A Journey of Black and Red

June 1st 1862, Boston. Accords Headquarters.

“Pierce. Shred. Bind.”

Constantine moves lazily and counters each attack one by one, slipping a bolt between two deflects. I expected it this time, and I manage to shield it.

“I need a break,” I finally say, as I feel a painful drain on my essence. The Speaker nods and vanishes his soul weapon.

“You are making progress. I must admit that I was wrong. Your style is compatible with magical duels after all.”

“A work in progress,” I admit as I check for damage on my dueling gear. There are a few marks where the fabric was singed, but Constantine refrained from using too much power. Once more, my pride is the only casualty here.

“I am intrigued as to how you manage to cast correct spell sequences while moving and fighting.”

“My intuition allows me to feel which spell would be right if I focus enough,” I admit. I could hide this piece of information from Constantine, but I see no reason to do so. I must improve quickly, and he is the best magic teacher around now that I have mastered the basics.

“The rest will come with experience,” Constantine continues, “I admit my own lack of practice when it comes to battle. Wilhelm told me that I was too static, and that I made poor use of my soul weapon. What do you think?” he asks.

I consider the question in silence. I have more experience than him when it comes to scraps. Magic requires a lot of attention, one of the reasons why a lot of mages deploy shields to shelter them while they cast. To fight and cast at the same time is an art that only vampires can truly master, as others lack the time to do so.

“I think that spells are your main weapon. If you use your soul chain defensively, they are not being underused, they are simply your backup. Your main opportunity probably lies in proper repositioning. Sometimes, it is better to be at the right place and right time rather than throw artillery spells from behind. Especially in a vampire battle.”

“You are probably right. I will work with my bodyguards to be more mobile across the battlefield. It will allow me to support more squads. Enough of this. The lesson is over for tonight.”

I unlatch my breastplate and give it to an attendant. The fortress’ sparring room is unusually large, and quite empty at the moment. All squads have gathered in preparation for an offensive that I am not privy to, due to safety concerns. I would be annoyed if I had not such a great control over the way we influence the civil war, with the trusting support of the rest of the Accords, and with minimal oversight.

“How are things progressing with the mortal conflict? Are you satisfied with the conduct of the war?” Constantine asks as we move up the fortress.

I frown as I consider my answer.

“It goes slowly. Every month we spend without major victories in the East increases the risk that the Confederacy receives international recognition. The English may have been scalded by the French recklessness in Mexico, but they will jump on an opportunity if the rebels offer them a good one. It will happen if they grow desperate.”

“Hmmm, the English only ever support the winning side,” Constantine judges, “but more importantly, do you think that you can assist the Union’s army? The eastern theater has remained inconclusive.”

“Lincoln is pressuring general McClellan to move. The relationship between those two is frayed, but the president has so far declined to dismiss him. I am, myself, worried. Several skirmishes have gone in the Confederates’ favor despite Union superiority in terms of, well, everything. Save for commanding skills apparently. General McClellan’s slowness is a poor omen. The upcoming campaign will show whether or not my worries are warranted.”

“And in the West?”

“That is the thing. Union forces have forced a withdrawal from the major crossroad of Corinth just yesterday. Our more minor theater has an overabundance of skilled and aggressive leaders, while the eastern one, a dearth. I was hoping to force a transfer but I was advised not to push the issue in the middle of a campaign.”

“You do not change a general mid-battle.”

“Indeed. Much relies on individual decisions. I considered sabotaging the Confederate leadership, but I was strongly advised against it. Apparently, there is a taboo on disabling civilian and military leaders.”

“There are no entities on the continent that we need to justify ourselves to.”

“And yet it would create a dangerous precedent, and lead to questions we want to avoid among the mortals. Or at least that is how Suarez put it.”

Constantine raises an eyebrow.

“Not Sephare?”

“She does not have a monopoly on covert actions. In any case, sabotaging Confederate infrastructures has led to some difficulties.”

“There is not much to sabotage?” Constantine asks with amusement.

“Essentially, yes. The resources used when compared to the effects obtained makes such maneuver prohibitive. The Roland twins also told me that most of their mortal agents harbor a strong loyalty towards their own state. They are unwilling to reduce them to cattle to fit our agenda, something I can appreciate. Southern production facilities are also spread out. It makes much more sense for us to reinforce the north.”

