AN: This chapter expands on the flashback in "The Teutonic Knight," chapter 6.
Nath leaned over the table, straining to read the handwritten journal, it pages yellowed with age and ink faded. After a long moment, he frowned, giving Marc a dubious look. "Are you sure that's what they were describing here?"
Marc shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, not really," he admitted. "It was dark – it looks like she had no idea what she was really seeing. But we have your Opa's story, and le Maquillon's journal. The timing works pretty well. And it makes sense of some of the details in our other sources."
"Maybe…" Nath shook his head ruefully. "Still, it's too bad we didn't figure this out months ago."
Paris, July 1942
The Lazarist stood behind the small hillock that Davidstern and the Maquis had chosen as their ambush site, the silent but stern behemoth that Davidstern had called his Golem crouching low to avoid being seen over the top of the hill. The men seemed uneasy, fidgeting in the darkness. There was a muttered curse followed by a thud, and one of the men dropped to one knee to pick up his rifle. The Lazarist gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowed intently as he looked back at the brilliantly-illuminated figure of Davidstern, alongside the maquisard who had called himself Jacques, both crouching low to avoid Davidstern's glow becoming visible from beyond the shelter of the hill. For seven centuries, the Lazarist's predecessors had defended France from her enemies and protected her people from whose who would do them harm. Two years ago, when the German invasion had commenced, the Lazarist had taken up his lance and left home to answer that call, to defend his nation. As a result he had not been home to protect those who had needed his protection the most.
Beneath his helmet, his eyes narrowed. His grip on the lance tightened. Last year, the enemy had come to his home.
Every night, he still dreamed of that night, of finding Arlette, dying in their bed of wounds he could not understand. Of Léon, lying in a pool of his own blood, covered in wounds from his desperate attempt to protect his sister from whatever horror had invaded their home. Of Éva's screams of terror that had echoed through the house for the next week. She had never truly recovered from whatever torture the monster had used. Unable to speak, unable to eat, unable to move, she had slowly withered away until nothing was left of the vivacious four-year-old who had brought such joy to his life. She had not died physically with her mother and brother, but she had died that day nonetheless. Some nights, Lucas still woke up in the middle of the night, reaching for Arlette's bloody hand, or cradling Léon's body as it turned paler and paler. He could still hear Éva's last whimpering breaths before her heart finally gave out.
What sick monster must this Vampir be, to torture his wife and children in such a way?
All Arlette had been able to tell him about the monster who did this to them was the name "Vampir." It was a name that the Lazarist had only heard a couple times before, and only in hushed tones. For the last year, he had spent every waking moment hunting through the French countryside for this monster. But apart from whispered rumors of a figure dressed all in black, leaving terror and death in his wake, there had been nothing. Then, two nights ago, a Free French leader had spoken of just such a person, spotted near Versailles. Then, before he could investigate, it had been the news of a convoy of French prisoners – hostages – being transported to Germany.
Duty called. Duty always called.
The Lazarist tensed, his mouth set in a thin line, and straightened his shoulders. He would not shirk his duty, regardless of the personal cost. He was the Lazarist Lancer, the embodiment of the ideals of the Order of Saint Lazarus. He would do his duty, for France, for the Order he represented, for his people whom he had sworn to protect. Regardless of the cost to himself personally, he had to carry out his vow, bearing arms in the name of his ancestors to defend his nation. There would be time to mourn and avenge his dead later, once the War had ended.
The sound of clattering wheels echoed down the tracks from the direction of the city, and suddenly Davidstern sprang into action, racing back toward the hillock with Jacques in hot pursuit. Maquisards jumped to their feet and clambered toward the hillock, checking their rifles and giving each other tense and uneasy looks as they huddled together near the foot of the hill. Still crouching beside the hillock, the Golem lifted its head and turned it slowly in the direction of Paris. With a sigh, the Lazarist hefted his lance and leaned it against his shoulder and strode purposefully after Davidstern.
Bent low, the light of his golden aura dimmed substantially, Davidstern watched something in the distance for a long moment before nodding to himself and straightening his back. Looking down the hillock toward the maquisards, he shrugged and gave his sword a twirl. "Well… Vive la France!"
At the cry, the maquisards raced up the hill, crouching near the top and pointing their rifles over it at the oncoming train. Davidstern rocketed up into the air, sending a massive pulse of golden light out in all directions, illuminating the night as if it was day. The Lazarist stood behind the maquisards, just below the top of the hillock, his lance couched across his arms, and studied the sight in front of them. A long, dark train barreled toward them, its headlamp extinguished but sparks flying from its wheels, picking up speed as it came. Three figures stood and hovered in front of it: an armored knight holding a sword, who floated along just in front of the train; a man in a dark cloak who stood on the ledge above the engine's cattle guard; and–
"Vampir…" the Lazarist whispered, too low to be heard.
