Melody Suffield rose from the bed, and a jolt of mild pain shot through her. Thanks to the club’s healer, the spot on her lower back where thin strips of flesh had been cut away almost a week ago for some ghoul customers showed nothing but a faint scar, but she could still feel it. The changeling girl--and at fourteen she really was just a girl--knew the feeling probably would have been sharper if not for the cocktail of drugs still in her system. That had been from the night before, when she had been served to a baku. She held up her left hand and concentrated for a moment. Then a small, green flame rose from her index finger, twirled and flickered for several moments, and shot to her pinky as it turned turquoise. She made it dance across her fingers for a minute or so before the girl extinguished the flame and moved on to making small spheres of light appear at different spots in the room. After lighting up three spheres (one blinking on and off, one shifting through different colors, and one bobbing up and down), Melody restored the flame and continued with her light show for a few minutes as her greenhouse came into focus.
Whether they got at it through blood, dreams, or desire, the one thing all the customers of the Sapphire Lily were after was that well of raw vitality and spiritual energy that was at the core of any living being. Melody had been at the club for almost two years, and by now her spiritual essence was in a state of flux. The psychic trauma left her occasionally incapacitated by fits of panic, delirium, and manic giddiness, but it also made it easier for her (or anyone else) to tap into that well of power. Recently, Melody had learned to refine her magical talent, and with the imaginary shelter of the greenhouse she had learned to store away bits of that raw vitality where only she could draw on them. She had made a shelter within her mind protected from the hunger of the customers and the influence of Julian Dumitru, the club’s owner and the incubus who had taken her in the first place. Every day she had to fight to hold onto her selfhood as he worked to shape her more into a creature of his design. He monitored how often she was fed upon, he dictated the decor and the items within her room, and he would occasionally take her on trips around the city. He tended to her because she and all the other chalices were his livestock, and even as she knew this Melody had to fight against that part of her which craved to give in and simply be livestock.
As the finished the exercise, Melody took a deep breath. One way or another, she was determined to finish battle for her identity this night.
* * * * *
The Lady Hisikawa, matriarch of the most powerful yokai clan on the West Coast, walked the streets of Los Angeles, and death followed her. Well, not the Death. Shiori Kirihara was a shinigami--a yokai with a reflection of that absolute imprinted upon her nature--who served as a bodyguard and an assassin for Lady Hisikawa. She was fifteen, she was dressed entirely in black, and with one hand she gripped the hilt of a sword concealed in a parasol. She maintained an unfocused gaze as she used her hearing, her peripheral vision, and her arcane senses to watch for threats. She also very carefully did not watch Sensei Hitomi as he strode ahead of her and their mistress. She did not watch for some hint or approval or any hint that he had spotted something that she hadn’t. And she certainly did not think about anything that had happened last month because she was a dutiful student and a loyal servant. Instead, she merely followed her mistress, remained vigilant, and held herself ready to do violence. Shiori followed Lady Hisikawa like a shadow as she entered a hotel. The three yokai passed silently through the lobby, and when they entered an elevator Lady Hisikawa produced a small key perhaps made of ivory and slid it into a hole in the control panel. Shiori’s grip on her sword tightened as the lights flickered for a few moments. Then the elevator went completely dark for a second or two, and when they came back on the booth was entirely different. The color scheme had changed, and the now-wooden walls were carved to depict a sort of bacchanal with young men and women dancing on the tables. Other youths were posed on a fountain with liquid pouring from their wrists and celebrants drinking from the pool, and in the ceiling there was a circle of intricately carved figures, each one heavily adorned and representing a different species of supernatural predators. Despite all her usual diligence, Shiori found her gaze transfixed by the looming figures. She didn’t notice the door opening until she felt a rush of cool air wash over her, and when she tore her eyes away she saw a tall, pale man in dark, ragged clothing standing barely an inch from her.
“Boo.”
Shiori backed up and drew her blade with all the speed of which she was capable, until her sensei let out a sharp cry of command.
“Put that away,” he said. “This is Sir Blackpool.”
Without hesitation, Shiori slid her blade back into its sheath and made a slight bow.
“I’m sorry, Sir Blackpool,” said Shiori. “I allowed my guard to drop, and I compensated with haste and thoughtlessness.”
“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself, my dear,” said the faerie with a wink. “There’s been worse reactions to coming face-to-face with the Bogeyman.”
* * * * *
“I’m sorry, but I really need some ID,” said the bouncer.
“Come on, just show him,” said Cyril. “Sorry, it’s the kid’s first time at a place like this.”
“Whoop-dee-freaking-doo,” said the bouncer. “I still need ID.”
