Jason Blood in the Cat-Tales Universe from Lady Dien
Jason Blood in the Cat-Tales Universe from Lady Dien
Janvier 
Ah well. It’s an evening for pleasure, for celebration, for friends and fun and laughter; no one will fault me if I am a little giddy! It’s my party, after all…
Laughter and conversation flow even more freely than the wine, at our table. Luc and Vivienne are sitting in each other’s laps, being positively vulgar and therefore affording the rest of us free entertainment; Jean-Michel’s hand is moving restlessly on my leg. I squash a momentary bit of annoyance-- he is a good lover, but so demanding. And spoilt. …Rather boring outside of the bedroom, too, to tell the truth.
At the other end of the table Jacques is standing up, definitely wobbly on his feet now as he holds up what is his fifth or sixth or seventh glass. Nobody’s counting.
"Joyeux Anniversaire, ma chérie Claire! Joyeux… vingt-et-unième, ma belle…" he slurs delightedly, weaves, toasts the group, and manages to sit down before spilling his glass. We all laugh and applaud his herculean effort.
"Yes, happy birthday, Claire," echoes Thomas, smiling a bit glassily himself as he pours to match Jacques’s glass. He’s hardly going to let 'one of the damned froggies' drink him under the table. I grin at the only other natural English-speaker at our table and lift my glass to him. Thomas blushes nicely, from tip of nose to base of throat, and whuffles his blonde mustache with his exhale. I giggle as I haven’t for years, taking another swallow of my wine.
<"Speech, mem’selle,"> murmurs Wu Cheng in almost-unintelligible French, his accent even worse when he’s drunk. He pulls his long braided queue out of Desirae’s hand with irritation, turns his dark Mandarin eyes on me, and mutters again, <"Speech.">
Desirae looks annoyed that she lost her toy, and more annoyed that even when he’s drunk Cheng doesn’t like her, but forgets it in favor of taking up the cry. <"Oui! Speech, Claire-chérie! Speech!">
I smile and get to my feet, enjoying the way the room revolves ever-so-slightly around me, the wineglass clutched in one hand still. The restaurant is not empty, but we're certainly the largest and loudest party here, the occupants of the other tables shooting dark glances and rude mutters our way every so often. La. Like we, any of us, give a damn!
"Mes amis, mes amoureux--" I start, waving the glass and my cigarette around expansively and wondering just how Jacques managed it. Difficult, this. What with the spinning room. There’s scattered clapping as everyone wonders if that’s as far as I’m going to get. "Merde," I mutter, and that garners more applause.
I wave off Jean-Michel’s supporting hand, nearly lose my balance in doing so, and start over. "My friends, my lovers, my colleagues, admirals-- admirals-- admirable allies--"
At least half the people at the table are giving me blank looks, so I take a deep breath and start over in French. <"…I wish to thank you all for coming tonight to this little soirée! As you can see, we're all having a splendid time.">
Applause. I sip my drink, pleased with my progress; set it back down. Luc grabs it and passes it to Bernard, it gets refilled and passed back to me. I smile my thanks hazily and find the thread of my speech again. <"Today, mes amis, I am twenty-one years old! I have survived to be twenty-one!">
Cheering. Obviously I’m done. Maybe not. <"That is despite the interference and wishes of, to date, six vampires, a werewolf, a coven of witches, a cursed Egyptian dagger, the house of murs-- house of-- house of mirrors-- and mosht-- most recently, the warlock d'Allamaign!">
Mixed reactions. Some of them are cheering; others who don’t look as drunk are looking worried. I blink and try to figure out why, then realize we're in a public place and I am garnering strange looks from the people at the other tables, who probably have never met vampires or werewolves or witches or warlocks. Silly people, silly civilians. Silly normals. I shrug, spilling some liquid onto Jean-Michel’s lap. Let them stare!
If there was more I wanted to say I cannot remember it. I plop back into my seat, wrestle for a few moments with the knot of my tie. Hard to breathe with the damn thing, and it’s suddenly so warm and close in here… mon Dieu, I hope I’m not going to be sick….
"Trois bravos pour notre dame des cendres!" shouts Jacques, and that’s the signal for even more riotous noise. Three cheers for our lady of the ashes.
Mademoiselle des Cendres. That’s me.
I smile slightly, sip my wine, except I think they replaced it with something stronger, and I giggle again, looking around for Jean-Michel. Luc and Viv have the right idea…
Most certainly not wine. Strong something. I blink woozily at Jean as he plants a wet kiss on my mouth, and, giggling, fall onto his chest. Ah. It’s good to have friends.
Without these friendships-- life, what cauchemar… I mutter, and only when Jean says he didn’t hear me do I realize I have spoken aloud. I get up from the table and yank at Jean’s hand. Time for the party to become private, I think, assuming I can remember which way leads up to our room…
"Miss Ashton. May I extend my wishes for a happy birthday."
The world suddenly resolves into something approaching clarity. The voice is English, but not overpoweringly so; quiet, polite, cool. I heard it five years ago in this city; five years that are a lifetime ago. Was that me, that sat in that café, giddy with the world?