“I understand. Save for a military disaster, the only possibility of defeat lies in the next elections. I have ordered our networks to give you their full support when it comes to information control. Many of us Wardens have taken over the major newspapers in our own states. I trust that you have done the same?”

“Melusine and I consolidated our holds years ago,” I scoff. As if I could let some louts slander and rabble-rouse to their heart’s content! Many of those journalists are more interested in provoking a response than in informing the public in a responsible, truthful manner. Upstart, social-climbing little careerists, the lot of them. Ugh.

“You should not frown that much Ariane, you are scaring the staff.”

“Sorry. Some of those paper-pushers left a metaphorical bad taste on my tongue that I had to wash away with their blood.”

“Not helping.”

We finally arrived at Constantine’s office. His aide Sophia stands and we both greet her. I turn to the Speaker one last time before I go to attend to my own matters.

“In any case, we have further stacked the odds in favor of a side that was already the likely winner. The rest is in the hand of the mortals.”

Especially McClellan. I hope he delivers.

We exchange a few farewells, and I return to the ‘mortal intelligence room’, a large open space in the basement with a map at its center showing the current border and troop concentrations. Access is restricted to approved vampires and mundane mortals with a knack for organization and data analysis.

A pale man wearing a monocle charges me, brandishing a sheaf of papers. He slows down as he approaches but blabbers with the air of a scholar with too many thoughts bouncing around his head.

“Black Dog Hopkins sends word of the White Cabal progress. They have seeded infirmaries with agents, but apparently there has been a drive to do that on both sides to preserve lives regardless of allegiance.”

The Watcher save me from bleeding hearts. I use my superior discipline to prevent my eyes from inspecting the back of my skull.

Though, come to think of it, medical mages capable of long-range communication from behind enemy lines would be a boon.

“I will discuss it with him later. What else do you have for me?”

“Johnston and McClellan are clashing today. Reports are still inconclusive.”

“You should have started with that. What else?”

We go over several things and I make a few decisions that cannot wait, as well as a few others that my advisors and I worked on before. I do not believe that I am particularly smart myself, but I do have access to a broad range of talents to help me. Sometimes, I make mistakes. Such a thing is inevitable in the chaotic environment we find ourselves in. I do not allow it to sway me. It is better to be decisive and sometimes err than be late and allow opportunities to pass me by.

Besides, those are unknown mortals dying, and I cannot find it in me to care overmuch.

I retire to my quarters as dawn approaches. I already petitioned to travel south, to the human frontline, in order to better understand and coordinate our resources, but Constantine refused me for safety reasons. I would complain, but I would rather not wake up to a hostile lord again, and so I have remained in the relative safety of our fortress. I have to make do with cold reports for now.

I know little about the vampire side of the war, save that our side has won several skirmishes through clever use of the home advantage. The civil war has helped us a lot by having locals more wary of sudden influxes of foreigners, and we have used it to our advantage. It also appears that the enemy’s supply of Fae blood, which had given them an edge in early battle, is running out with no opportunity for a quick replacement. I have high hopes that the foe’s position will soon become untenable. I just have to be patient.

June 2nd, middle of the afternoon.

Every day is the same. I wake up, find more reports waiting for me, and soak up all those changes. For the first time in my life, the Rosenthal essence has become the most useful one. The late afternoon is usually reserved for sparring and this time, it will be with Wilhelm of the Erenwald under whose authority the fortress functions. I am therefore surprised when he knocks on my door as I finish getting dressed.

“Yes?”

“You could have warned me that soldiers would be conducting training nearby. Any troop concentration in the vicinity makes me nervous.”

I freeze. And freeze some more. I comb my memories for any related report, and find none.

“As they should! We are being attacked!” I spit.

Wilhelm stares at me for one second, then grabs a medallion from around his neck. He presses its metal surface, and a siren sounds throughout the complex. The windows behind me, already shuttered, vibrate as heavy steel plates descend to seal them shut. The same is happening everywhere throughout the complex. On the ground floor, I hear the mustering yells of the garrison.

