One late evening, on a brisk night, I arrived at the castle Montcornet. It loomed above, grey and dark with a circular moat and its back against a river. The last light had just disappeared in the horizon and the darkness was complete on this starless night.

I had been told that Viscount William had the largest collection of volumes in Champagne, and I was about to find out. The carriage was parked nearby, but I planned to find a safer resting place if the library was indeed worth my nights. By now my knowledge was large, but full of so many holes that it seemed mostly useless. And I was losing interest. I needed something hard and tangible, something to show me that this was not all speculation and wish-thinking.

I had my black cloak on, over my grey linen shirt, and dark grey trousers. All in all, a nice cover in the night, had in not been for my very pale face, which would catch any light and throw it back with vengeance. But I was not worried. It was all too easy with the powers at my disposal. One think was the physical force, but the real gamechanger was the awareness of any thinking, feeling creature, and the ability to brush over their upper thoughts undetected.

Silently, I leapt over the moat and found purchase on the wet wall. My boots slipped but my hands held true, and slowly, I crawled up. And there was no one straight above, so I simply jumped over the battlement and straightened on the wall’s perching.

The keep towered up behind the walls, far taller than the round, watchtowers. On the right, there was a courtyard, and the massive gatehouse. I only had to avoid the three guards on duty to slip into the castle’s belly. Now, I didn’t know exactly where the library was, but I felt it was only a matter of time. It had to be in the keep, and likely in the upper floors.

I wandered the hallways like a silent spectre. The night was young, and voices and laughs reverberated through the keep’s halls. Servants wrapped the day up and nobles enjoyed the day’s last hours with wine and chatting. Somewhere, a fire crackled. The stone hampered my Mind’s Eye efficiently but sounds and scents flowed. I had ample time to figure out ways to avoid the few souls that came across me.

Books had a smell, also. I had not caught it yet, but I rarely needed to even open a door for knowing what was inside. And, of course, it turned out that the viscount had his library on the floor of his own quarters. It was thankfully empty. He, and his viscountess, were somewhere else. The library was his study and it was indeed expansive. Four hundred volumes at least. Without hesitation, I began my rummaging.

The faint light of my eyes was enough to see and learn. The books were authentic. Some of them I knew already. I had planned only to ascertain the veracity of the rumours on this first night, but I was captivated.

The viscount came, eventually. I heard him from down the hallway and he was not alone. His quarters occupied the whole floor, however, and I was not concerned about being discovered. It was so simple to hide from weak, mortal senses in candlelight.

The door burst open, and the viscount marched in, pulling along a girl half his size by her arm, while holding a lantern in the other hand. She was crying. The simple robe marked her a servant, while he wore red velvet from top to toe as well as a fine, thick cape held together by a golden brooch on his chest. He had a strong jaw, and a tough look in his eyes. His figure was slightly plump but the fat bounced around on thick muscles.

He marched in and threw her on the bed. She made no form of resistance but her eyes avoided the sight of him, they rolled around searching for comfort, or distraction. I quietly considered my awkward position. I regarded the library, the books, and then my conscience. This was hardly a rare occurrence, and really shocking in the least, but the balance still tipped in the latter’s favour, for I was tired of research.

The viscount stretched his wide and thick back, protruding chest and belly as he eyed the girl with lazy hunger. “Take it off,” he waved impatiently, and she started obeying though her sobs increased.

My voice flowed into the room, deep and smooth and suave as only Nightwalkers sounded, like the alluring predators they were. “William of Montcornet, I presume,” and the viscount jolted and jerked his head around, hand shooting to his hip and fumbling with a dagger. Old reflexes died hard, though he was past his prime, but the dagger settled in his hand like it belonged there.

“Who goes!” He barked, squinting at the darkness and raising the lantern. He saw a white, amused face before he could distinguish the rest of my form, and it terrified him. His mouth opened without a sound. The girl, however, opened hers and started a high-pitched, horrified scream which cut into my ears like needles. My expression stiffened painfully. This apparently terrified the viscount even more. While pale and panicking, he grabbed the girl and shook her by the shoulders, “silence, wench! SILENCE!” He growled sharply but he could not get through to her, she was fixating on me with her deathly stare, me and my glowing, dark eyes. He grabbed her mouth as if to stop the sound from coming out, and that actually did the trick.

“Please treat the poor girl correctly,” I requested drily, though I had already decided to make him my nest victim and remove him from this world.

The man saw the hunger in my eyes. He saw his own death in them, “milord,” he breathed, his strong voice failing him, “milord of the night, why have you come for me?”

I approached without sound, hands joined in my back, “for I am hungry,” I simply said. I normally never played before feeding, but this one… he was aware of his fate. First time I had experienced this.

“I can satiate your hunger a hundred times over, if you but let me live,” he promised desperately, “this girl can be yours!” But his words had no effect and I kept approaching. He blabbered on as he backpedalled against the wall, but I listened only with half an ear. He was desperate and saying anything.

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The girl looked on in silent terror. I had given her no attention and she probably was fearful of gathering any notice. I was moments away from snapping his neck and bleeding him dry when he came through to me, made me freeze. Something he said…

“What,” I whispered, “was that?”

He barely dared breathe, “I know of Him,” he whispered, “I know of the First One.”

I let him go, staring into his eyes, pressuring his mind brutally. He was telling the truth. Or at least, the truth as he believed it. I had serious doubts, for no one, not Michael or Fetinja, and not Amero either – he had told Fetinja as much – seemed to have any clue as to our origin. And as far as research went, there were no First One. No consistent mention of it, once the various, ridiculous and evidently made-up stories of the Devil’s workings or God’s Curse were ruled out. These lacked so much in consistency I could not find one to believe.