He had only heard rumors of the monster's appearance – clothed all in black, able to float on a pillar of wind – but there was no mistaking the third person, hovering above the train, its cloak rippling in the breeze coming from the air column below it. At once, the Lazarist was filled with rage. Around him, the maquisards opened fire on the train; the armored knight waved his sword and shouted something the Lazarist couldn't hear, forming a silver-white shield out of thin air. The Lazarist stared in shock at the object of his hatred, illuminated by a golden glow that cast his face into darker shadow, his eyes appearing to be nothing more than dark pools of blackness. The shield separating the train and the maquisards reverberated with dozens of impacts, but without breaking. The large Golem rumbled out from behind the hillock. A massive blast of light from Davidstern struck the shield, only to deflect down into the ground below Vampir. The monster's shadowed lips curled in a smirk.
"Merde!" muttered the Lazarist, gripping his lance tightly and racing up the hillock, throwing himself out into the open space beyond with a shout of, "Atavis!" Just as gravity caught hold of him once again, wind whipped up around him, buoying him up into the air. Behind him, the maquisards turned their fire on the figure who crouched on the cattleguard, only for a red-tinted sphere of energy to appear around him, rippling with the bullet impacts. Holding his lance tightly in both hands, the Lazarist rocketed past Davidstern, straight toward the pillar of wind holding Vampir aloft. Vampir turned in his direction, his face coming into stark focus for a moment in the light emanating from Davidstern, waved his hand in front of himself, and formed a swirling black blade of solid darkness around his own sword, which whirred to life and cut straight toward the Lazarist. Drawing his lance in close, the Lazarist muttered, "Armis!" A thrum of energy, beginning from the butt of the lance, moved up through the lance's shaft until it reached the tip, sheathing the point with shimmering silver-white energy that extended down the sided of the lance and caused it to thrum in the Lazarist's grip. Vampir's black eyes flashed. The lance tip bit into the blade of darkness, piercing straight through it and shattering it into strips of blackness which dissipated in the light. With a cry, the Lazarist batted the sword blade away and thrust the lance forward into Vampir's chest, knocking him backward out of the whirlwind that had been holding him aloft. "What did you do to my family, monster?"
Falling backward away from the Lazarist, Vampir sneered. "So I did guess rightly." Wind picked up around him, propelling Vampir backward and higher in the air. Bringing his sword around, he slashed at the Lazarist's arm, the blade bouncing off with a metallic clang. "Surely, then, you must have seen my handiwork for yourself!"
The Lazarist raced through the air after Vampir, his eyes locked onto his mortal enemy's face, and shifted his lance to one side, blocking a sword slash and knocking the blade aside. Behind him, an almighty crash rang up from the direction of the train. "Your 'handiwork,' as you call it, was my everything!" the Lazarist roared, slipping the end of his lance between Vampir's legs and jerking to one side. Vampir rolled around, allowing the lance shaft to pass his legs harmlessly, and slid in closer. Bringing his legs together, he drove his foot into the Lazarist's thigh, pushing him back a meter. Recovering quickly, the Lazarist swung his lance around into a tight grip, pointing the tip at Vampir's chest. "They were four years old! My son and daughter, they were innocent! And you destroyed them!"
"'Innocence'," scoffed Vampir, batting the lance shaft away and muttering a phrase the Lazarist didn't understand. Blue lightning erupted from Vampir's hand and coursed over the Lazarist's body. Spots appeared in his vision, and he drifted backward, just before a thin blade swiped through the space where his head had been. "Innocence is only another word for weakness."
Blinking away the spots, the Lazarist raised his lance to block away a slash. "You took everything from me," he growled, glaring at Vampir and dropping into a defensive stance. "So I will take everything from you – if it is the last thing I ever do."
Vampir snorted. "Many have tried, hotheaded fool. None in twelve centuries has ever succeeded." Lightning fast, he lunged forward, held his hand out, and grabbed the Lazarist by the throat, pulling him in close. "You will be no different from all of those – this magic notwithstanding."
Shifting his lance into his other hand, the Lazarist grabbed Vampir's hand and pulled on his thumb. Vampir's iron grip remained secure. The Lazarist furrowed his brows in confusion and smacked his forearm into Vampir's with all his force, pushing him sideways through the air. Still, Vampir continued to hold his neck. Finally, the Lazarist thrust with his lance, driving it point-blank into Vampir's chest. The tip deflected off of the creature's suitcoat, and Vampir smirked. "What are you?" demanded the Lazarist.
"I am…" Vampir pulled him in close, and the Lazarist drove his head forward into Vampir's. Vampir's grip on his throat eased the slightest bit, and the Lazarist pulled his legs up close and pushed off of Vampir's chest, finally breaking his grip. He tumbled away through the air and stopped himself, holding his lance in a two-handed defensive stance. Vampir raised an eyebrow and hummed. "Interesting…"
"You will find me to be the last 'interesting opponent' you ever face!" snarled the Lazarist, winding up and thrusting his lance forward into Vampir's face.
Vampir ducked lazily to one side. "I hope not," he mused, grabbing the lance with one hand and pulling the Lazarist toward him. Vampir's sword came up faster than the Lazarist could follow, before he could move his head to the side. The last thing the Lazarist ever saw was the thin blade poking through the eye slit of his helmet. "Eternity would be so much duller without the… occasional 'interesting opponent'."