It suddenly occurs to me that I may have been hasty in my judgement. It could have been an unscheduled…

“Do not second guess yourself. If it is not enemy action, then it is at the very least a good exercise. Now, go to Constantine’s office, I will be there shortly.”

I run back into my bedroom to grab the case containing my gear and rush down to the Speaker’s quarters. His door lies open, and a stairway, previously covered, descends into a cave that I did not know existed. Melitone, Constantine’s servant and twin sister, urges me on.

“Join him. I will fetch Marshal and we will take shelter separately.”

Marshal, huh? I always call Sheridan Sheridan. The two of them are getting awfully comfortable with each other.

Focus, Ariane. Battle first, possibly catastrophic consequences of Constantine’s and my human being a thing later.

I step down into a large rectangular room of surprisingly large dimensions, leading me to believe that the rock beneath the manor has the structure of Swiss cheese and more chambers than a beehive. All sass dies in my mind as I take in Constantine’s seat, not of political power, but of magical might. We are in his sanctum. There, he holds the bindings to most of the land’s defenses.

“Your warning came just in time for the village guards to retreat, though I fear that for the outer gate men, it was too late.”

The tall Progenitor faces a far wall entirely filled with rows upon rows of reflective surface rendering a kaleidoscope of sceneries, so many that my mind suffers an unusual feeling of vertigo. I see trees, rooms, corridors, fixed defenses. I narrow my focus on the few that Constantine currently focuses on. The silvery, deformed shapes of impostors in Union uniforms sprint across a small clearing. Two sentries lie on the ground, quite dead.

Constantine raises his heavily decorated staff and two golems burst out from the trunks of dead trees. They are thin, insectile shapes made of blades and hard edges. They mangle the attackers with a level of savagery that even I would not match. In mere moments, the squad of a dozen attackers is meat across the ground.

“Well,” I remark laconically, “that’s the end of that.”

“No,” Constantine answers with a deep, throaty voice. He turns around and I see for the first time in thirty years a new emotion on the Speaker’s face.

Rage.

“I have only just begun.”

The next few minutes are the very embodiment of something I fear: bloodshed without the pleasure of the Hunt. Murder on an industrial scale. As soon as the last elderly attendants passed the gate, Constantine turned the forest, lower village, and path to the manor into a death trap of unprecedented proportions. I watch, mesmerized, as soldiers spread out only to be taken out by those thin, mantis-like golems, then they regroup around mages who can disable their simple frames with spells.

“Fire mage, mark twenty-seven,” I inform Constantine at his request.

“Excellent. Thank you. Now, to give them a warm welcome.

Incinerate,

Burn to cinders,

Those intruders,

That I did bait.

Arcane rain.”

The circle around the standing Progenitor ignites in furious crimson and a large ‘boom’ shakes the manor to its foundations. Through layers upon layers of rock and enchanted steel, I hear a sound like a dozen tea kettles about to boil over. Three seconds later, the mirror goes blind.

I brush some dust from the top of my dress.

“I think we lost vision on mark twenty-seven,” I say.

“That is quite alright. So did everyone else. Another target, if you please?”

I look around, but our foes are in full retreat. Out of the three or four hundred impostors converging on the manor, more than a hundred have perished in the span of twenty minutes. There are pit traps lined with serrated spikes that opened on major paths now with corpses clogging their surface, the dozens of spikes running red with lifeblood. A steel cable snaps out of nowhere and plucks one of the retreating men from his line before sliding back like a snake with its prey. Some trees have exploded to reveal golems while others, a more immediate payload. Magical wires, previously inactive, triggered as a careless foot came by to catch them in sharpened bear traps. Parts of the forest are on fire. Others are glassed over. Plumes of smoke obscure several mirrors.

“Err, I think they are retreating to their main lines. Mirrors one through, hmm, seven.”

“Ah yes, the edge of the property.”

“They will probably wait for nightfall. I see sarcophagi and secured carriages. How did they even come so close?”

“That is for Wilhelm to find out later. For now, let us continue with our task. Come with me please.”

