and Saya's red eyes. Of Amshel withering to a poisoned sword-thrust as he snarls, You will pay for this!

But she can never taste anything from Nathan's kisses. He never gives them to her.

Those kisses are meant for someone else. Someone who is no longer alive to receive them.

"You have such lovely hair." Nathan sighs, moving the hairbrush in rhythmic strokes. "In my heyday, I had the privilege of courting three clans of Chiropteran noblewomen. And not one of them had hair this flawless. It's like touching something holy."

"You're embarrassing me." Her smile says she loves it.

"Never be embarrassed when a Chevalier praises you. That's your due as a Queen." Nathan sweeps her hair off her shoulders, contemplative. "You know, for your upcoming Met evening, you should wear it up in a chignon this way. Show off that pretty neck. Or better yet, we can style it in Alexandre's 'apple-head'. Those are very popular these days..."

Drowsy, Diva lets him banter on. She knows it isn't her self that interests Nathan, so much as who it reminds him of.

Her mother.

There are so many questions about her that Diva has. But each time she asks, the words all blur together, so her sentences come in riddles. Other times, Diva doesn't need to ask, because she can feel how her mother must have been, in how Nathan looks at her.

The way he's brushing her hair now; it must have been a tender Afterward ritual he'd shared with his real Queen.

It is a ritual that varies from Chevalier to Chevalier. Karl likes to press grinning white fangs into her neck and hum her own song to her. James has a soft-eyed look he keeps for these moments, tinged with fear, as if one of his brothers will whisk her away. Solomon, with mischievous eyes and warm tongue-tip likes to spell delicious messages across her skin. Amshel she never dwells on too much, because her memories of him are linked to her tower, slithering at the corners of her mind like leeches she can never chase away.

Always, she can absorb her Chevaliers' auras. At first, her mind used to jumble them all together. But now, if she keeps still enough, she can tell them apart.

Nathan's is colorful. Dynamic. Spicy like chillipeppers and sweet like mangoes. But with a bitterness lacing the edges. Something ancient and poisonous that makes her think of daggers and Death. Of music, calculation and pitiless vengeance.

Karl's aura is darker. More warped. Like a sip of alcohol that turns your world hazy. Makes you see zebra-patterns in your fingerprints and rainbows in moonlit sky. There's something rancid about it too. Something that reminds her of broken dolls and shattered glass. Missing pieces that will never be whole.

Solomon's aura is similar to that. But different. His is smoother. More ethereal. Fields of blue roses and sunshine in spring. But with such an emptiness to it too. Like an artic wasteland disguised as paradise—a mirage.

James' aura is different. Solid and structured as steel building-girders. But with something so fragile to it too. Like one hard jolt would break topple all the buildings into chaos. And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put them together again.

The most complex aura is Amshel's. Like James', but like Solomon's and Nathan's too. And yet like no one's. His is heavier. Deeper. Infinite like space and thirsty like money. Full of numbers, letters, dates. A perfect calendar and cosmos.

But with something wrong about it too. Like time reversing its flow, or the universe swallowing itself whole.

In each Chevalier's aura, Diva senses echoes of her own—a hint of silvery cobwebs and laughter. But never anything solid; real. It fills her stomach with such a hollow feeling.

She wishes their auras were more unified. Like Sister Saya and her Chevalier. Darkly-elegant music notes and red roses entwined in blood.

Complete.

Diva longs for that same completion. That sense of family.

If I had my babies, I would feel it.

But I don't.

Her lips flatten, anger sparking.

"Diva?" Nathan leans close, curling a strand of hair behind her ear. "What's the matter? Your face is all thundercloudy."

She doesn't answer. Only presses one hand to her belly. The silence there feels like a tomb.

"Nathan?" she says.

"Hm?"

"My Chevaliers are supposed to fulfill all my wishes, aren't they?"

"Of course, precious. That's what we're here to—"

"Then why aren't they trying harder to give me babies? They know that's what I want most. Why aren't they finding some way for me to get them?"

