Dark Priest: Nightstalker, Chapter One
Disclaimer: I do not own Juvenile Orion or any of its TCG characters. Therefore, I do not own Diavolo or Edward Albright either.
We've been talking about an archaic century gothic vampire-hunting frilly-collar-wearing Tomonori-san in the Mindbreakers Anonymous forums. (If you haven't visited us yet, come check it out!) so I finally wrote down the weird fanfiction movie that's been playing over and over behind my eyes. I don't know what time period I'm shooting for so there may be many anachronisms. Curses, I like it better when it's AU and I can do as I please.
For those of you who are reading my other JO fics, I'm going to nerd camp for a month and therefore, will not be able to update till July 29.
Good news; I recaptured my inspiration for The Angel and I've written some more so hopefully it will be finished shortly after I get back. Courageous Fire is just in the stages of its infancy and (also, hopefully) the fifth and sixth chapters will be up, again, after I get back.
Dark Priest has three 'arcs' if you will. The first one is Nightstalker.
I'd like to give major huzzahs to Psycho Kitty, who helped me SO MUCH with Dark Priest and so, my dear, this chapter is for you:
"Ah, hello, Father." The innkeeper nodded to him courteously as he came in through the door. "Bad night, isn't it?"
As if in reply, a tongue of lightning flashed and sparked the darkness with the colour of a fresh bruise; a second later, a clap of thunder rolled ominously through the room. For an instant, the townspeople eating and drinking at the small pub paused and looked out through the windows curtained with rain. Then, the moment was over and the talk and clink of spoons and plates rose up again.
"Quite," the priest replied, raindrops clinging to his hair and spectacles. "I was wondering if you had a room available."
"But of course, Father," the man replied. He forced open a rusty drawer and rummaged around for a key. "Just sign the book." He shoved a tattered yellowing stack of papers in the priest's direction. The priest put down his baggage and adjusted his spectacles before leafing through the pile of records crudely bound together with rough black thread. He found an empty space and wrote scratchily with the wilting old quill he found near his elbow.
Innkeeper finally found the key he wanted and scanned the yellow page. "Father Tomonori Nakaura?" he said.
"Yes."
He nodded to him. "Well met, sir. Follow me."
-
The innkeeper stopped in from of a door at the end of a short musty-smelling hallway. "Here's your room."
Nakaura turned the key in its lock. The room was unlit and slightly dank with the moisture trying to seep in through the old brick and plaster. It was too dark to see, but there was what looked to be a bed, a chair, a writing table, perhaps.
"Supper is served down at the pub." The innkeeper thought of all the loud drunks and other assorted carousers leaning on the benches and spilling their ale. "But we can bring it up to your room if you'd like," he added hurriedly.
"Thank you, that's very kind."
"What would you like? We have good mince pie today and roast fowl-"
"Anything simple will do. Small portions. And tea."
The man nodded. "When do you want it sent up?"
"An hour, thank you."
Nakaura listened intently for the innkeeper's heavy footsteps fading away down the rickety staircase before he looked back into the room. Again, he felt something tingle at the back of his neck, just as when he had put the key into the lock. Slowly, carefully, he reached into one of the deep pockets of his long dark coat and drew out a silver cross the size of his hand and then the fine chain welded to the top of the cross. He deftly wound one end of the chain around his palm and held the cross between his fingers. Leaving his bags outside for now, he stepped inside the room and silently shut the door.
The darkness pressed upon him like a tangible thing, like a heavy cloth. Nakaura hit his foot on a table leg and tensed. The small sound seemed magnified. He could hear his own breath as loudly as the thunder outside.
"My master sends you greetings, Heir of Cain," a low murmuring voice came from somewhere beyond. Nakaura wheeled around blindly. The voice sniggered at his distress. "We killed the last one, you know. Is that why you're here?"
"Demon!" Nakaura hissed, his eyes narrowing.
"Yes-s," his enemy said sibilantly. "And you're a demon hunter." He watched Nakaura stumble against a chair. "Though not a very adept one, I see. Your predecessor, I should tell you, was a true warrior. My master enjoyed fighting him. He enjoyed pulling apart his ribcage to tear out his heart. He enjoyed hearing his screams."
"Your master is a murderer!" Nakaura shouted. The demon was trying to catch him off-guard, to find a weakness.
