Chapter 5 – A Dark Angel Laments
"You want to what?"
The shocked expression on Ver's face prompted Ken to laugh. In all the years of their acquaintance, he had rarely been able to put her at point non plus, and the few occasions where he had were cherished.
"You heard me," he said.
It was dark inside Ver's apartments. Thick curtains had been drawn over every window and candles burned. If Ken had not been aware that it was late afternoon, he would have been certain that it was night: Ver shared the European belief that sunlight was repugnant. And, as she had reminded him, she stayed up much later into the mornings than he did. She immensely disliked being woken up by anyone, even her cher ami. Swathed in a wrapper of midnight blue silk, hair tumbling about her face, she had ushered him into her sitting room. And he had proceeded to shock her as he never had before.
Ver dropped into a chair and stared at him. "You're saying that you, friend of human sheep, lover of all things mortal, want to go hunting?" To say she was astonished was an understatement. He nodded.
"And, not only do you want to hunt, you want to use me as bait?" He nodded again. She reached for the bottle of wine on the table. "I think perhaps you should tell me what prompted this urge you have for hunting." She filled the glass beside her with a generous portion, and pushed it towards him.
"You know how I spent my afternoon," he said, handing her a second glass. She nodded. "It left me feeling… empty."
"Empty? How so, cher?" Her eyes were bright, curious. It was rare for him to admit to his deepest feelings. Her hand, bottle tilted but not pouring, hovered over the glass.
"He was good." Admitting it was somehow painful, he thought, taking a deep swig. Charmain Red, 1775, uncut by anything.
"The samurai?" she asked, finally tilting the bottle enough to pour herself a glass.
"Mmmhmm," he murmured through the wine. He swallowed, savouring the taste, and continued. "Fujimiya. He's possibly the best I've ever seen."
She arched a sceptical brow. "Better than you?"
"If we were on equal footing…yes, better than me."
Ver leaned back in her chair, coiling her bare feet up underneath her. "Tell me about him. His appearance, his manner. Tell me what has you so wound up."
It was his turn to arch an eyebrow in her direction. "What does his appearance matter?"
"You woke me up. Satisfy my curiosity." Like a child preparing for a bedtime story, she propped her chin on her knees, and wrapped her arms around her legs. The wineglass was an incongruous touch that detracted from the appearance of total innocence. Ken settled back in his own chair and summoned an image of the samurai in his mind.
"He's tall; taller than me. Lean." They were weak words to describe him. Tall couldn't explain the way he had made Ken feel small. Lean couldn't begin to describe a body that seemed hewn from living stone: hard and fluid at once.
"That describes half of Europe. Give me more," Ver demanded.
"He doesn't look like most Japanese people. For one thing, his hair is red." He paused, reminiscing. "We would have called it a demon mark when I was growing up. Hair like fire… And his eyes are strange…"
He could almost see Ver's ears perk up, like a fox hunting a mouse. "Strange…how?" she asked.
"They're the proper shape, but they're…violet. Like…" He didn't want to say it, didn't want to bring that name into the conversation. He was tired of blaming himself for her death, tired of the way Ver spoke of her.
Ver, naturally, had no such compunctions. "Like la petite Greenwood?" He nodded. "Intriguing," she murmured. He waited for more, but she left that line of questioning. "What else?"
Ken smiled. "Well, for one thing, he hates me."
"Mmm…I like him already, I think," she said, flashing him a smirk. Their own relationship had had a similarly rocky beginning, owing to misconceptions on both sides.
He wasn't amused, though. "He thinks I betrayed my country by fleeing during the war. I think he fought against the shogun: one of the revolutionaries. As I can't exactly explain that I left Japan a century ago, I can't really see a way to sort out that misunderstanding." Fujimiya's misconception was irritating in a way that Ken couldn't begin to explain. Leaving Japan had been his only option so long ago, and he hadn't taken it willingly. Fujimiya's perception of his actions, no matter how inaccurate, was a kind of slap to his honour.
"Correct me if I'm mistaken, cher, but weren't the revolutionaries opposed to contact with Western culture? I thought Perry's actions in 'fifty-four had the country thrown into confusion?"
Ken blinked, momentarily silenced by Ver's concise summation of the situation. He sometimes forgot that, while she claimed to be little more than an expensive bartender, she had a gift for all things political, and that she observed politics on a global stage. "That was my understanding as well," he said.
"So what would a supporter of the revolution be doing working for Rutherford?" she asked, head tilted. She took a delicate sip of the wine.
"My question exactly. He didn't answer when I asked." It still rankled with him, that Fujimiya had proven immune to his taunting. Ken had spent decades working on his baiting skills, only to gain no reaction from the mortal. Ver read some of his frustration in his tone, and smirked again. "Even more intriguing," she murmured into her glass.