Was that me, approached by a stranger who was mysterious and disturbing and quite, quite captivating to a girl of seventeen…
I grip Jean-Michel’s shoulder for support, and turn to face a man whom I had half-dismissed as something my younger self had imagined.
He is as I remembered, which shocks me for a moment. So much of what I found entrancing five years ago I now look at with amusement or contempt. I’m so much more mature now, you see. But he is-- unchanged…
Tall. Well-dressed. Rather pale skin, like all true redheads; that red hair still has the incongruous lock of white in it. Rather heartless light blue eyes. The shadows clung to him in the Café de la Paix, and they cling to him here, in the hotel’s well-lit restaurant.
I am not as naïve as I was then, when I returned his stare brashly, oblivious to any menace or danger. I knew too little to fear anyone. Now, I am wiser… but also armed. With knowledge. A name.
"Monsieur Jason Blood, I presume," I say, oh calmly, I am calm. I even sound sober.
Behind me, my friends and comrades quiet, eyes on us, those who are still sober enough to pay notice. I vaguely note, out of the corner of my eye, Luc’s hand drifting casually to his jacket pockets, where many dangerous toys a-lurk. But my attention is on him.
He smiles very slightly, perfunctorily; gives me an equally perfunctory bow which is really more a nod. "I am pleased to see you are still…"
"Alive?" I supply, and his cursory smile grows a fraction. "Yes. Alive."
I shrug, attempting a casual smile. "Well. I had good advice."
He does smile then, real and unfeigned, a white flash of teeth that is quick and cold, then gone behind his polite mask. I grip Jean-Michel’s shoulder more tightly. The alcohol is catching up with me.
Monsieur Jason Blood’s wintry eyes travel up… and down… taking me in. I feel like a student reporting to teacher. I wish I wasn’t seeing two of Monsieur Jason Blood. It is rather problematic.
"I know who you are now," I say a bit louder and higher than I intended. Monsieur Jason Blood arches an eyebrow. "Indeed?"
I nod. Wish the floor wasn’t moving. Another sip of my drink will right that, non? Hahh. "You're the demolo-- demonogish-- demonolisht--"
"Demonologist," he supplies politely, his whole air just that. Polite. Uninterested. Unimpressed.
"Yes," I mutter. "That. Jason Blood, the English demonologisht and warlock."
Another token nod. "And you are Claire Ashton, though you prefer your chosen identity of Mademoiselle d'Cendres. Under this name, you are a mildly notorious adventuress whose claims to fame include dressing like a man and battling the supernatural with the aid of an ever-rotating supporting cast of… interesting characters," he says, his eyes flickering briefly to my friends. I stiffen with indignation-- or I would, if I were capable of stiffening. Damn alcohol.
And it’s none of his business who my friends are or how I dress.
"…and now that we each know who the other is-- I’m afraid I must be going. I merely came to offer best wishes and, perhaps, congratulations on your present rate of survival. A good evening to you, Miss Ashton."
"Wait," I blurt out, and step forward from the table towards him. He’s already turning to go. I’m already losing my balance. Jean catches my shoulder and helps me keep upright. "Wait, m’shieur Blood."
He glances back, looks at me from under a coolly raised eyebrow. I’m suddenly embarrassed-- how I must look, swaying on my feet, well on the way to punch-drunk. He’s not impressed. He’s barely amused. More like contempt.
"Yes?"
"I-- we-- we would be honoured," I draw myself up straight, come on Claire-chérie, you can do this, and say without slurring, "for the pleasure of your company, m’sieur Blood. Please. Join us."
He smiles a smile that on anyone else would be nasty and petty. It looks appropriate on him. "I’m afraid I have other places to be. And you and your friends seem far too …energetic in your celebrations for my taste."
A classy way of saying we're a bunch of immature rowdies. I take a breath to defend my friends, glance back at them, and realize he’s pretty much right:
Luc has decided this man is not a threat, so he and Vivienne are struggling, amidst much loss of balance, to get up from the table and head for the stairs. Jean is glaring at Msr. Blood with the fury of the jilted and jealous lover. Desirae has given up on Cheng and is whispering something in poor Bernard’s ear. Jacques and Thomas look as though they're about to start a fistfight with each other. Cheng is the only one who still looks partially sober; but that’s only because when he gets drunk it doesn’t really show unless he opens his mouth. I know him well enough to calculate one more glass will have him sliding under the table.
I sigh and look back at Blood. Dark amusement lurks in his eyes, which are the color of the red wines we sip. I blink and do a double take. I swear his eyes were pale blue.
I must be more drunk than I thought.
"Well then, m’shieur," I slur, snidely, "you shall shimply have to stay and bring us up to your level." Arrogant bastard. He simply stops listening to me-- I can see it in the way his eyes turn off, turn impassive. He turns to go.
"Wait." This-- is this all I can say, tonight? No more wine for me, ever, if it will always tie my tongue into these knots. He sighs, palpably annoyed now, and faces me again, cold gaze, cold face, implicit warning that I’m about to overstep the bounds of courtesy.