"Yes but after all, so are you."
The priest's lip curled. "You dare associate us with you? You're a scourge on this earth and it's our duty to eradicate you and your ilk in the name of God!"
"In the name of God?" The demon sounded disgusted. "Is that so? Would your God want his children to stain their hands with blood? Is that what your God is? Your god is nothing."
"We stain our hands to purify the earth. There is honour in that."
"Do you think so?" Nakaura sensed the demon getting ready to spring. He could hear the faint sounds of black wings unfolding. "Then which soldier of God are you?"
Suddenly, a cross spun out through the darkness like a bolt. The silver metal glowed milky blue, then hot white. Nakaura heard a wet crunch as the cross buried itself deeply in the demon's chest and it fell to its knees. Nakaura could feel his WIZ-dom power crackling through the air, weaving in through the fibres of his skin. By the light of the glowing cross, he could see a humanoid form, a tumble of brown hair, the claws protruding from slender aristocratic hands.
As Nakaura walked closer, the demon saw him silhouetted in a pearly glow. "You…you knew my movements from…from the instant you entered. All that stumbling about, that was…" The demon smiled sickly and blood ran out of his mouth. "You could see me in the dark."
Nakaura pulled the cross out with a wrench. The demon screamed like a wounded animal. Nakaura's fingers flicked towards his boot, and he pulled out a thin pointed dagger. He held it to the demon's throat. "Who is your master? Where is he?"
The demon's green eyes widened. "You…I've heard of you. I've heard…heard your name…whispered." He went on with difficulty. "A priest. Feared…who sees in darkness…I know your name…"
"Who is your master?" Nakaura said again, sharply.
"Blindchild!" the demon sputtered. "You're Blindchild! A-h-h…"
Nakaura waited, his dagger ready. The demon was silent for so long that he thought he had killed it. He could hear the rain beating its fists against the glass windowpane. The wind picked up.
"You…" the demon said finally. His voice sounded weak. "The other was…was…a novice- Master! Master, you knew who he was and you…sent me…to him." The demon grunted. "But my master will…come for me…and…he will…pluck out your…accursed eyes…"
"Not if he is dead," Nakaura whispered. The demon laughed, a terrible gurgling sound.
"Fool," he rasped. "He is…already dead."
"Vampyre," Nakaura murmured as his grip on his knife tightened. The demon laughed again and slumped to the floor.
Nakaura seized him by his hair and pulled him back up but it was too late. He was dead. Giving a shout of frustration, the priest rammed his knife into the demon's heart and twisted the blade to finish him cleanly. As he wrenched it out, he could see blood on his gloves. Would your God want his children to stain their hands with blood?
"You know nothing of my god," Nakaura said gruffly and let the demon crumple to the floor. The back of his neck prickled again, and he gave the delicate chain a flick. His cross snapped up, still bloody, and floated in the palm of his hand. He could feel himself begin to glow.
A dark shadow alighted by the window. "I do not come to fight you, WIZ-dom," it said in a voice that reminded Nakaura of autumn leaves rustling on a current of wind. "I come only for what is my master's property."
Nakaura nudged the demon's body with a leather boot. "Take him then, and get you gone."
The other demon dropped down into the room and flung the body over his shoulder. "You will pay for this with your blood, priest."
"Who will collect this vengeance? Your precious master?"
"Yes," the demon said. "and he will tear that flippant tongue from your mouth."
"I doubt it highly," Nakaura retorted. "He is naught but a lower Darklore."
"He is Master Diavolo," the demon hissed angrily. "It is a name you will scream when you beg for mercy."
"Your kind have no mercy," Nakaura said. "But I do, so go now before it wears too thin."
With a last baleful glare, the demon walked to the edge of the roof and spread its wings, taking off into the hellish thunderstorm.
Nakaura smiled faintly, the rain bathing his face. "Master Diavolo, eh? Thank you for your information; I killed one of your comrades for it in vain, but it seems that Darklore underlings have loose jaws." He shut the window.
He found a striker and lit the lamps in his room. He didn't need light to see, but it comforted him, made him feel more…human. He surveyed the damage as he looked around; nothing seemed to be broken or marred but there was a dark stain on the floor. When he opened the door to retrieve his baggage, he was surprised to find it still there but then again, it was a rather unlucky thing to steal from a man of God.