"There's more," he continued, becoming utterly serious. "Rutherford was torturing the woman last night."
Ver tensed slightly in her chair, her posture altering somewhat. "Torturing?" Ken had been sure that would catch her attention.
"He reeked of blood and pain. Hers." Again he could smell her blood, the mix of plum blossoms, powder and ink. The way it clung to Rutherford's hands, his skin.
"Did Fujimiya react to that?"
"Only to imply that Takaoka could stand it. He compared her to a sturdy tree rather than a flower. It was very roundabout, deflective." As if Fujimiya were saying it was her choice to be there, that she knew what she was doing. Strange…
"Who won?" she asked, drawing her attention back to their original topic.
"We called it a draw. Only Fujimiya knows I won." She snorted, rolling her eyes at his easy bravado. He continued. "I used a move he couldn't know, but not with enough force to disarm him. He was stunned but not immobilized."
"Was that wise?" Although Ver knew very little about sword arts, she knew a lot about showing strength. She told him once that she never left an enemy standing behind her; death was the only thing that ensured she was protected.
"I didn't feel like showing Rutherford my true strength. And Ran will likely come up with a countermove before we meet again. Like I said, he's good." Saying he was good wasn't enough, though. That was like saying the sun was warm, or the snow cold. Pointing out the obvious wasn't enough.
"Ran?" she said, quirking her brow up again. He winced at the slip he had made.
"His first name."
"You're on a first name basis already? My, my." Somehow she managed to make him blush. It was something in the tone of her voice, the twinkle in her eye.
"I think I won some grudging respect," he muttered, idly wishing that she would show him some respect. The fact that he was a century older than her held very little weight in the respect department. She ignored him.
"A pretty name…Ran." She rolled it off her tongue, giving it inflections that it shouldn't have been possible to have. She turned it into a three-syllable word, drawn out like the last echoes of a beating heart.
"Chaos. It's a fitting name. I think chaos has surrounded him his entire life." The chaos of a heart pulled in many different directions, through rage and betrayal and loss. It might explain the layer of ice he surrounded himself with. What better barrier between a person and the pain of life?
"Chaos surrounds us all, from the moment we come squalling into this world to the moment we leave." Ver's voice was suddenly quiet, melancholy. When he looked at her, a type of darkness had woven through her eyes. He touched her cheek, drawing her eyes towards him.
"And some of us don't leave. This has taken a morbid turn. Get dressed, my lady. We have the hunt before us…and I am ready to go." He gently turned her in the direction of her armoire.
"Oh, so impatient, my lord," she murmured, allowing herself to be directed by him. As she turned, her wrap slipped and exposed the long column of her back. Ten lines, like dark ivory on alabaster, stood out in sharp relief against the smooth skin. Time had turned the marks of violence into something strangely beautiful. As quickly as they were revealed they were covered as she pulled a linen shift over her head. A corset, richly embroidered and rarely worn, swiftly cinched her waist, forcing her body into the form demanded by polite society.
"It's a good thing I don't actually have to breathe in this outfit," she muttered, grimacing. "Damn Victoria for a prudish virgin."
She threw open the doors of her armoire and pulled out a gown of rich black velvet. Ken took it from her and studied it. If the neckline were any lower, he would be able to make out the pattern of embroidery on the bottom of her corset. He coughed. "Not this one, Ver. If you look like a Nighthawk, you'll attract the wrong type. We want you to look respectable and vulnerable."
She shot him a look as she sat down at her dressing table. "Forgive me, cher, but I think I know a little about attracting a man." She looked at her reflection in the mirror, frowning at an imagined imperfection. His gaze met hers in the silvered glass. "That dress has caught many an unwary lech." She clamped a number of pins between her lips, and picked up her brush.
He advanced towards her. "I'm not saying it hasn't." He laid his hands on her shoulders, cajoling. "What we want to catch, though, is a man who would attack a gentlewoman. We want to catch a gentleman… Just wear something a little more refined, please." He dropped a kiss on her cheek, and stepped back out of the range of her hairbrush.
Her eyes mocked him, though her mouth said nothing. Her pale fingers moved unceasingly, deftly taming her hair into a braid as thick as his wrist. With the ease of many years of practice, she wrapped the braid around her head several times to create a type of crown, which she fastened with a few pins. As soon as the last pin left her mouth, she retaliated.
"Spoilsport."
Along a darkened street in the heart of the city, many eyes followed the progress of a young woman. Dressed in serviceable grey muslin, face concealed by an unadorned hat, she seemed out of place. Everything about her spoke of quality, respectability. A lady's maid, perhaps, or a governess. She stopped occasionally to beg directions from passers-by, a thick accent marking her as a stranger new-come to English soil. Few paid attention to her, intent as they were on arriving at their destinations. Those who did stop gave confused and garbled instructions, not entirely certain of the location of the particular shop she sought. With each moment that passed, her shoulders slumped more; her demeanour grew more depressed.