"Diva…" Nathan lowers the hairbrush. His face is pensive. "Diva, you know these things take time. The first step is arranging a Groom for you. But that can't happen overnight. Your Chevaliers are trying as hard as they can. They really are. Their only wish is to see you happy."

She shakes her head. "How can they make me happy, if they aren't happy themselves?"

"Aren't happy? Tsk. Who filled your darling head with such nonsense? You're larger than life for them." Smiling, he takes the opportunity to switch the subject. "Have you decided which one you'll spend the weeks before your Long Sleep with? James is an absolute fuddy-duddy. But he'll be at your every beck-and-call. Karl tends to get very overexcited. But there's never a dull moment in his care. And Solomon… well, he is your favorite. That boy can wring more arias from you than a Madame Butterfly encore."

"Which one I'll stay with?" Diva's brow scrunches, a half-frown. "Why can't I stay with all of them? We are family. Why do we need to keep separating?"

"Even family has to separate to fulfill their duties, Diva."

"Duty?" Strange word. Like resignation on the tongue. "So my Chevaliers' duties are to leave me on errands? "

Nathan sighs. "Their duty is to do everything to ensure your protection. To keep you safe."

"And what's my duty?"

"What?"

"Their purpose in life is to protect me. It's why they exist. But what's mine? What do I exist for?"

"Diva…"

She hates the way Nathan is looking at her. As if his glib magician's tongue can't conjure up anything to say.

She wants to rip that tongue out by the roots. Wants to shrivel up and fade into nothing.

Nothing.

Like the answer Nathan's silence telegraphs.

Jerking away, she rises to her feet. "Go away, Nathan."

"Now Diva dear. There is no reason to be upset—"

"Go away."

Nathan sighs ruefully. Then nods. She keeps her eyes on the mirror, watching him straighten and put the hairbrush away.

But her reflection shows she is alone, long before he kisses the top of her head, and soundlessly quits the room.


Joel Goldschmidt is slammed back-first into the wall, breath escaping him in a whoosh.

"Wha—what is the meaning of this? How dare you—?"

Saya's glare is as savage as the small hand squeezing his throat. "Answer my question. Did you, or did you not, detonate the apartment we were in?"

"For the last time! No! I had nothing to do with it! How dare you break into my property and manhandle—"

Deceptively-dainty fingers tighten on Joel's windpipe. "I'll do much worse unless you start telling the truth."

"This—this is outrageous! I will not be bullied by a common—"

"By a common what? A tool? An expendable weapon?" Saya's eyes glow with red-hot fury. Behind her, Joel's two bodyguards lie in battered heaps on the floor. Haji stands over them with his arms folded, part accomplice, part sentinel. "You have lied to us earlier today, monsieur. I'd advise you not to make the same mistake twice."

"I am not lying! I never gave Red Shield orders to explode your apartment!"

"Yet it did. And in the ensuing debris, all evidence of those Chiropterans was conveniently wiped out. Along with the credibility of all eyewitnesses. If they claimed they saw monsters, the police would dismiss it as a symptom of shock." Her eyes narrow. "Either way, you would never be implicated."

Joel's flaccid throat swells as he attempts to swallow. "I—I admit there's a coincidence. But I never gave orders to blast anything. For God's sake! We weren't even sure where you were!"

"But you knew the Chiropterans would find me. You knew they'd be lured by my scent. Perhaps you were aware all along where your 'subjects' were hiding. And were just waiting for me to arrive and finish your dirty work."

Joel's eyes blaze. "We are fully aware that Chiropterans are drawn to your presence—and it is your duty to exterminate them! But we had no clue where they were!" His voice rises to a strangled plea. "The explosion in that apartment could've been a gas leak!"

"I smelled no leaking gas." Saya's eyes briefly meet Haji's. "Did you?"

Haji's face is like stone. "None."

"Then I don't know what caused the explosion! But it wasn't Red Shield's doing! You have no right threaten me—!" Joel's voice crumbles from indignation to pleading. "Please—let me go! We can discuss this civilly—without—without—"

"Without injuries on your part? Or without more lies?" Saya's voice is low and fluid, almost seductive. But her expression is anything but.