"It is customary to give gifts to people on their birthdays," I state clearly, managing the phrase without stumbling over it. "I do not see a gift in your hand, Mister Blood. Therefore, to make up for your egregious lack of manners, you shall join us. And that shall be your gift, sir, to me."
He eyes me after I finish my pronouncement, a long slow considering gaze. I have one hand on the back of the chair, but I am standing upright. Good, good; this is good…
"I have already said that I cannot and will not stay, Miss Ashton. But if it’s a gift you want--" Blood pauses, head cocked to one side, a nasty little smile at the corner of his mouth. He says, "…then a gift you shall have. The same vein as before, which seemed to serve you well: advice, girl.
"Watch their lives and watch your eyes. Consider the cost of fine wine. For it is rare that magic truly dies, and I foresee the end of nine."
I stare at him, his cryptic words quickly lost in the fog of my brain, and I reply hazily, "I did not take you for a poet, monsieur Blood."
To my surprise, this gets the truest reaction I've seen from him yet. His eyes narrow in sudden anger, and he snaps out, in clipped bitter tones. "I’m not. But I know someone who is. Goodbye, Miss Ashton."
And third time is the charm. My mumbled 'wait' does not stop him; he turns and quickly weaves through the tables, a tall dark-clad man with fiery hair, and is briefly silhouetted against the walls-- the door-- then gone, out into Paris, out into the night. I feel suddenly dull and heavy, a puppet with no strings.
"Qui est-il?" Jean says, harshly, in my ear. One heavy hand on my shoulder. I try to shrug it off, but I’m tired now, tired and leaden and suddenly discontent with the noise, the lights, the party. "Qui est-il?" he snaps again. Who is he. "Un ancien amoureux?"
"Non, non," I mutter. As if one could love a man like that. "Il est personne. Il n’est rien du tout."
He glares at me; moody, sullen, childish. I ought to smile at him and reassure his painfully silly ego that he’s still every bit the male he thinks he is, but I can’t be bothered. I drop back into my chair-- grab my glass that has something stronger than wine in it-- take a deep gulp.
Luc and Vivienne pass me, headed to their room, having finally managed to stand. They give me twin drunken smiles… I raise my fingers from the rim of my glass in a desultory wave, feeling nearly as moody as Jean, who’s sitting in surly silence, dark eyes fixed on me. Some party it all turned out to be. Some party…
It’s amazing how much a scream of terror can do for your clarity of mind. Half my drunkenness falls from me as I jerk upright and spin around without thinking about it, as the scream tears and echoes through this pretty restaurant, making the crystal sing and the china rattle.
In front of the doorway, which lies between us and the stairs, Luc lies on the ground, choking and coughing blood. I barely note the huge splash of crimson on his front, barely note the red stain that is rapidly marking the carpet, barely note Vivienne standing next to him and still screaming, screaming fit to be in opera. The scream, the moment, goes on forever-- but what I note is the man in the doorway.
Tall and skeletally-gaunt, his skin is the color of ash, his eyes are sunken and mad and lifeless… black rags flap from his bones… a hand that is more bone than flesh, but covered with Luc’s blood, reaches out towards Vivienne. Despite the fact that he’s looking a damn sight worse than the last time I saw him (and that’s saying something, as the last time I saw him, he had a garrote round his throat, a sword through his chest and seventeen bullets in his foul body), I recognize Noël d'Allamaign.
The warlock, the dark magicien, the madman, with his bloody house of mirrors and his living shadows and his rooms full of headless women’s bodies… we killed him, all of us; Cheng’s Chinese mutterings, Luc’s garrote, Bernard’s priest training and Latin chants, Vivienne and Desirae’s witchcraft, Thomas hefting that bloody greatsword like his ancestors before him, and Jacques and Jean and I all firing guns loaded with blessed silver. The battle lasted an hour, destroyed the house, and will live in my nightmares for a damn long time. We left his corpse for the gendarmes.
We obviously didn’t leave it dead enough.
By the time I think all this, Vivienne has quit screaming. Screaming is hard to do when you have no head, you see. I stare entranced at d'Allamaign’s corpse, his rotting hand holding a blonde, pretty head up like a lantern to guide his way. Behind me I hear Jean gulp and retch, and Desirae’s shattered scream for her sister. The restaurant enacts a play of chaos; the other patrons either fleeing with comical clumsiness, breaking furniture and plates and glasses, or standing frozen like me.
Cheng is the first of us to actually face the thing-back-from-the-dead. He stands, flips his queue over his shoulder, steps forward with every bit of the grace he’s ever taught me and assumes a crane stance. Drunken Mandarin spills from his mouth, and he’s taught me enough that I occasionally get whole phrases: "…son of a whore who met your father in a pig’s pen… dishonour to eight generations of your family of swine… and you have no cock… and using only my spittle I shall destroy your stinking sow’s flesh, for you are not worthy of the back of my hand, you product of a whore raped by a dog’s penis. And also you have no cock."
I feel my mouth drop open a bit. That’s the most I've ever heard him say in one go… the scene holds, Wu Cheng, this tiny little Chinaman weaving on his feet before the tall spectre before him, and it’s like that’s going to be it, like d'Allamaign’s going to stop, there, cowed by the might of Cheng.
