1646 - Heel, Boy

Infuriating!

Beside himself with rage the young Mekhet paced the hallway with short, brisk steps.  The new heels on his shoes clacked on the marble floors as he did so, echoing through the silent gallery with occasional unintentional bursts of preternatural speed.  With his hands behind him one fist smacked rhythmically against an open palm.  In his anger he lashed out and only just stopped himself from destroying a vase on a nearby pedestal.

His patron was an idiot.  He had great personal power, obviously, but he was blind to the assets their relationship could provide.  His was the club, and a heavy club, thus the scalpel that the Shadow wielded so expertly went unappreciated.

His trained ears, sharper than any human’s, heard the patron’s footsteps much earlier than the elder Invictus would’ve preferred but it couldn’t be helped.  He could not apologize for what he was, nor would he.  It was unacceptable to continue this way, to be treated so -

“Stare fermi,” the patron said, and the supernatural power of the oath that bound them brought the Mekhet’s feet to a stop.  “Inginocchiati,” he said, and the same power brought the younger Invictus to his knees.

“Sembra che ancora una volta dobbiamo discutere questioni di rispetto e di protocollo...” the elder began, but the younger tuned him out.  This elder was deserving of respect; his many years and experiences had earned him that.  But the man was still a fool.  To be so self-righteous, so self-aggrandizing, these were mere minor character flaws.  But to treat a fellow Unconquered as lesser, regardless of difference in age or standing, was...unseemly at best.

Vaguely listening to the old fool’s babble, he who would one day become Lord Quinn of House Quinn swore that when he was the ancient things would be different.

1823 - Cut the Thread

Unto the Most Honorable Second Marquis Desmarais,

We were most disheartened to receive word of the death of your sire, the First Marquis Desmarais.  Our memories of that great Lord, and the respect we bear both him and his line, will live forever even though he is sadly lost.

We recall the years of your youth and your introduction to the Invictus and it was our honor to stand beside your sire at your time of manumission.  Though we have not been to Versailles, and Paris, in seventy-four years, we are gratified to know that you have continued to flourish there.  In your letter, sent earlier this year by courier, you wrote of assets at the palace and some measure of control over the Chamberlain of the King.  We know it can be difficult to stand tall in the shadow of an elder and you are to be congratulated for achieving so much.

It had not been our intention to respond to your request for political assistance at all.  However, our great respect for your sire, and for you, has led us to reply.  Furthermore, your sire died while still in a state of trivial prestation with us.  Despite our inability to provide the assistance you require,we hope this letter will resolve our obligation adequately.

There exists, in this country right now, an animus against enhanced interaction with other sovereign nations.  Its ruler, the President James Monroe, has recently offered a personal doctrine to the nation which has been readily accepted by its citizens.  He has promised them that there will be no attempts at colonization, nor any peaceful acceptance of related actions by outsiders.  We of House Quinn have supported this most vocally; we feel it is in keeping with the finest principles of the Invictus.  The first and greatest respect is self-respect, and we feel that this American Experiment, the desire to create a country from sand and determination, embodies that ideal.

Regrettably, however, this has earned us many enemies abroad.

We would be pleased to offer you our assistance, but we have little left in the way of political capital with Versailles.  Against our will, our ties there have been severed.  In earnest, we were surprised to learn that you and the Desmarais line were still willing to correspond with us.  We take it as a sign of friendship, and a welcome one.  If there is anything else we can do to be of assistance please feel invited to petition.  If you ever travel to the wilds of America, to the frontier we currently call home, we will be glad to offer hospitality.  But as for your request we are simply unable to comply.

Lord Quinn
House Quinn

1871/2014 - I Consign Thee to the Flames

In 2014, Lord Quinn stands and looks up at the flames engulfing the building.

In 1871, Lord Quinn stands and looks up at the flames engulfing the building.

No one sees him, but he sees all.  He sees the brave one, dashing up the stairs.  He will learn much.

No one sees him, but he sees only the burning building.  He sees the coward, running into the building against his will at the urging of his master.  He will die.

He sees the cautious one, and wrinkles his nose with disdain.  He takes a moment to consider the trespasser and watches him fly away.