As he was opening one of the small suitcases, he heard someone knock on the door. Hurriedly, he placed one of the bags over the dark stain and stripped off his bloody gloves and jacket, throwing them somewhere unnoticeable. He answered the knock.
"Your supper, Father," a large young woman said, hefting the tray as easily as a leaf. He let her in, thanking her.
"Here then," she said as she eyed the fireplace. "They didn't even build up a fire for you?" She got to working on it.
"I…didn't know it was supposed to be."
"Well there's no point letting you freeze to death before you even set foot in our church."
Nakaura looked at her curiously. "I beg your pardon?"
"Aren't you the one taking the place of our other priest?"
Nakaura shook his head. "No, I'm just passing through. What's this about?"
Her brown eyes broadened and her freckles stood out as her face paled. "Why, he was found dead."
"Dead?"
She nodded. "Ayeh, and terribly too." She shook her head. "Who would do such a thing?"
"I don't know. What was this priest's name?"
"Father Edward Albright."
Nakaur sucked in a breath, pretending to be shocked by this sudden news. So you killed our agent Albright, did you? Edward Albright. Goldshield.
"You look like you've seen your ancestor's ghost, Father," she said. "Did you know him?"
Nakaura nodded. "He was part of my order." He sighed. "Edward. I can't believe he's dead."
"I'm sorry, Father."
Nakaura nodded and clapped his hands together decisively. "In any case, since I'm already here, I suppose I should send word to the order, see if there's anything I can do."
She smiled. "Thank you; we would appreciate it greatly."
As soon as she left, Nakaura undid the snaps of one of the suitcases and unwound a roll of cloth with a roll of tubes sealed up with stoppers. He chose one and unplugged it, swirling the clear liquid inside. Shifting his other suitcase, he unearthed the dark bloodstain underneath.
"Let the holy water cleanse it," he whispered and tipped a drop of the clear liquid onto the stain. There was a flash of blue light. The floor was clear again.
He did the same with his gloves and jacket. He dabbed some of the liquid on a cloth and burnished his dagger and cross till they gleamed. Emptying half of the tube into the water in the washbasin, he gave his face and hands a thorough scrubbing, feeling the holy water tingle as it did away with the flecks of blood on his forehead, his cheeks. As he was washing at his chin, he stopped and looked into the cracked mirror. He undid his high collar and then the white cravat at his throat; it fell away, revealing a tall metal band that collared his neck. He ran his fingers across the line of tiny runes that were etched down the side. They flared yellow for a moment then faded. With a faint click, the collar opened and he removed it, washing his neck. His skin had become tough there with the constant chaffing of the smooth metal.
The Vampyre Diavolo, he thought to himself and carefully dried his skin before putting the band back in place and tying the cravat carefully over it. WIZ-dom issued all their agents with demon-hunting weapons but only its Ordo Sagittariī received this, a high collar that protected the neck. The wide cravat made of strange material that guarded the jugular vein. Ordo Sagittariī. The Order of the Archer. WIZ-dom's specialised vampire-hunting section.
Their soldiers were spread far and thinly. Nakaura suspected that he did not even know a tenth of the members and he had not met any of his known associates on his travels except for a friend in the north. And now, Edward Albright, though it was too late.
Nakaura sighed. He would have to send a letter to WIZ-dom headquarters informing them of the priest's death.
He rebuttoned his high collar. Time to get to work. He unpacked a slender brush from the pockets of his suitcase. Dipping it in the tube, he began to sketch runes on the splintery doorframe, working from the base of the left side to the right; his hands moved on their own, the fingers knowing the different sigils by heart.
"I cast a guard over this door," he whispered. "None who mean me ill shall pass. None born of darkness shall pass. I bar this way; none shall touch me. My defence shall be stronger than a thousand shields of steel, more resilient than layers of diamond, more powerful than a host of erupting stars."
His spell went on and on, his voice steady and confident. He had to stop in the middle to retrieve a fresh tube of holy water and he could feel the magic trying to twist away and escape but he caught the wayward threads of it in an iron grip. He returned with the tube then continued. Finally, the runes ended at the bottom of the right panel.
"Incipi. Dei Benedictio." he whispered and the sigils painted with holy water flared once, like an intricate golden design set into a throne, and then he felt the spell weave itself together into a clean knot.