It doesn’t hold. Evil moves; the hand that’s already stained with the blood of two of my closest friends hits Cheng’s chest like a hammer wielded by a furious god. More blood, staining those beautiful, silken, dragon-embroidered pyjamas… I hear a choked sob and realize it’s mine. The look in Wu’s eyes is only incomprehension, drunken lack of understanding, even as he falls, and that-- that is wrong, wrong, so wrong. He was about understanding, he was a wise man, he shouldn’t die like this, not full of wine and his mind clouded and unable to go to his ancestors the way he deserves…
Desirae is screaming French curses and terrible oaths, tears running down her cheeks as she attacks the bastard. Not even coherent enough to try magic-- if she could, with her sister dead-- just picking things up from the table and hurling them at d'Allamaign. A wine bottle; a plate. The undead mage laughs through decomposing vocal chords, and it is chilling and mad and I've never felt this cold, never.
There is the sharp crack of gunfire, the staccato blasts of light, and the solid weight of my Colts in my hands. I don’t remember drawing them from under my jacket, but that is hardly important. I’m going to blow the fucker back into the grave, blow him back to Hell. My silver bullets hit repeatedly and he turns to look at me, dead eyes swiveling in their sockets. And I've never-- seen anything move so quick-- the long sweep of a terribly strong arm, with yellowing nails that are really more like claws and then-- I can’t quite understand-- half the world goes black, in a sear of pain, and then it all goes black, and I can’t feel anything…
Pleasantly warm. Soft sheets, the smell of antiseptic…. I struggle to pull my thoughts into some sort of order. Hurts. Throbbing headache. The mists, perhaps, were preferable. Whole left side of my head feels sore… tender… My right arm hurts too, my right side feels raw, goddamn it, it hurts.
"Ne bougez pas, pas encore," bustles the voice again. I wince, and instantly realize that’s a bad idea. Face feels… stretched. Sore. Ow.
"What-- where--" I croak, try to croak, but my mouth feels like a stuffed stocking. Can’t remember what happened-- Jacques suggested the hotel’s restaurant for my party as none of us wanted to have to walk too far to get drunk--
"Shush, shush--" "Elle est anglaise?" "Restez immobile, mademoiselle--" "Shh--"
I can’t understand a word people are trying to say to me, and I’m getting angry. I struggle to open my eyes, to move my hands, to do something, anything. Strong hands grab my wrists, hold me firmly down.
I struggle, vainly. I feel as weak as a half-dead alley cat, and panic starts to creep up on me with claws outstretched. Where the hell am I? Why can’t I-- who're these people-- what happened-- where is everyone-- I take a deep breath and force myself to lie calmly, to think calmly.
"Bon, bon. Oui, soyez tranquille, mademoiselle…."
The hell I’ll lie quietly. I realize I could understand the spoken words that time, and am a fraction relieved. At least I haven’t lost the capacity for language.
"Où suis-je? Qui êtes-vous? Répondez-moi!" I snap at the owners of the voices, who surround me; faceless, nameless. Bastards. Shoot them all, soon as I can sit up… soon as I can find my guns… soon as I can figure out what the hell is going on.
I manage to get my eyes open, but something’s off, something is not right, my perspective seems skewed and everything is terribly blurry. A swarm of pale faces, their numbers ever changing, above vague white bodies… if they weren’t speaking French, I’d be worried that they are ghosts, and that I have passed on to 'that big Hôtel Ritz in the sky,' as Jean memorably and abominably put it once. …But any ghosts in my heaven or hell will no doubt speak at least a little English.
"Où suis-je?" I repeat angrily, trying to figure out why… why it feels as though I've got something in my eye… I try to blink (still can’t move my hands; these ghosts have firm grips) and that doesn’t work either.
"Soyez calme, mademoiselle. Vous êtes dans l'hôpital de la Vierge, à Paris. Le sixième arrondisement…"
Tell me, mystery speaker; does it look like I care what arrondisement I am in? I bite down on my sharp words-- they will not help-- and try and think. Hospital. Why am I, what happened that I can’t remember… "Qu’est-ce que c’est passé? Pourquoi est-ce que je suis ici?"
A somewhat strained silence is my answer this time, I struggle to sit up but the hands-- I think they belong to the speaker, whoever he is-- still hold me firmly down. "Vous ne vous souvenez pas?"
If I could, I’d slap the fellow. If I remembered, would I be asking? Idiot. I grit my teeth over my anger and stop struggling, too weak to keep it up. I close my eyes and try to remember-- eyes; dark madman’s eyes, the whites yellowed with rot-- a laugh that cut into the heart like a knife… blood… Where is Jean-Michel? Luc? Where is everyone…
The pressure on my hands lifts and leaves. He’s still talking but I’m not listening. I raise one hand to rub at the sore left side of my face, hear a hurried 'Non,' but I’m already touching…. Gauze? Bandage?
"Ne le touchez pas, mademoiselle. L'chirurgien ne pourraient pas sauver votre œil, mais cela ne le fera aucun bien de frotter à la tache."