Ephraim glanced at the older knight, and then after another moment of hesitation he focused his power and revealed his true self. His pupils turned pure white, his whites went dark, and silver sigils lit up all over his skin.
“Was that so hard?” asked the bouncer. “Go on in.”
Once the two were in the club, Ephraim went to work on the concealment charm. Like most good illusions it didn’t actually do anything to the light or to the raw visual data; it simply made them less interesting, harder for the mind to focus upon. It took a little over two minutes for the young knight to complete the spell, and when he finished he turned to the ghoul.
“They cater to sin-eaters here?” he asked.
“Did you think someone stops having vices just because they become a victim?” asked Cyril. “All they have to do is...create opportunities for jealousy, bitterness, and rivalries among the captives. There’s probably some sort of bloodsport involved.”
Ephraim took a long whiff of the air. He closed his eyes, and allowed himself to be lost in the scent of the place. For an instant, he felt his predatory nature coiled beneath the surface of his conscious mind.
“The incubus who runs this club,” he said. “What did you say his name was?”
“Julian Dumitru,” said Cyril.
“Right...” Ephraim let the word out in a sigh before he opened his eyes. “I’m going to eat his heart.”
“What are we talking?” asked Cyril. “Spiritually, biologically, metaphorically...what?”
“Yes,” said Ephraim with a nod.
“Sounds fun,” said the ghoul. Then a shadow passed over his expression as the two found a table. “Just don’t be reckless. Dumitru is a dangerous man, and you need to watch out for Vera. She’s been increasingly reckless, and this is not a place for carelessness.”
The sin-eater averted his eyes and muttered, “It can’t be that dangerous. They didn’t even check us for weapons.”
“Dumitru has disdain for open combat,” said Cyril in the tone of a teacher dealing with a rather thick student. “He prefers cat’s paws, misdirection, and manipulation. Every other time someone has closed in on him, he’s arranged for there to be a more desperate problem somewhere else. Preferably in a direction that leaves his enemies’ backs exposed. It took decades to secure this opportunity, and I would prefer not to see it wasted.” The ghoul let his eyes pass across the club for a moment and added, “Besides, the fact that he doesn’t check for weapons means every target in here is either armed or else dangerous enough that they find most weapons redundant.”
Ephraim said nothing as he struggled to take in everything that had just been said. He tried to fit his thoughts around all the possible consequences of his actions, all the things he needed to be wary of, all the points of a particularly thorny situation. His mind drifted to the girl with whom he had trained. He thought of her skill with a gun, her feral might, and her unbridled hatred.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll be careful.”
Then the young knight took out a small pouch full of arcane materials. He reverently removed the herbs, the chalk, and the talisman with motions that produced no sound. There were many things that had come together to make this raid possible, but all of them would have been useless if not for Ephraim’s absolute mastery of the Way of Trembling.
“Now then,” said Ephraim with a hint of dreadful glee. “Let’s get started.”
* * * * *
The display of hunger and power was overwhelming as Shiori tried to watch for threats. She stayed on the edge of her seat with her blade clutched tightly at the ready. If anyone seemed about to strike she would be able to respond in an instant. The trouble was that there was hardly anyone in the club who didn’t look like a threat. And the longer she watched the spectacle around her, the harder it was for Shiori to ignore the “chalices” (as the young men and women the customers fed upon were called) and the way they were fed upon. They mostly looked to be in their mid- to late teens; they were dressed in skimpy, violet uniforms; and many had open wounds or appeared to be in a daze of some kind. Even without the clothes, it would have been easy to pick the chalices out of the crowd; they were the ones that looked all used up.
Shiori took a deep, shuddering breath as she tried to refocus her attention. She struggled to restore the mindset that had been drilled into her by her sensei. She remembered the one time she had seen him smile--the day she had earned the right to carry a sword--and for a moment the girl thought she could bare the dreadful spectacle.
“You seem distracted, Shiori,” said Lady Hisikawa.
“I’m sorry, my Lady,” said Shiori. “I’ve--I’ve never been at a place like this before. It is a good thing your loyal servant Hitomi-san with you, as I fear I am not qualified to protect you here. The raw ferocity of this club...it makes it difficult to discern true danger.”
“There’s no need to lie, child,” said Lady Hisikawa. “My servant has taught you much about survival and the sword, but you have not yet learned about other people and how to properly think of them.”
“My Lady,” said Sensei Hitomi. “I do not think now is the time for...this.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Blackpool. “I promised Mab the swift completion of our business.”
“This will only take a moment,” said Lady Hisikawa. She stood up, took a step, and touched the shoulder of a host, and when he turned around she had returned to her seat. “That one. Bring her to me.”