Satisfied, he went to the window to do repeat the process.
As he finished, he felt his exhausted limbs weigh him down. He'd been travelling since yesterday. The simple ward on the door and window had taken him twice as long and the fatigue that hit him after he had whispered the last of the spell was worse than usual. If this Diavolo really is after my life, I'm easy pickings in the state I'm in.
Nakaura hung his jacket and robe over a chair, unlaced boots clouded with travelling dust, and took care to put his cross and chain under his pillow. Just as a precaution, he checked one of his revolvers to make sure was loaded with silver bullets and then hid it in the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed before falling back against the sheets. He lay on his back with one arm pillowed behind his head and reached over left-handedly to the tray beside him for a roll of bread, which he ate slowly as he stared up towards the ceiling.
So, Goldshield is dead, he thought dispassionately. I wonder whom they'll send to replace him. He finished the roll and picked up a tart. Bluepin is a good choice or maybe Tallowick. He sighed and turned over but froze as he heard a rustling sound. They wouldn't come after him so quickly, would they? It was unheard of; the Darklore would need to regroup, come up with a new strategy. Otherwise, it was suicide and the master that ordered it, a fool. Eventually, he realised that it was only the sound of his black trousers against the blanket and laughed at himself unashamedly. When you're a hunter, Paranoia is your bosom friend.
Eating the tart crumbs from his fingers, he sat up and poured himself a cup of hot tea. He tossed it back thirstily and refilled his cup. As he leaned forward, the metal band fell against the back of his neck. He paused and touched it, frowning.
He remembered from long ago, steady gold eyes like two amulets. They narrowed derisively as they flicked toward his guns, his cross. His cravat. "You've been transferred," he murmured in a voice the colour of deep soft velvet. Nakaura hurled his cross at him but the man side-stepped it easily, his long dark hair swinging across his shoulder. "The Order of the Archer, isn't it? Ordo Sagittariī." He chuckled. "My my, now I'm your main priority, eh? Flattering."
"Shut up!" Nakaura shouted at him and the cross went spinning. This time, the man was too slow. The edge of the silver cross nicked his cheek.
He touched the spot and examined his bloody fingers with some amusement. "You just might be worth my time, Blindchild." The rings in his ears glinted in the moonlight as he tilted his head speculatively, his eyes on Nakaura's cravat. "So, they've but a collar around your neck, have they? You really have become a WIZ-dom dog."
The young priest glared at him. The man laughed softly. "Ah, Blindchild, you're far too pretty when you're angry."
"Why don't you fight back?" Nakaura snapped. Suddenly, he was staring into the man's face. The vampire had his arm in a viselike grip. How had he breached such a distance in the blink of an eye?
"Do you want me to fight back?" he whispered, his good mood gone. He pushed Nakaura back roughly. "Don't presume too much," he said darkly. "When I said you might be worth my time." He turned his back on Nakaura, black wings beginning to sprout from near his shoulder blades. The priest pulled out his gun and fired. The vampire shifted slightly and the silver bullet whizzed past his ear.
"Don't test your luck, novice!" the vampire barked out from over his shoulder. "I could kill you right now! Go on. Train, learn your skills, and come back when you're ready to face me. I haven't used my power against you yet because we met when you were a demon-hunter, but now you're an Heir of Cain and I will destroy you!" Suddenly, he turned and smiled, bowing like an aristocrat. "Till then, Tomonori."
As he straightened, he flew off from the roof in one swoop. His great wings seemed to blot out the moon.
Nakaura looked up into the sky furiously. "Tracer!" he roared.
I was so much younger then, Nakaura thought, sitting back against the headboard and resting a hand over his eyes. I was a dunce.
He had only been a newly ordained vampire-hunter then and didn't know who had almost killed him. When he had mentioned the incident to one of his instructors, all hell had broken loose in the WIZ-dom training buildings. He had been questioned again and again. 'When did it happen?' 'How could the vampire have withstood the powerful building wards?' 'What possessed you to climb up to the roof in the dead of night when you should have been sleeping in the dormitory?'
Nakaura couldn't explain; it was as if something had pulled at him, drawn him, and suddenly he found himself tying up his cravat and lacing up his boots. Suddenly, he found himself standing on the roofing shingles facing him. Perhaps something had possessed him.