It is with an entirely novel level of confused unease that I process his words. The surgeon… couldn’t save my eye… why would my eye need… saving…? I can’t open it, can’t see-- can’t… mon Dieu… and it all comes back, in that moment: the whole evening, Jason Blood, d'Allamaign, Luc and Vivienne and Cheng’s death, and the pain of claw-like nails raking across my face, and the screams that accompanied me down to the dark…
I stop thinking, then. I can hear myself shouting French and English obscenities, feel my arms swinging wildly at anyone within reach.
Elle est devenue folle… regard dehors! tenez-toujours la… donnez-moi son bras, J'ai la morphine…
Elle est devenue folle…
Elle est devenue folle…
Février
My rooms are also empty. And I am cold inside, in a way that the baking suns of Africa could not dispel.
The Seine flows sluggishly by, dark water rolling through the heart of this fucking city. I should leave Paris. There is nothing here for me. Go back to America, to Gotham, to my family, who will be solicitous and loving and worthless. It would not be a bad life; to shut myself in a back room of the big house, subsisting on the family desire to avoid scandal. I would never have to leave the room. I would never have to see anyone again. Have food left by the door. Walk like a ghost through the hallways at night. Become, rather than the family’s notorious and scandalous daughter, their dirty little back-room secret. The mad, disfigured Quasimoda in her bell tower.
Or: I could jump into the Seine here and now. Quicker, certainly.
I’m already tired and I sit down heavily on a bench, my hands hunting in my pockets for the fags and lighter. Three tries before the flame catches, a burning point of life and light in this February wasteland. I suck at the cigarette hungrily, dully; the smoke stinging my throat and the slight, artificial warmth in my veins reminding me I am alive. I could do without the reminder, actually.
I will neither return to America nor will I choose a cold and watery grave. There is the matter of Revenge. For my comrades and myself. D'Allamaign is somewhere here, in this City of Lights and Corpses, and I have promised each ghost that I will personally see the connard de merde in whatever hell he’s earned, even if I must come along for the ride.
But the problem is the How. It took the nine of us working together to put him down the first time and we weren’t enough to keep him there. How in hell am I to do it alone? Even if I were not, for all intents and purposes, a cripple? I can’t even shoot my goddamn guns; I have no depth perception with only one eye. I will need help.
And I know of no one who can. No one with the ability.
Save perhaps one man. The bastard, the enfoiré who knew of what was going to happen that night and walked out on us, leaving us to die. I take a long drag on the cigarette, thinking about what kind of man Blood must be. Now I shall be the first to admit I am no saint. I have injured, stolen, and even killed twice in self-defense, and I've done so willingly. And perhaps I care little about the lives of my enemies.
But none of us were Blood’s enemies. None of us had done one fucking thing to him. And he walked out, knowing what was going to happen, knowing we were going to be slaughtered. It would not have killed him to warn us.
I’ll find him too. As far as I am concerned, his guilt is equal. Oh yes, I’ll find him… perhaps he told the truth, five years ago. Perhaps he is a devil, wearing a human skin and hiding hell within. Fine. I may get to add a devil, then, to my list of dead enemies.
I flick the smoking butt into the river’s cold flow and stand up, numbed inside and out. The ember of revenge is like the cigarette: the only heat I seem to feel. The reminder that I yet live.
The old man, in crisp butler’s uniform, stares at me as if I've grown a second head. Well, I don’t suppose he often gets eyepatch-wearing-women showing up on the doorstep whose first words are rude demands to see his master.
"Monsieur n'est pas ici, mademoiselle--" he begins stiffly, and I swear, coarsely, loudly, taking some perverse pleasure in his scandalized expression. Taking even more pleasure in the fact that he nearly pisses his butler’s pressed trousers when I draw one of my guns and stick it under his nose. "I don’t have time for this," I snap in English. It’s his problem if he doesn’t understand me. "I've spent half a month looking for him. You will take me to him, now; or he will find a new butler. Comprenez vous?"
The fellow nods, swallows, steps back inside to let me enter. "M’sieur Sang, il y a une d-dame qui désire vous voir…"
Heh.
The sound of feet on the stairs; I watch Monsieur Blood, or Sang as he’s calling himself right now, descend into this the entrance hallway. His eyebrows raise on seeing me, but that’s all the reaction I get. Bastard.
"Miss Ashton."
"Cut it. You and I are going to talk. Send Jeeves here away."
His eyebrows climb higher. I haven’t put away my gun and I lift it to point at his chest, where, if the fellow has a heart, it would logically be situated. Now, it’s a toss-up as to whether I could actually hit him with my ruined aim. Twelve feet away. I probably could. Let’s see if he'll give me an excuse to find out.
Jason Blood regards me coolly, consideringly, and nods. "Henri, the lady and I shall be in the study. If you would bring some tea for us..?"
I was expecting more of a fight, but I follow Blood mutely into his study, starting to look around a bit now. The maison is a nice one, gives him the opportunity to show off the fact that he has wealth and taste. His study is spacious, airy, and has big windows. I imagine it’s nice in spring, with sunlight coming in those windows, filling the room and the rosewood bookshelves, each one crammed full of hundreds of books. Curios and artworks lurk on the occasional bare patch of wall and the mantel of the fireplace. …He sits down in a lovely leather-covered armchair and gestures politely for me to take the facing one. I remain standing.