A cold lump formed in Shiori’s gut as a young girl with a single streak of green running through her otherwise pink hair was directed to their table. She felt her legs turn to jelly and her breath catch in her throat as Lady Hisikawa took hold of the girl’s wrist and gently but firmly pulled her close.
“I know that you’ve had some trouble dealing with the recent job,” said the Lady. “And that’s fine, but it’s time you understand that some people are allies.” She pulled the chalice down to her knees. “Some people are enemies.” She grabbed a handful of the girl’s hair, tilted her head back, and slid an inhumanely long tongue across the girl’s neck and cheek. Tendrils of bright energy clung to the yokai woman’s tongue as she drew it back into her mouth. “And some people are food.”
As the words left her mouth, there was a trembling that ran through the club, and three doors that hadn’t been there before flew open. Shiori’s gaze darted around as she rose to her feet and tried to take in the situation. Before she could get the bigger picture, however, she saw a ghoul kneeling over the bleeding form of the same host who had just fetched the pink-haired chalice.
“Hello, dearie” said the grinning knight as he stared into the eyes of Lady Hisikawa. “You were saying something about...food?”
* * * * *
“Bethelnkeng tra mishensra!” shouted Margaret Jensen.
“Remember the sorrows!” bellowed Vera Maheras along with the rest of the knights.
The harpy shot through the air and over the heads of her comrades as she passed through the upper third or so of the doorframe in a sudden feat of acrobatics. The move required her to fold her wings, meaning that if she wanted to fly to a chandelier or balcony or other vantage point she would have to spend a moment or two flapping around wherever anyone could reach up and slide a knife along her belly. Instead, Vera took a dive, drew her wings back into herself, and rolled along the floor before coming up and slashing her talons through the throat of a very confused succubus. With a word of Avalonian she threw a small barrage of fire at a pair of vampires, and she sprinted for an empty and secluded table while drawing a revolver. Behind her she could hear the rest of the knights, centurions, and jaegers flooding into the club. That was good. If they’d run into any serious resistance in those first moments she would have been left absolutely defenseless. Of course, the knowledge that she had a decent chance of surviving in her position didn’t reassure her any more than the possibility of doom had frightened her. She simply pulled the trigger and continued her work.
* * * * *
The light dimmed, the eruption of noise and carnage slowed to crawl, and the cacophony of panic and fury became a whisper of white noise.
“Relax for a moment, child,” said Blackpool as he took a sip of tea. “Before you go about cutting down threats to your lady, I’d like you to look around. Consider who is here. Who is fighting. What they are fighting for.”
Shiori tried to finish drawing her blade and found that while she was not frozen her movement was inhibited as if she were under water. She stared at the faerie.
“What have you done to me?” she asked. “Emissary of Winter, I demand that you lift this enchantment. Now is not the time for--”
“Shiori Kirihara,” said Blackpool in a whisper that chilled her to the bones. “Daughter of Kisuke Kirihara, will you please, for one second, stop trying to impress everyone with how very serious and grown up you are. Just look around you, and try to truly understand this moment in time--this sliver of absolute reality--and your place in it.”
The shinigami simply stared for a moment as all her resolve shattered in the face of that simple plea. She struggled for some response, some turn of phrase, but all that came was, “I...I’m not sure I can...I’m so afraid.”
The Bogeyman took her hand in his. It was warm and soft.
“I know, child,” he said. “Why do you think I’m here?”
Then Shiori Kirihara looked at the scene before her, took a deep breath, and allowed herself to float silently in the truth of the moment. Several long and painful seconds later, a tear rolled down her cheek.
“Now,” said Blackpool as he wiped the tear away with a silk handkerchief. “If you find your current employment as distasteful as I do, may I suggest that this is an excellent time to seek out new career opportunities.”
Then, slowly at first but then more rapidly with every heartbeat, Shiori was returned to the normal flow of time. As she clicked back into sync with the club, Shiori’s gaze met that of Sensei Hitomi and the two shared a moment of understanding. There was no thought, no deduction, only instinct and knowledge coming together in a perfect crystalline instant. They understood that she had already chosen to leave the Lady Hisikawa. They understood that it would be the duty of Hitomi to slay her. They understood that her only chance at survival was to strike him down immediately. There was no time to run the pros and cons, no time for considerations. There was only time for instinct and the raw will stripped of all rationalizations. Perhaps that was true freedom. Perhaps it was only the toss of an imaginary coin. In any event, Sensei Hitomi hesitated and his pupil did not.