She appeared to perk up a bit when a man offered to take her directly to the shop. A wiser woman might have been wary of the way he looked at her, but in her eagerness to come to her destination she threw caution to the wind. A more observant person might have wondered at the path he took, leading her through alleys and back-ways until she was completely lost. A more street savvy girl might have gotten suspicious as the areas they entered got quieter and quieter, but she was a foreigner, unused to England, and she suspected nothing.
Until he tried to kiss her.
Vainly did she protest; indeed, there was no one nearby to assist her. She struggled in his arms, attempting to free herself. He thrust her against the wall of the alley, clearly aroused by her helplessness. He rubbed the evidence of his excitement against her thighs, laughing as she struggled.
"Please, monsieur, don't 'urt me!" Her accent thickened with fear as he closed his hands on her throat. Her fingers clawed ineffectually at his wrists as she struggled; kidskin gloves obstructed her nails. "Aidez-moi," she gasped, writhing madly in his grasp.
"Shuddup, bitch!" He punctuated the profanity with a hard slap to her right cheek. The force of it sent her tumbling into the alley wall. She cried out, a sound that combined both pain and rage. He kicked her in the ribs, once, and then bent over and pulled her up by the neck of her dress. "You and me are gonna play a bit, is all." He forced his mouth over hers; forcing his tongue between her lips in a grotesque parody of what was to come.
He was so intent on his play that he didn't notice the man who appeared behind him as silently as mist. He did notice when his arms were wrenched from the woman's body, but by then it was too late. The woman fell to the ground as her attacker was caught in his own trap.
Ken twisted the man's arms behind his back, applying his preternatural strength, pulling him close and not trying to spare him any pain. Bringing his mouth close to the other man's ear, he whispered, "There's a lesson for you here, but you won't live long enough to appreciate it." He freed his right hand and dug his fingers into the prey's hair, roughly yanking his head back. The prey whimpered, struggling. Low female laughter echoed off the alley walls.
"It's not much fun, is it, cochon?" Ver said, rising up from the ground. "It's no fun to be held against your will; to be a victim." She stalked closer, peeling her gloves off, vulnerable no more. Her skirt rustled softly, like wings. She laid a hand on his chest. "Your heart is beating so fast…like a bird." She smiled delicately, exposing her fangs. The prey cried out and tried to pull away. "Do you fear me now? I thought we were going to play…"
"Please," he cried, fear rolling off him in thick waves. The kitten he thought he had captured had turned into a panther, and he could taste his own death in the air. "Please let me go!"
"Let you go?" she said, amused…and angered. "Were you going to let me go? Have you ever released a woman who said 'Let me go'?" Nimble fingers shredded his cravat and wrenched his shirt apart. She trailed a nail as hard as a diamond down his throat, pricking the skin slightly.
A drop of blood welled up on his throat and she caught it on her finger. She brought her hand to her lips, then changed her mind and extended it towards Ken. He licked the blood from her finger slowly, sensually. The prey was panicking completely, jerking in Ken's arms like a wild animal. Ken tightened his grip, restricting the prey's movements even further. He placed his lips at the man's ear and whispered, "Delicious."
"My turn, I think," Ver said, and moved in closer. She brought her mouth to the right side of the prey's neck, trailing her fangs along the path her nail had drawn. Ken felt the moment she attacked; the prey squealed and stiffened. Her head began to move rhythmically over his shoulder. Ken caught his breath as she looked up at him. She lifted her head slightly. He could see the prey's blood on her lips. Slowly, she lifted her hand towards Ken's head, tangling in his hair as she drew his mouth towards hers. He tasted mortality on the lips of an immortal, and he drowned in the sensation.
As one, they returned their attention to the prey: her fangs to the right side, his to the left. The first jet of blood rushed past his lips, sweet and hot. Nothing could compare to the sensation of taking the lifeblood of another. He could feel her movements through the prey's body; a sensual slither that promised heaven and delivered pleasure and torment in equal measure. The blood coursed through the prey's veins, pulled in two directions at the heart.
It was primal, and it was erotic, and it was…wrong.
Ken pulled back at the last second, allowing Ver to finish by herself. He let go of the body and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. He barely registered the moment the prey's heart stopped beating, so engrossed he was in thought. Ver threw the body aside and wrapped her arms around Ken's waist.
Hungry kisses were pressed along his neck; trails of a dead man's blood. Desire was there, quiet and nearly unnoticed under the sudden disgust at his action. Killing Weaver had been an emotional act, fuelled by the depraved things Weaver had inflicted on Rachel. There was no reason for Ken to feel guilt for avenging her. But this deliberate hunt of a nameless victim was little more than cruelty. It was kills like that that reminded him of why he didn't make kills like that.