"What you said that night. The little poem. You knew d'Allamaign was still a threat. You knew he was coming for us."
He blinks slowly, still no expression on his face. I really feel like putting bullets in it. See if that gets a reaction. "Yes," he answers me, matter-of-factly.
"How?" …it’s not what I meant to say. I meant to say 'fuck you for for not warning us.' I don’t really care how he knew.
Blood shrugs. He’s a handsome man; he looks good in his dark trous and shirt, intelligent and elegant and classy. Under some other circumstance-- like him not being a callous waster of the lives of my friends--
"I try and keep up on goings-on, Miss Ashton."
"You've the Sight, haven’t you? You're a clairvoyant."
"Reasonably accurate, if a simplistic definition. Yes. I have second sight, after a fashion."
The irony is amusing for a second-- I have half my sight, and he has enough for two. I lick my lips and say, "And the only thing that a heartless fucker like you can think to do with it is think up cryptic little rhymes to dispense to the doomed. That’s… wonderful. You're disgusting."
His face wasn’t exactly open before. It closes further, now; pale blue eyes like little chips of artic ice. Good thing I’m too cold inside to get any further chilled, non? His silence is cold too, angry even. I don’t care!
"Well, aren’t you going to defend yourself, Blood? You let eight people die without so much as mentioning they were about to get slaughtered. D'you know what that makes you, enfoiré? Guilty by omission. Your silence was their deaths, you asshole, and so help me, by the blood of my dead brothers and sisters I ought to shoot you here and now. I truly ought," I say, savagely, feeling something start to uncurl in me. Hot hate. That ice in my gut is starting to melt…
"I- did- warn- you." Yet his voice remains as cold as a frozen-over Hell.
I laugh bitterly, feeling… reckless. Fey. Mad. They're right, I've gone crazy-- "Yes. Your lovely bit of doggerel. That’s not good enough. That’s not good enough. You are as guilty as d'Allamaign, bastard; their blood is on your hands too. Rationalize it all you want-- you had the knowledge; that means you have a responsibility too."
Freezing blue eyes bore into mine, dissecting me. He is quiet, deathly quiet, for a long moment, and if my rage does not exactly subside, it does at least slow enough for me to return his gaze in silence. Mute hatred on my part. Don’t know about him-- I think you have to have a heart to hate…
"And what of your responsibility, Miss Ashton? Hmm? It was your party, mademoiselle, at which your comrades were too drunk to even make a pretense at defending themselves. Your celebration that--"
"Shut up!" I snarl, automatically pointing the gun at him again. "Don’t you even fucking start, Blood! You think I don’t know that if it hadn’t been for my party, they'd all still be alive? You think I don’t know that, you heartless bastard?! You think I’m not aware of it every goddamn second…" I spit on his floor. His eyes never leave my face.
In the same impersonal, frosty tone, he says, "Are you quite through, Claire Ashton? Because if all you came to do is berate me for a senseless tragedy I had no part in, consider your work done. You are wasting my time now."
I snort. "I came here… to… see if you had a heart, I suppose. To see if you were anything but a monster of the same scale as d'Allamaign. If you had been, I would have enlisted your help against him-- he is still out there. And I cannot destroy him alone."
"No. You can’t. I’d advise you not to try," he murmurs, his face expressionless and the sneer confined to his eyes. "Good day to you, Miss Ashton. You may leave my house now."
I step forward without thinking, closing the distance between us, and hit him hard across the face with my open palm. The shock in his eyes-- the way his head snaps back-- the red on his cheek-- these things are satisfying. He turns back to me, a truly dangerous glare burning in his pale, cold eyes, and opens his mouth to speak. So I punch him this time. Square in the face.
That one is really satisfying.
"Sacre bleu…" I hear a voice mutter, and yank my head around to see the old servant, balancing his tray of tea as he stands in the study’s open door. Head high, I walk to him and pick up a napkin from the tray. I calmly wipe the blood from my knuckles (I split his lip), then walk out without another backwards glance.
Fuck him, anyways. I’ll do this myself. D'Allamaign may be the death of me, but at least I’ll die with the satisfaction of having seen shock in Monsieur Jason Blood’s eyes.
It has been four days since my… conversation with Blood. I do not yet have the lead I need on d'Allamaign, but I trust that something will turn up. It did with Sang, after all. Just pay enough people enough money to keep an ear out for a certain individual’s description….
I wipe stinging sweat from my eyes and drop to the floor, stretching my legs out beneath and leaning back on my hands. The hardwood beneath me is cool and smooth, the hot flesh of my legs sticking to it in places. I am so tired.
Doesn’t matter how tired I am, though. I have to do this. I have to get up and keep practicing. After this I need to try with the guns again, set up the targets and just keep pulling the damn triggers until I learn how to compensate for the shift in my vision. Got to be a way…
"And do you think you will be able to jiu-jitsu him into submission, Miss Ashton?"