The blade cut deep into Hitomi’s neck, but it failed to decapitate him entirely. The master swordsman took his scabbard in one hand, clutched the hilt in the other, and as his blood spilled onto the floor he drew his own katana in a motion of perfect grace. Then the strength went out of him, and Shiori’s mentor toppled to the floor.
The Lady Hisikawa turned to Shiori, her face locked in a rictus of hate and motes of emerald power flashing from her fingers, and said in a whispered shriek, “You ungrateful little bitch.”
* * * * *
Ephraim breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the raid catching up with Vera. Then he took in the club and quickly caught sight of his prey. Julian Dumitru was standing in the middle of a panicked crowd, carefully assessing the situation. It would take only seconds for him to come to a conclusion and choose an appropriate strategy. The sin-eater charged, a short sword in one hand and a sickle in the other, determined not to give that fucking slavemonger those few seconds. Julian’s eyes snapped toward Ephraim as the boy cut down a vampire and a baku who’d had the misfortune of standing in his path. The incubus had a feline build and a sly beauty that were only enhanced by the violet sigils that now lit up across his skin. The man lunged forward, slid seamlessly past both blades, and slammed a fist into Ephraim’s gut.
The boy toppled forward and slammed into a booth. He came to his feet just in time to ward off another vampire and hear Vera shout his name just as Cyril swore in exasperation. To his horror, he saw the harpy charge deeper into the club, and he sprinted to cover her. A moment later, he saw the incubus swinging a rapier directly at his throat. Before the danger could truly register, a gauntleted hand swatted the blade aside. Julian Dumitru stared at Cyril, his rapier held at the ready, and then gave Ephraim a wink just before he turned tail and ran.
“I thought you said he disdains open combat,” said Ephraim as the three sought a more defensible position.
“Quick life lesson for you,” said the ghoul. “Never hold anything in disdain unless you can do it really well.”
* * * * *
Before either of the yokai could strike, Melody grabbed hold of Shiori’s wrist and fled with the speed and quality of motion that belong only to the fey. The changeling girl could only ride the wind in short bursts, and Shiori nearly toppled over when they came out on a staircase by the dancefloor.
“I don’t know who’s fighting, but I don’t want to get in the middle of any of that,” said Melody. “I think we should make a run for the kitchens. You ready?”
“Hold on,” said Shiori.
“That was rhetorical.”
Shiori was about to tell Melody she was using that word wrong when they took off all over again. Shiori was dragged along as Melody flew and zig-zagged through the carnage. They danced back as the battle blocked their way to the kitchen, but after another two jumps it looked like they might be in the clear.
“Hold on there,” said a man in an amused growl as he grabbed Melody by the throat.
Melody’s eyes widened as she recognized the voice of Slade Meinrad. The upir had been a patron of the Gilded Lily since its founding, he had personally slain over forty knights of the Helsing since Gwendolyn had broken off ties with them, and he was on the short list to join the Stygian Fellowship. Of course, Melody didn’t know any of this. All she knew was that his presence always sent a chill down her spine, that the times he had fed upon her had left her more afraid of him than any other customer, and that he had twice left her in need of a transfusion. Shiori knew even less. All the shinigami knew was that he was too close for her to effectively use her sword. Before the vampire said another word, she drove her knee into his groin, slammed her hilt into his diaphragm, gathered power in the middle and index fingers of her free hand, and jabbed at three pressure points. As Slade Meinrad backed up and knelt over from the pain, Shiori took a step back and decapitated the vampire.
“Holy crap,” breathed Melody.
“Yep,” said Shiori. “Now let’s go.”
“That...that was awesome,” said Melody.
“We really need to leave. Now.”
It was already too late. They were cut off from the kitchen again, and there was a trio of vargulfen circling the girls. Shiori held her blade at the ready. She tried to guess what the chances were that the changeling would be able to handle the one that would soon pounce from behind. She was at least grateful the changeling had the sense to stand back-to-back with her. Just before the question would have been answered, two shots rang out. A pair of smoking holes appeared in one of the vargulfen, and the other two turned to see a harpy drawing a saber as she put away her empty gun. Shiori lashed out immediately at the nearest of the remaining two, and the last ran off into the fray.
“I’ll get them,” said shouted Ephraim as he gestured at several chalices hiding under a table. “You get those two out.”
“Right,” grumbled Vera Maheras as she approached Shiori and Melody. “Follow me, ladies. And put the sword away.”
“Excuse me?” said Shiori.
“I don’t trust you since you’re obviously not a chalice, but I feel like killing you would be frowned upon,” said Vera. “Now put the sword away.”
"No," said Shiori.
“Fine, we can’t afford to argue,” said Vera. “Just follow me. I already can’t wait to be rid of you both.”
"No," said Shiori.