He had very calmly told his interrogators that he'd seen the vampire before, but they had shouted and caused more hell nonetheless.
It had been on a standard demon-hunting mission when all of a sudden, Nakaura had found himself cornered and surrounded by a host of humanoid ordinary-looking demons and realised that he had walked into a trap. Still, he had improvised and easily held his own, swinging his cross in a circle around him as a protective forcefield and using a burst of his power that felled all of his attackers instantly.
As he stood there among the stench of steaming demon corpses, breath coming in raggedly, he spotted a tall dark figure looking over the scene from atop a nearby building. Nakaura had not even felt his presence.
The man grinned in a feral way and plucked the cigarette from his mouth. "Not bad, child," he said, gesturing with the cigarette. "You'll bear watching."
As a novice, he had seen him time and again. He soon grew to hate him. He hated the teasing, the subtly barbed comments, the word traps, and the flippant grin. More to the point, though Nakaura didn't want to face it, the thing he hated the most was fear. He feared this strange man who appeared and disappeared so swiftly and remained unaffected by the worst of Nakaura's attacks. He feared the power behind that jaunty smirk.
"Are you mad?" one of the interrogators had burst out when Nakaura had blandly related some of the attacks he had thrown at Tracer. "Nakaura, do you know who you are dealing with? He's a vampire!"
"Vampire," the young priest repeated faintly. My enemy. My quarry.
"Not just any vampire, but a Veti, Tracer. He controls strange powers we've never seen; anyone who has tried to hunt him has turned up dead."
"And he let you live," one of the others had murmured wonderingly.
-
Why? Nakaura thought as he drank off his third cup of tea. Why did you let me live? He set the cup back on the tray with a clink and began to pare an apple. I was a mere demon-hunter, back then. I was only a silly novice-boy.
"Anyone who's tried to hunt him has turned up dead."
Nevertheless, though Nakaura travelled Europe exterminating vampires seemingly at random, he always travelled in an alarmingly clear direction.
The direction of Tracer.
But am I hunting him or is he hunting me? The thought sent a chill down his spine.
Why had he let him live? Nakaura had known Tracer long enough to suspect he was...well, bored. He had been blighting the earth long before Nakaura was even born and would be around long after the priest died or the vampire killed him.
Tracer was quite an old vampire. Ancient. He was one of the Veti. The Old Ones.
And he was bored.
He needed a challenge, an enemy; someone to provoke, someone to fight.
For the time, Nakaura was that someone.
After a time, Nakaura would be one of the dead ones.
Instead of the prospect frightening him, the priest felt a small thrill in his stomach. Maybe I need a challenge too, he admitted reluctantly.
And he was looking forward to it, this final battle with Tracer, just as he knew the vampire was waiting for the day, as well.
Tracer had engaged him in a few fights through the years, probably to see how he was coming along. Nakaura was pleased to notice that the vampire had steadily begun to use increased amounts of power against him as the fights went on.
Perhaps, Nakaura sometimes thought, Tracer had seen potential in him that first time they had met. Perhaps he had wanted the priest to be inducted into the Order of the Archer.
A flash of memory glued itself onto his eyes: Tracer, bowing to him, "Till then, Tomonori."
Tomonori. The priest's face flushed with rage. When the vampire had accused him of being presumptuous, he was not the only one of the two.
"…now you're an Heir of Cain…" Tracer was not the only one who called him that; it seemed to be the epithet all Darklore used for vampire-hunters.
Cain. The Biblical figure who had killed his own brother.
Nakaura wondered what it meant.
He covered a jaw-cracking yawn and realised he was seeing sleepy rings around the candles. He placed his tray outside the door and extinguished the wicks in the lamps. Nestling between the coarse dark blankets, he fell asleep listening to the rain.
Ha, I love writing gothic. And my most popular stories are romantic angst. Therefore, gothic romantic angst!
Thank you, Latin, for making all sorts of boring things sound cool with your Latin-ness.
Just as I never really knew Itsuki until I made him my main character in Courageous Fire, I never sounded the depths of Nakaura until Dark Priest. He's all cool and…vampire hunt-ified.
Edward Albright: Order of the Archer. Dig it.
FM: (poke)
Edward: What? Oh yeah, forgot; review please, people!
FM: Thanks. Now go back to your grave.
Edward: What grave? I was horribly mutilated…
FM: Just go away.