We climb back up, then down through the main stairway with Constantine’s bodyguards in tow. The manor’s surface is deserted. According to protocol, all non-combatant personnel should have reached the secured vaults at the bottom of the hill. The vault has several escape tunnels that can only be opened from the inside, and not without Constantine’s knowledge to limit the risk of a traitor letting enemies in. This is only one of the many measures in place to assure the safety of the fortress’ denizens. For once, Constantine’s meticulous efforts are bearing fruits.

“How many traps are there anyway? How long did it take to prepare that many devices.” I ask as we calmly walk down.

“I have been working on and upgrading the defenses since I first moved here, so one hundred years, give or take? As for the number of traps, your question makes no sense. Some of those can be rearmed or remade if they are disabled, while others toe the line between spell aides for me and traps proper. Does the giant mutated fish by the river count as a trap, or as a guardian?”

“We have a mutated fish?” I sputter.

“Indeed. Which reminds me, I have to tell the cooks not to throw potato peels in the waters. Wilhelm says the fish has trouble digesting them. The potato peels, I mean, good chefs are hard to come by. Ah, here we are.”

Constantine presses a segment of rock that looks like just any other surface around. It depresses, and a concealed passage opens. I must have passed this specific place a thousand times. I never noticed it.

Inside, I find a square room with a tall ceiling, as well as the two largest golems I have ever seen encased in complex scaffoldings.

I have assisted the Speaker in building constructs before, and they had always struck me as objects of exquisite precision. His mortal past as a watchmaker was more vocation than employment, and it shows in his work.

These golem are different. Only passion and inspiration could produce such seamless union of art and deadly efficiency.

And they are huge.

Easily as tall as three men, the behemoths shine under the golden light of enchanted lanterns, their surface as smooth as that of placid lakes. The air whistles around magically-sharpened blades, unmoving, for now. Helmets suitable for emperors hide their most delicate systems. I manage to hide my awe through great effort.

“Quite a sight eh?”

“Oh. Yes,” I reply neutrally.

“No need to pretend, you have been staring for a whole minute already. I was about to launch them.”

Dammit.

Constantine smirks and approaches a small pulpit. I join him, only to see a single, massive red knob the size of an orange popping out of its center, with ‘launch’ inscribed in fat runes underneath.

Constantine blinks and turns to me.

“I have been looking forward to this. Not the attack. This.”

His fist smashes the thing and, with a strange sound like something winding up, the golems detach from their protective frames. They step forward. The ground trembles!

Two openings in the far wall slide up, then down after their passage.

“I have created a vestibule to protect the operators from the touch of sunlight,” Constantine says, proud with his foresight.

“Can you not call it a lock like everybody else?”

“I made them, Ariane. I call them however I please. Now, look behind the frame where the left golem used to be. There should be a mirror there. I planned on slaving both golems to the central control, but having another pair of eyes will serve just as well.”

I follow his instructions and find a chair hidden within the depths of the scaffolding, hidden under several tons of enchanted steel and other exotic elements. I sit gingerly, and swallow a yelp when the mirror before me comes to life and displays the manor’s exterior, close to the ramp leading up the hill. The two golems are walking down the path to the mortal village beneath. Everything feels so… tiny.

“You have but to touch the mirror and repeat a simple command for the golem to obey. It will recognize, kill, capture, take, and destroy. Do not attempt anything too complicated. Only I have the full knowledge of their programming,” Constantine mutters as he fiddles with an array of instruments like an organist at a concert.

The mortals are fighting with shotguns and basic rifles. Meanwhile, we use war golems the size of Egyptian statues that we control remotely. Unbelievable.

And yet the armies to our south are more than a hundred thousand strong. Each.

Such a strange world this is.

The golems reach flat ground and accelerate, treading the land with disorienting speed. Each of their strides covers so much ground that the difference between what I see and what my body feels sends me reeling for a moment. The mind boggles. If I were still mortal, the sight would make me nauseous.

Wilhelm, the fortress’ steward, enters the room, distracting me from the eerie sensation. He wears a full chain and leather armor in brown tones, a helmet that covers everything but his brown eyes, and his long blond beard falls on his chest in a small, rather cute braid.

“The evacuation is complete. The manor is secure. May I ask how things are on your end?”

Constantine answers with a hungry smile.

“The mortals have fallen back beyond the limits of the domain, where they think they are safe. I intend to show them the extent of their mistake. How did you put it? When you have secured an area, make sure the enemy knows it too?”