Shit! I scramble, quite awkwardly, to my feet, cursing myself for having my back to the door. What an idiot. I recognize the voice, of course; Blood.
He’s here. The bastard.
This was Cheng’s training studio, where all of us worked and sweated and practiced, where most of us met for the first time. Eight ghosts now, and me, left over. He has no right to be here. None.
"Get out."
I never heard the door open, but it is open, with Jason Blood leaning against the frame. He is calmly looking around the room; the training dummies and the weapons against the wall and the mirrors and the large windows…
"An adequate gymnase," he murmurs, taking an uninvited step inside.
Oh no. I don’t think so, Mister Blood. I grab my fourty-fives from their holster which is hanging on the wall, and spin to level both at him. Now, I know I probably can’t hit him at this distance… ’s at least thirty feet away, the other side of the room…. But he doesn’t know that. "I said get out."
Cool eyes flicker up to me and away. "I don’t think you can hit me with those, Claire. Put them away."
…Son-of-a-bitch. I throw my dirtiest look at him but don’t drop my handguns. Alright, he’s not feeling threatened by them… but they make me feel better, dammit. "You don’t listen very well, do you, Blood. Leave. I’m not going to tell you again."
"I can give you d'Allamaign."
Pause.
He’s not looking at me; he has walked to one of the windows and looks out at Paris-beneath-us. I moisten my lips and lower my guns perhaps an inch. "Go on."
"I can find him; his location. And I can help you destroy him," he said tonelessly, as if reciting monologue. I stare at him, trying… trying to figure him out. A trick? A trap? He wants revenge for me clocking him across the face? I lower my arms the rest of the way, heavy solid steel at my sides.
Blood is… quiet. Something of that incredible arrogance seems missing; no staring matches for us today. He’s only met my eyes the once, and didn’t seem to relish the contact. As he stands there in the watery February light, black overcoat making him little more than a silhouette topped with a thatch of red… there is also something tense in the way he stands. Subtle, but there. He’s waiting for my answer.
Dreading my answer.
What a very odd man. I cock my head to one side to think better, and walk over to join him at the window. He doesn’t acknowledge my approach, nor does he blink when I lift my right hand to set a Colt’s muzzle at the base of his neck.
"Tell me, monsieur Blood, why I should trust you."
He stares out at the streets and the buildings, eyes shifting and moving over them restlessly. This close, I can see details, the way the light moves through his irises. They are blue eyes, but very pale, lighter than my own, and surprisingly… clear. Like water filling a glass, the weak sun flows in and renders transparency and clarity.
"I will not… lead you to your death, Miss Ashton. That is not my intention."
The harshness of my own bitter laugh surprises me. "I don’t give a damn if you do, Blood. All I want is to know you won’t abandon me to my own devices once we get there. You stay and fight, do you hear?"
He nods wordlessly, closing his eyes. He looks-- tired. Against my will I feel a pang of pity, or something like it. Sonuvagun; who'd have thought that.
My arm lowers; taking the steel away from his skin. "So. Tell me why."
He doesn’t have to ask what I mean; he knows. Why did he change his mind, why come and offer aid at this time and moment. I wait for the answer, patiently; something has changed between him and me, something to do with power. It has nothing to do with the guns-- it’s all about some shift on his part. Something that brought him here, with a contrite and quiet bearing that is as probably near to an apology as this sort of man ever gives out… something-- deferential? -- in his aspect. Hard to tell. I don’t really know him well enough to say. It’s just that… for this our fourth meeting… he’s not the one in control here. I am.
It feels good.
"Because I have no desire to be a monster, mademoiselle. And because I-- like to think I have some choice in the matter," he murmurs, eyes never opening. I cock my head to one side-- Jean always tells told me it reminded him of a curious sparrow or robin-- and think about that. I had called him a monster, hadn’t I? And it appears he repents of his sins.
It is good enough, as they say, to be getting on with. I nod and turn, walking back to the wall to exchange my guns for a cigarette. "So…. tell me, Blood… just how we are going to find, and hunt, and murder this man. The matter is of more than academic curiosity."
As an afterthought, I hold the pack out to him as I wait for his answer. He seems a man in need of one.
"I will be doing the finding. You can leave that part to me," he says, drawing a cigarette from the pack. "As for d'Allamaign’s destruction… I… have some spells-- that may possibly be of use."
I glare at him over my cigarette. "I don’t want you thinking you're going to handle this bastard all by yourself, Blood. This is my enemy; I accept your help but I won’t be shut out of revenging my comrades and myself. Even if you could destroy him all on your own, which I doubt."
He finally looks at me again, slow and considering. "If you… truly wish a part in this…"
"I do."
"--mm. Then… then I think we shall have to develop some of your lesser-used skills, Miss Ashton."
I feel one eyebrow arch. I say nothing, letting the exhale of my smoke speak for me.
Blood sighs. "Drop your pride for a moment, woman. I’m not impugning your skill at right hooks, which I have seen and can, indeed, testify to firsthand. But those firearms of yours-- I’m sure your aim has not exactly improved since--"
"And what do you propose to do about that? Give me back my other eye, perhaps?" I snap bitterly, louder than I intended. The man shakes his head. "Not your eye. But sight-- perhaps."