I disengaged with him and circled away with feigned disinterest, gesturing lazily. “Make your case.”

He took a deep breath, “I can tell you where he sleeps, and help you find him,” he paused, sensing my interest, but unable to understand its nature exactly. “I have strong friends, and resources, milord, I am much more useful to you alive than dead. And I have knowledge, as you are no doubt aware of,” he motioned for the library.

I could tell he was excited. He saw me as a god. He wanted my power. I smiled to him, showing the fangs, and his heart bounced in his chest. My interest was piqued. The First One, he said. Probably a very Old One. If that was the case then it was still interesting, although dangerous.

Amero’s quick warning had Michael and Fetinja sweating for weeks before the danger had passed. At least this one was sleeping.

“Very well. Where is he?”

He grimaced, “milord, he is near Orléans, he sleeps beneath old ruins from two centuries ago, but he is… protected. We’re working on it.”

“Protected,” I repeated mirthfully, smiling still, “where, near Orléans?”

“Milord, should we speak under four eyes?” He glanced to the girl, who made herself as small as possible. I shrugged.

“She will tell nothing, will she?” I said, mustering my most charitable smile to her. The hairs rose on her neck and she shook her head violently.

“Leave, say nothing! I will know if you do,” William said, gesturing vaguely, and she crawled over the bed and tumbled out of the room, closing the door behind her quietly. “There,” he said, writhing his hands, “I realize… you are a very noble, honourable sire, and I am humbled by it,” he licked his lips, “what I mean to say is… this shall not repeat itself,” he glanced to the door meaningfully.

I nodded slowly, “I should hope so.” There was a heavy moment of silence as he suffered the weight of my stare.

“Yes, well, let me show you the evidence…” he said, and he actually walked right past me, bowing his head respectfully as he did so. I could have reached out and opened his throat with my index, had I wanted to do so. A braver man than expected. He rushed into his library and pulled out a thin book carefully holding a set of papers inside, while I stood observant, laying silence and weight to his every move. He kept a remarkable composure given the pressure.

He showed me the book, approaching slowly and cautiously. “It is a journal, written by a monk of a now abandoned monastery. He records a guest they took in after midnight, who looked pale and sick and barely alive, and suffering. For one week, there are descriptions of him, and then… there is this:” he showed me a page and pointed, his eyes sparkling with anticipation as he watched me read. The lines said this in beautiful, immaculate letters:

We procured our guest his coffin, for he is indeed gravely sick, and he provided the gold. A generous donation. And this evening, he came to bearing and walked into our crypt, where our esteemed predecessors and Saint George’s bones rest, but he did so against our wishes. Even Hugues could not stop him, though he is twice as big. God has given this man the strength of ten: he came up, and as our Savior carried his cross, our guest pulled his coffin to the crypt, except, I fear it is not God’s work we sense in this man.

I could hide my intrigue no longer. The viscount looked at me and smiled, nodding, “yes, you guess right. The page ended halfway. These were the last words that were written:

I fear God has been driven from our home, and that our chance to leave has passed with the day’s end. A mist has sunk over our house, a mist like no other, and our esteemed guest walks our hallways, eyes empty. Lucifer himself must have given him his strength. His skin is hard as stone. We tried restraining him, but he noticed not. We

Hugues and Charles and William have disappeared. Auguste is with me. Some tried leaving, and I am haunted by their screams. We have no weapons. I wonder, what does Milord expect of us? We are but men.

God has abandoned us. Our door is broken. He is here. The Demon sees us.

The last words were scribbled with haste, they were large and disproportional. “Incredible,” I whispered, gliding my fingers a hair’s width over the page. What an account!

“Isn’t it?” The Viscount chuckled, and brought out a bunch of letters tied together, “and these here are messages between two local landowners, petty lords, who address the situation also, some years later. The mist has disappeared, and the abbey lies abandoned, but they still warn of dark sorcery and curses in that place.

I lightly bowed my head, accepting his evidence though one imprecision remained. “And why have you presumed him to be the first of my kindred?” I asked him coolly.

Fear rippled through him. “Milord, this record is two-hundred years old, and the descriptions… the ring! The ring most of all! In the journal, he describes it only once, let me see… there, you see?” I saw. The monk claimed it was a Roman ring, but the Romans were driven from Gaul many centuries before even this record. Not damning evidence, but still… “And the powers described, milord,” he swallowed, “could you do the same? Is your flesh like stone? He must be many hundreds of years old.”

I slowly acquiesced and straightened away from the journal and letters. “All this,” I gestured to it, “I will take with me and study. I shall return tomorrow evening. If I am indeed satisfied, then you shall lead me to it. You will take only your most trusted men, and you will rest by day and travel by night.” I looked into his eyes, lazily, like I thought an immortal with powers beyond understanding might, and threw him the carrot: “And if indeed you lead me to this crypt, then I shall give you the immortality of the Night’s Gift.”

His eyes bulged with greed. I suppose they reflected my heart, for it was the same thing really I wanted form this sleeping Nightwalker. Power. Security. Freedom. What had been Fetinja’s words? To grow, you can only hone your skills… or drink an Old One’s blood. Something like it. I smiled and gathered the documents before leaving without a sound.

Finally, my researching was bearing fruit, though not exactly in the way I had intended.