He sees his other self through his mind’s eye and feels genuine fear for the first time in centuries.  He realizes what is coming and unconsciously begins to shake his head ‘no.’

Something deep within him insists he draw no closer to the flames, but he swats that fear away.  He is impervious to harm.

Something deep within him insists he draw no closer to the flames, and that fear almost consumes him.  The flames will destroy him like dry paper.

The raging blaze quiets, and he moves inside.  Someone has attacked his home and he will know who.

The raging blaze will not quiet for days, and the cost will be terrible.  Something has done him irreparable harm and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

Inside, he sees and feels much.  He obtains the valuable clues he needs.  He goes back to report.

Outside, he sees and feels too much.  He feels the horrible, unimaginable thing happen.  He goes back to report.

1992 – Why I Miss All The Best Parties

Standing over her body, he has no doubts that she was exsanguinated.  He’s seen it too many times.  He’s done it too many times.

There are no marks on her neck, but that’s common.  At least her assailant had that much decency.

A few interrogative touches later and the scene replays itself before him.  Images of a tall, unidentified man in a leather jacket.  Hunger while convincing her to open the door, traces of desire to flee the city on the doorknob from his escape.  A hint of regret, but not enough.  Impressions of fear on the item she used to defend herself.  A spent canister of pepper spray, useless for that purpose.  That would have to be destroyed.

When you want the job done right…

***

The pepper spray and a few similar incriminating items are all in a heavy duty trash bag now and ready for incineration.  All traces of blood wiped away, all signs of struggle removed.  Now came the closest thing to a hard part.

He pulls out his disposable Nokia, considers it briefly, and decides not to use it.  Whether he distrusts the new technology or simply prefers the old methods is unknown, possibly unknowable.  He puts it back in the pocket of his jumpsuit and extracts a small white handkerchief from a selection of colors.

He hefts her body in his arms, light from blood loss, and props it up in front of his by the picture window.  He waves the white handkerchief and ducks down.

The bullet rips through her head, splattering brains and what little blood is left.  By practice, by instinct, he lets go of the body a moment before the bullet hits.  The bullet passes through his right shoulder and embeds itself in the wall behind him.  The wound is an unfortunate necessity, but ballistics shouldn’t be able to tell.

He surveys the scene one last time.  Everything looks perfect except for the lack of blood splatter.  The head wound is ideal, but there should be blood everywhere.

I’m going to have to hit the hospital.

***

New Year Is Off To A Deadly Start

Chicago Tribune

January 02, 1993

The New Year was only minutes old when Joyce Foster made the sad discovery that a person is not safe from random gunfire even in her own living room.

The 28-year-old was killed as she stood near a window in a ninth floor apartment in a CHA high-rise building. The bullet, which ripped into her head, apparently was fired from the street, detectives said.

1962 - Do Me a Favor

Quickly, smartly, he moves through the city street.  The dead of night is never dead enough for some.  Even at this hour, Wacker is always alive.  He wears a dark, modern tux and a black overcoat.  A shadow in the shadow of the great Sears.

He reaches the ticket-taker.  He gives her his ticket.  She looks up from her book to chide him that he's too late for the performance, but somehow he senses her objection and folds a $100 bill in with the ticket.  She smiles and points him toward an usher but he is already moving.

He takes the marble steps two at a time.  He brushes past a plaque bearing many donors' names.  One of them was once his.

At the landing he approaches the door of a private box and enters.  Act III is just starting.  Perfect timing; Sparafucile's house.

If his target hears him coming, she doesn't show it.  He sits down just behind her and to her right.  "Your 20 scudi," he whispers, handing her an envelope.

She opens it just enough.  $10,000 and a photograph of Walter Kranz.  She smiles a morbid half-smile.

"It has to look like natural causes," he reminds her.

"No problem," she says.  "He's 80 years old and has leukemia.  I would think you could just leave well enough alone and time would do my job for you."

He makes no reply.

"Any last message for him?" she asks.

He pauses a moment, considering, and finally replies, "No psychics in my streets."

"I don't understand," she says and turns to question further but he is already opening the box curtain to leave.