I blink, and stare, not quite sure where this is going. He looks away again, back out the window, to Paris. "As you know from our prior discussion, our senses are not limited to the five physical ones. I believe we should work on developing your other perceptions, before you try fighting anyone or anything."
I’m… surprised, and a little bit put off by the suggestion. It’s… never been my thing. And I say as much. "You're suggesting I learn some sort of… magic. I’m not the type, Blood. Desirae, Vivienne, Cheng-- sure, they could pull the mystic thing, and it worked for them. I’m not… I doubt it would work."
He shrugs. "Frankly, I’m surprised you fight magical creatures, and the supernatural at all, with such a marked blind spot-- sorry. Poor choice of words. Such an… integral hole in your defense. By restricting yourself to these physical tumblings and brawlings and so on, so very bang-bang-American-cowboy-- you really are limiting yourself to something far beneath your potential."
I arch both brows this time. "May I quote? 'Buy a serviceable gun and find someone who will teach you how to shoot it. Also, learn a bit of how to punch and kick and bite, that sort of thing is always useful.' …now, if you'd told me I needed to learn magic, perhaps I would have considered it," I say with a smirk.
He smiles faintly. "Touché. But I was speaking of self-defense against plebian filth, on that day-- and not how to carry warfare to enemies who are, in all likelihood, not even alive in any biological sense of the word. Bullets do little good in such cases, Miss Ashton."
"If I am going to be in any sort of prolonged contact with you, you had best drop that 'Miss.' Claire will do fine; you've already called me that once, in case you've forgotten. And bullets work quite well, if they are made of blessed and sanctified silver."
"Against some foes. With varying degrees of efficiency," he counters, and despite myself I almost find myself warming to this conversation. He knows what he’s talking about if nothing else; until now it has all been trial and error among the lot of us, engaging in debates about what works against creepie-crawlies and beasties of various sorts.
Had been. Had been trial and error. Past tense. Due to one final, really big error.
I sigh, the pain hitting me all over again. This room does nothing but bring back memories. I met Wu Cheng four years ago, in this building. I was searching for someone to teach me how to fight. After eight months of being told that first of all he did not teach Westerners, and then that he did not teach women, he acknowledged that I could possibly outstubborn him. And he started to show me the throws and holds and punches and kicks. And then I met Luc, another of his students, and then… and then…
I shake my head to drive the unproductive memories away. "What makes you think I could even learn, Blood."
He shrugs again. "I don’t think it will ever be your strength. Magic requires a… certain mindset… a certain willingness to… well. I’m not going to get into the philosophy of it at this moment. But the basics-- enough to help you in a fight, enough to at least put you on the playing field-- these things are a matter of determination and willingness."
"And you'd teach me." I blow out a long plume of smoke, doing my own bit of staring out the window. Blood nods in the corner of my vision, regarding me calmly as he waits for my answer.
Magic. That’s… a bit… of a jump. One thing to load a gun with bullets Bernard has blessed and dipped in holy water, one thing to carry garlic in the pockets and a jade luck pendant 'round the neck-- but to actually take that step….
Below me, Paris’s streets teem with people, hurrying to work, to errands, to home, to wives or children, to their normal, human lives. I can see the chasm, more clearly than ever. And this here is the step that will decide for me which side I come down on, isn’t it? Whether I’m a part of the real world, with its joys and pains and substantiality and warmth and petty people and automobile accidents and paperwork and politicians and shopping for groceries and the fact that it is generally predictable and safe. Or whether… whether I am instead… a citizen in this other place.
The shadow-lands, full of dark corners that each-and-all hold something fantastic and lethal. Where the wines really are brewed from Kvasir’s blood and not crushed grapes. Where Dracula stops being a metaphor for buried carnal urges and stands real, blood staining his sensual lips. Where the crescent moon is not caused by Earth’s position between sun and satellite, but by Artemis hiding her face. Where accepting the gift of a cigarette from a stranger can mean you're bound to them for seven years of servitude.
A world where people like him live. And occasionally they step out of their dark, secret cities and into our sunlight, dropping words and clues, gifts and cruelties; leaving troubling wakes in the waters of our lives.
… I have straddled, I have dabbled; yes. I wanted the rush, the secrets, the danger, the… dammit, the everything. But… I also wanted to… be able to step back into daylight when the night got a little too dark and heavy. Dip your toes in the water, Claire-chérie, but keep one foot firmly on the shore. My mantra.
Because I am not a fool, and I know one thing for certain about the Never-Neverland Blood and others like him inhabit: once you make the choice… you can’t ever take it back. Not really. The secret things underneath the surface of the world do not… accept goodbyes easily.
Four years of staring over the border of this land, observing what happened on their side of the fine thin line and fighting whatever crossed that line and came here. And I could leave now, turn my back on the edge, and go do something sane with my life. Something where I never see Jason Blood or Noël d'Allamaign again.
I could.
But, hell. My choice has been made. Or was made for me, years ago. "All right, Mr. Blood," I say calmly, opening the window and flicking my cigarette out.
"Teach me."
***