Wilhelm nods, but he does not share the Speaker’s enthusiasm.

“This is all well and good, but we have to plan for tonight. This is but a prelude to a major vampire offensive.”

“And where, do you think, are their resting places?”

“In close proximity to us, protected by three hundred cattle and assorted mages?”

“And where, do you think, are my golems going?”

Wilhelm’s stoic air morphs into one of cruel glee. He watches one of the mirrors as the two war machines charge up the road.

I do not think I will ever forget the facial expressions of the sentries shortly before the head golem pulps them. A mix of horror, shock, and disbelief. The war machines enter the encampment unchallenged. Cattle are not the most responsive beings.

There is no battle. A mage — one of Martha of the Lancaster’s peoples — is the first to order something and the line of carriages moves. They split up and down the road immediately at great speed, heading south towards Quincy and north to Boston proper.

I watch uselessly as my own golem uses its massive blade for a bloody harvest. This is pointless. Those cattle were meant to die in droves, though perhaps not as meaninglessly as they have done so far. They are of no importance.

Killing the mages would help, but they were the first to scatter.

I cannot destroy the carriages either. If any vampire slumbers unprotected, I would be condemning them to a fiery death that would make future conflicts more pitiless, something that my side wishes to avoid.

I can only capture one.

I inspect the screen and find the gaudiest, most gold-plated coach. I point at it and yell ‘capture!’

“You know, you do not have to scream,” Constantine remarks with a hint of condescension.

Gah!

“I see that you two have things well in hand,” Wilhelm says, “I asked for reports as to how we could be approached so easily. I will return shortly.”

“Wait a moment, please. It appears that Ariane and I both managed to capture a carriage. Please, do ask my bodyguards to come in and then return promptly. We will open our presents soon, and see what fate brought to our door.”

“Is that what we call those now?” I ask.

“As you will. Make sure that you and your protegee wait for us, no matter how confident you are in your own abilities,” Wilhelm answers as he turns around.

Wait.

Hold on.

His what now?

“We are not fools, Wilhelm. Do hurry.”

His PROTEGE? As in, the one trained to replace him? Me? I did not even consider the remote possibility of a peaceful transition of power! I was ready to laugh over his defeated form and say ‘hah, this is for having me tortured all those decades ago’. What will happen if he just abdicates in my favor? Is it a better revenge or a worse one?

And Constantine did not even deny it.

As I am left stewing in my own surprise, Wilhelm and the two mysterious bodyguards come back, then I am sent upstairs to pick up my battle gear which I had forgotten in the Speaker’s sanctum. I quickly get changed and run back wearing Loth’s repaired armor and a lot of weaponry.

The return of the golems is announced by the tortured scream of abused metal.

“It appears that your lock is too small to accommodate both golem and carriage,” I note.

“Vestibule, Ariane. My vestibule is too small. No matter, the golem will wait. We drag the carriages in ourselves.”

The mortals never see how much we are forced to improvise and make do. Thankfully. Or our supernatural aura of omniscience would fade with the sound of complaints about who should push, who should pull, and who should just get out of the way. Eventually, our grumbling gaggle of undying horrors capable of bending reality itself gathers around the main lock while I stay behind and let the lords take the initiative. I do not trust myself in a life or death situation. Last time, I lost control over my essence. It bubbled over and burnt itself out. I cannot afford a repeat.

It takes Constantine fifteen minutes to crack the lock of the carriage. They decided to start with the gaudy one, the one I picked, and the most secure. The door finally creaks on abused hinges to reveal… crates upon crates of beans and desiccated vegetables.

Uh.

“We have been baited,” Constantine gracefully says, covering for my mistake, “they must have anticipated an attack.”

“This bears the mark of Orpheus, their strategist. He has a keen and devious mind,” Wilhelm comments.

“We can discuss this later. Push the carriage against the wall so that we may inspect the other. Hopefully, our catch this time will be better.”

With the benefit of the previous experience, the second coach delivers its content with more ease. A lord in full plate armor casually takes down the steps, holding a heavy mace in one hand and a gauntlet in the other. Only a pair of deep green eyes are revealed by the form-fitting protection. He inspects us, then the gaudy carriage.