1674 - History Repeats Itself

In a large yellow sitting room, two monsters are reading.  Both are uncomfortable.  One is put off by the scent of the hardwood floors, still new from installation, though he acknowledges that his reading companion wouldn't even notice it.  The other finds the openness of the room stifling, the bright colors off-putting.  Delicate white floral accents on the walls around them, matched with an elegantly scrolled fireplace and ornate couches, add to the formality and the beauty of the space, but do not put her at ease.

She looks up.  The one opposite her is rifling through a sheaf of papers, looking for a specific parchment he seems to have mislaid.  Curious and wary, she speaks her mind as ever.  "Pensez-vous que le Prince n'est pas intéressé par ce que vous avez à dire? Ou a son laquais fait cela sur son propre?"

Her companion looks up from his work.  "Quoi?"

She remains patient with him.  "Vous avez enfin un emploi du prince, et maintenant son serviteur vient le long. Je soupçonne que c'est une insulte contre vous."  Why he cannot see the potential danger is beyond her.

He puts the papers down on the table, and she relinquishes her copy of Exercitatio Anatomica de Motu Cordis et Sanguinis in Animalibus.  He raises an eyebrow and lifts a hand casually.  "Honnêtement, je crois que le chambellan agit de son propre chef."

"En outre," he presses on, "Ce que le prince veut de moi, c'est différent. Il connaît ma valeur."

She shakes her head, wishing he could see it the way she does.  "Vous ne savez pas comme je le fais. Il ya des roues dans roues ici."

He stares back at her, patient but defiant.  "Et si il ya? De prendre du recul et de voir les roues est de conduire l'entraîneur. Et j'ai une meilleure vue que quiconque."

He has a point.  "Roues dans roues créer des frictions ... Je n'aimerais pas voir que vous brûlez..." she protests half-heartedly.

He sees that he has won her over and he smiles.  The bright warm smile that marks a neonate.  "Ceux qui causent trop de friction se retrouvent bientôt sur ​​le feu."

She laughs despite herself.  "En effet, ils le font.  En effet, ils le font."

She picks up her book again, and he his parchments.

2013 - Rituals in the Dark

In a bare, white room, he sits gathering his thoughts and discarding them like loose trash cluttering an otherwise clean space.  As ancient and pure as meditation can be, he empties his mind through patient, singular focus.

He is dressed in white, loose-fitting, disposable clothes.  Paper shirt, pants, nothing more.  When the exercise is done they will be burned.  His eyes are closed, lost in lack-of-thought, luxuriating in the nonbeing.

The walls are white with no adornment; no pictures hang and no color is visible.  The room is small, a cynic might call it a cell.  There is a light antiseptic smell but otherwise no scent.  He sits cross-legged on the floor before a low table.  There are three items on the table before him.  A sheaf of papers with writing on them.  A sheaf of papers which are blank.  A fountain pen.

It is dark in the room, no light can enter it.  One might wonder how a room can be both white and dark, if the absence of light means an absence of color.  One might further wonder just how far the absence goes.  To a creature such as this, does even time itself exist in this room?  If the time has no immediately measurable effect on him (as it does not) and cannot be measured at all in this space (as it cannot), who is to say it is even there?

One might wonder, but he does not wonder such things now.  Such thoughts do interest him from time to time, but now is not that time.  Only the blessed blankness for him now, the total now, the total nothing.  Darkness in the white.

In this time which is not time, in a place which might not be a place, Lord Quinn reaches out his hand.  He picks up the pen.  He begins to transcribe words from the papers on his left to the papers on his right.  He sits in total darkness, eyes dispassionately drifting from one paper to the other as he writes, accuracy his only goal.  He drafted his letter earlier, but this is the copy that will go out.  The copy he will allow out of his control, that may end up in the hands of...who knows who.  It pays to be cautious.

His thoughts briefly drift back to a time before, when he was not so cautious.  When a letter he had written fell into the hands of an enemy and was traced back to him.  He sighs over all that it had cost him back then; it was long, long ago so there was no sense being emotional, but at the time it had been disappointing.

As quickly as it happens, Lord Quinn realizes that he has allowed himself thoughts.  When he looks down at the page before him now it is rank; it smells like rotting garbage, disappointment and regret, and a burning villa outside Paris.

He crumples the paper up and tosses it aside.  Then he closes his eyes and starts again.