Joel pales, as if beginning to realize just how volatile his position is. "F-For God's sake! Be reasonable. How could Red Shield detonate the apartment when we had no clue where to find you? You claimed the building was a tenement. What if the explosion was caused by an electrical surge—or—or faulty wiring—"

"If it were 'faulty wiring', the entire floor would have ignited. Not just one apartment. Not unless someone wired it specifically with explosives."

"B-but that makes no sense! You claimed you were only outside the apartment for nineteen minutes! It would've taken Red Shield's operatives at least two hours to plant the explosives at strategic spots in your room. Then they would've exited the building—and waited at an appropriate distance until the bomb went off. And you would have seen them!"

A discordant note of truth fills Joel's voice.

Saya hesitates, as if absorbing these unconsidered facts. But her fingers maintain their vicious chokehold. "If you're lying to me…"

"I am not! I swear to you, Red Shield never detonated the apartment! Only a ghost would be capable of outfitting it with explosives that fast! Or—or a—"

"Or…" A sudden understanding fills Saya's voice. "…a Chevalier."

All at once, she lets Joel go. Wheezing, the man slumps to his knees, massaging his welted throat.

As if he is no longer visible, Saya turns to face Haji. "Do you think it's possible…?"

"That a Chevalier detonated the apartment to draw us out in the open?" Haji pauses, considering. "There is a chance."

"But—if that's true, then Diva could be in this city!"

"Perhaps. But if the culprit is indeed a Chevalier, he could be acting on Amshel's long-distance orders. Leading us to believe that Diva is in New York, while she causes trouble elsewhere."

Saya shakes her head. "We still can't pass up on this opportunity. We have to—"

Behind her, Joel jerkily straightens, still clutching his throat. He will have a lurid necklace of bruises come tomorrow. "You will not waste time on wild goosechases until you contain our escaped Chiropterans!"

Eyes narrowed, Saya swings to face him. Joel blanches, jerking back. For a second, Haji fears, not for the man's life, but for his expensive Persian carpet.

"What is more important to you?" she asks. "Locating the source of these monsters, or wasting time in tying up loose ends?"

"Unless you solve one problem, Saya, it will be impossible to solve the other. You know this." Despite his quavering voice, Joel manages to inject a note of authority in his tone.

Saya, Haji sees, is losing patience. Usually, that results in one thing: violence.

"Isn't the detonated apartment proof enough that Diva could be in this city!"

"If she is, we will redouble our efforts to seek her. Until then, you will be held in one of Red Shield's properties. Where there are lesser chances of detonations. Or you wasting time on pointless searches!"

Saya's gaze boils. "If you're going to hold me as prisoner, I refuse to follow your orders."

Joel's face turns purple with rage. His eyes bulge until they seem ready to pop. "You break into my property, threaten my life, and now you dare to impose conditions on me! You go too far!"

"I am not a hunting-dog to be put on a leash!"

"No! You are worse than that! You are a Chiropteran—and no different from the monsters you kill! This organization exists only because of a tragedy your kind caused. And we expect you rectify it. By any means necessary!"

Saya's mouth curdles. For a moment she looks as though she might rip Joel's tongue out.

"If you did not share the same blood as the man who raised me, monsieur," she says, irate but ominously still. "It would be painting the walls right now."

All the color drains from Joel's face. But to Haji's surprise, he holds his ground. "Killing me will not end this war, Saya! Only waste further money and time! You know this!"

"I do." The words are bile, thick and bitter. "And I already have such little time as it is. But will having so-called allies make that any better? I doubt it. I really have to doubt it."

Without another word, she sweeps past the room. The katana concealed in her coat thuds heavily against the doorjamb as she passes.

Filling Haji, like her words themselves, with a strident premonition.

Such little time…?

What could she mean by that?

By the time he's followed her out, a white gust of snow has already filled in Saya's footsteps, and swallowed her fluttering black clothes like a shroud.

It is a sequence of unspoken omens, just waiting to be unveiled.


Do let me know what you guys think of the story so far! Any comments/crits/questions? Don't hesitate to share! I'm all ears—I mean, eyes. XP

Review, please!