“Ah, I see that you have found Lord Bertrand’s favored means of transportation. A shame that a man cannot be captured twice, is it not?” he asks with no hint of apprehension in a smooth voice that belies his war-like accoutrement. His eyes travel to a crate poking out of the door.

“His carriage was used to transport dry leeks? By the Eye, seeing this almost made my capture worth it. Please tell me there is bacon as well.”

“Beans, in fact. And who might you be?” Constantine asks drily. The siege we find ourselves under is fraying his patience.

“My name is Lucas, at your service.”

He bows smartly.

“Can we discuss terms, or should I prepare myself for some unpleasantness?”

“You will have a cell with amenities, regular access to blood, and a book of your choosing that you may change every night, just like your fellow captives. Your belongings will be returned to you once your freedom is granted. You can either go to that cell on your own two feet, or with them in a separate box,” Constantine replies.

“Would these terms extend to the two Masters I have with me?”

“Yes.”

Two vampires, a man and a woman, peek out from behind the shape of their protector, who then steps down.

“You do not wish to interrogate me about our plan?” he asks with a bored voice. I know he is feigning calm, but I also find his countenance commendable.

“Will you talk without torture?”

“No.”

“Please drop your weapons and stop wasting my time.”

The newest prisoners are led to jail, and we reconvene in the lobby. Besides me, there are no battle masters here. All trained warriors have gathered in a single army that is now… I do not know where, but far. Too far to arrive before nightfall. The only vampires here are support staff like Sophia and visitors here to seek asylum — despite the ongoing conflict — who shall remain neutral by oath. Wilhelm begins.

“I have news. The attackers arrived by ship shortly after dawn, with one frigate escorting two transports. They had legal authorization to land, but the irregularity of the situation, and the presence of many armed men, created such a ruckus that they were stuck on the dock until ten. We rang the alarm before they could fully deploy.”

“We have been saved by bureaucracy, I am not sure what to say. How many carriages are we talking about?” the Speaker replies.

“Eyewitnesses taken from the city say nine.”

We all ponder this for a moment.

“They must be desperate,” Constantine finally says.

I steal a glance in his direction. I had no idea that he felt so confident about taking on seven lords and their squads with only four. The progenitor is strong, but is he that strong?

The others apparently share my doubt.

“Orpheus will have come in person for such a project. He will have the cream of the crop with him,” Wilhelm says lightly, with the voice of someone trying to goad a small child.

“Excellent. I was looking forward to testing the inner defenses.”

The bodyguards shrug, faces hidden behind black helmets. I cannot read their auras.

“I will require your participation for the next phase. We will have much fun together.”

Nightfall.

The invaders have successfully regrouped. They know that with enough time to call upon our resources, we will unmask their ‘Union’ troops for the impostors they are and they will be without escort in enemy territory. They must strike hard, and they must strike fast. Instead of spreading out, the squads deploy in formation at the edge of the property. They deploy vampire mages on the side. Shields shimmer everywhere.

They move.

As they approach the edge of the human village, the traps, so far hidden, all spring at the same time. Pits open and hidden whips lash out. Spells explode. The surface of the hill leading to the manor opens and cannons vomit canister shots at the densely packed formation, but those are not mindless cattle making their way to the fortress. Lashes are dodged, then torn out. Shields soak up shrapnel and blast waves alike. The troop does not relent. They move in with confidence through explosions and an unknown, particularly vicious cloud of blood magic.

Then the cloud’s full effect is made manifest.

Masters and Lords scream as the fog, which they had ignored, eats at their flesh. Red mist melts undying flesh with voracious hunger. The army is forced to push through despite their pain, for to falter is to fail. The first squad steps foot on the path leading up, and the side of the mountain spits a cloud of steam at them.

It burns.

The hiss of gaseous water cooking its surroundings is soon answered by yelps of pain. Speed is of little use when the obstacle is omnipresent. A thick barrier now separates the attackers from their target.

But these are not backwater mercenaries now assaulting the fortress. Without being told, a few spellcasters dig up wind spells from the depths of their memories. Gauntlets are modified on the fly to assist with the casting, and the steam is warded off. The attackers do not follow the path up. Instead, they start climbing the sheer rocks of the cliff, thus activating a new layer of defenses.