Ver had stopped, and was looking at him with a strange expression. "Something's changed with you." She stepped back from him. "The last time we shared a kill like that, you were so desperate to fuck that we didn't make it out of the alley. Has Lucy's advice had such an effect on you?"
"No."
"Maybe you'd prefer it if I was a red-headed warrior who could best you in a 'sword' fight." There was a definite sneer on her face as she threw out a challenge to his sexual prowess.
"Ver! What's the matter with you? You've never acted like…like a jealous mistress before." That had been a key element of their friendship; they would enjoy each other when it was convenient, and never ask anything of each other.
Her expression swiftly changed from anger to contrition. "I'm sorry, Ken," she said. "I didn't mean it like that. You're free to fuck whomever you want." It was an attempt at humour, but he wasn't convinced.
"Last time we made a kill together, you didn't let the prey lay hands on you like that. You worried me; I didn't want to take advantage of you." He had never seen anyone lay a hand on her that she didn't invite: it was disturbing.
She turned away from him, her back rigid and unyielding. "Any other man would."
He sighed, and laid his hands on her shoulders, pulling her close. "I'm not any other man, Ver. I know how they treated you in Paris. I don't expect anything of you but friendship. I'm not that kind of monster."
She kept her gaze straight ahead, defensive. "We're all monsters, cher. We all have our fangs and darkness. Maybe we deserve punishment."
"Is that what you're looking for? Punishment?" He tightened his grip on her shoulders, forced her to turn her gaze towards him. "Isn't this shadow-life punishment enough for you?"
She pulled out of his grasp, and began to pace slightly. "Maybe it is for you, Ken, but I am in a different kind of darkness."
He hadn't meant to cause her pain. The gods knew he was no saint, that he had no right to point a finger. He had killed his best friend. He had sent his Maker to Hell ahead of him. How could he blame her for venting her fury on those who destroyed her life? He didn't notice when she turned towards him again.
"I see you, trying to make my crimes of a lesser evil than yours," she said softly, her eyes bright in the alley's darkness. "Don't, cher. Nothing you did can compare to my depravity. You killed your Maker. I killed everyone who made me…everyone but my Maker. From Etienne Charmain to the poorest worker on his estate…From my fiancé to my infant sister…Family and enemy alike…I slaughtered them all." A moment of painful silence. "The death of a betrayer is nothing compared to the carnage I created."
"Are you trying to convince me, Ver?" he asked quietly. "Or yourself?"
She grinned, a shadow of her former good humour. "You're the most intrinsically 'good' person I've ever known, Ken, and it gets annoying. You're a century older than I am, you've had a hundred more years to wreak havoc on the lives of humans…and you didn't. You don't. You protect them, even though they don't deserve it. Even though they would destroy you if they knew what you are. Why do you care so much about them?" The puzzlement in her eyes was clear.
"Because they do deserve protection…protection from themselves, from each other. I can't protect them from themselves, but I can save them from the faceless monsters in the dark. Because it makes me feel like I'm atoning for what I did in the past." He hoped that she would understand, even though he wasn't sure he did. He was already covered in blood; he would take up the mantle of the protector. He didn't know if he could ever explain it to her.
For a long moment, she was silent, staring up at the patch of sky that was visible above them. When she finally spoke, all traces of her earlier humour were gone. "When you put it like that, cher, you make me feel petty. The vengeance I felt so justified in taking ninety-five years ago seems tawdry, soiled. I was right to do what I did, then. I know I was right. But when I'm with you, I feel like…maybe…I was wrong." She looked up at him, silently pleading with him to tell her that she was right, that her actions had not been excessive.
He sighed softly. "Maybe what was right for you then isn't right anymore. You punished everyone who had a hand in your misfortune. The people you hurt now have nothing to do with the past." That was the hard part, accepting that you couldn't go on blaming people for actions they had not committed. It was as hard as accepting that you weren't to blame, either.
"Take me home," she murmured, not meeting his eyes. He could feel both shame and frustrated desire from her, and a desperate loneliness that she had never shown before. "Please, cher, take me away from here."
With more gentleness than he had ever displayed towards her, Ken took her arm and led her from the scene of their hunting. Once they were safely away from the area, he took her above, carrying her though the rooftop maze of smoke and chimneys. She rested her head on his shoulder like a child, her trust that he would return her safely complete.
Not wanting any of the members of the club to see its owner in such a state, Ken entered her apartment from the roof. He laid her down on the bed and kissed her forehead softly before he left. "Sleep well, Madeleine," he whispered as the door shut. He stopped briefly at the third floor to inform Walter that Madame was unwell, trusting that the devoted host would take care of her. And for the second time in as many nights, he made his way from Verderan's into the darkened streets of London.