Hidden mechanisms throw spears through layers of dirt and vegetation, skewering the climbers at their most vulnerable time before retracting. Worse, the traps emit no aura, making detection all but impossible before they are sprung. Spells howl down with enervating precision. The attackers’ numbers play against them as they are forced to dodge into others or risk being destroyed, and still, they climb.

The first of the nimble figures jumps over the edge of the garden, on the northern side of the manor proper, where I am waiting.

“Finally,” a petite Master in a fuming dress gasps as she stumbles through a bed of roses.

“Congratulations!” I scream.

I shoot her in the head.

And the next person after that, though he successfully blocks with an enchanted bracelet.

“It’s her!”

“The blonde bitch!”

“Get her!”

I spring back to the manor, hissing and sputtering on my way. Blonde bitch?! When did I get demoted from Devourer to blonde bitch? Absolutely scandalous.

I wish the enemy had followed piecemeal, but they regroup into squads in moments. Some of our foes are still down there, busy with being turned lobster-red.

I dive into the complex through one of the few open doors, followed by a Lady in light armor using a whip. Her squad fans out behind her.

I dodge to the side as her soul weapon extends and rakes through several yards of wall. Under the destroyed upholstery, I can spot the silvery shine of the fortress’ bones. This is Constantine’s playground.

I come across stairs and climb up. The lady jumps… and crashes against a shield, which just appeared.

“You are just delaying the inevitable,” she hisses.

I say nothing, it would be covered by the loud rumble now shaking the corridor. Steel barriers descend from the ceiling to separate us.

The predators are being herded. Everywhere across the complex, squads are split and directed like sheep to the slaughter. I climb to the second floor and come across the chained bodies of half a squad, caught like flies in a spider web. They look annoyed and ignore me. It appears that the enterprising lot tried to get in from the balcony, and the manor obliged, only to cut off their escape routes as soon as they were in.

A wall shifts to my side, and a mirror appears. Constantine’s slightly strained voice sounds muffled through this means, though perhaps I am simply distracted by the explosions in the background.

“Ariane dear, Orpheus attempts to make his way down to the jails as we speak. I believe that you cannot assist with the current battle. There is, however, something you can do to solidify our position in the incoming negotiations.”

“And what would that be?”

“You need to capture the ships the Expansion Faction came in. They are staying put a little ways off the bay.”

Oh.

Yes.

“I can do that.”

Three miles off the Boston Harbor.

Two men stood tense on the deck of a frigate. They had the documentation needed not to fall prey to blockading ships. They were heavily armed, just as they knew that none of that would matter. Only a specific signal would steer them from their current, circular course. They scrutated the horizon with anxiety, just like the crow's nest was doing the same. And quite a few pairs of eyes besides.

“Still no signal,” one of them said, adjusting his marine officer uniform. It did not quite fit his broad shoulders.

“I can see that,” the other retorted. He had taken the garb of a Union captain, and wore it with ease.

“Ramming speed, Mr. Rolf!” a female voice bellowed behind them. Or was it a trick of the wind, come to torture them through the haze of stress?

“Did you hear that?” the captain asked.

There was a sound now, like mumbled protests.

The female voice returned. It was closer. There was no mistaking it for an auditory hallucination now.

“The time for stealth is passed, I say,” it yelled, “brace for impact!”

A veil was lifted, a steamship hybrid appeared starboard, as if vomited by the depths of the ocean. The men could only see the prow clad in steel aiming right for their deck, and on it, a lithe figure wearing a ridiculous tricorn.

“YOU HAVE RAN AFOUL OF THE DREAD PIRATE ARIA—”

Impact. The two men were sent rolling on hardwood like pinwheels. The captain winced and tried to climb back to his feet despite his disorientation. They were under attack! He had to do something!

Someone landed besides him with barely a whisper of fabric.

“I have to work on the timing for that delivery,” she said. “Anyway. You are my prisoners now! Are you ready to surrender all your booties?” the female voice said from above.

The captain’s eyes traveled up. He considered correcting the woman’s mistake — at least he hoped that was a mistake — but then his gaze reached her smile, and he reconsidered.