CHAPTER 20: LEARNING EXPERIENCES
“I’m not questioning the weapon’s effectiveness, Voivode Igori. I’m questioning the wisdom of unleashing a plague like that. Culling the mortals with pestilences is reasonable; using the Fae is not. While the Archduke’s aid in light of his entanglements in the south is appreciated, I worry using information recovered from Isabelle Gens Silva alongside the item recovered from Goatsong will prove dangerous.” - Letter from Duke Mika Gens Umbria (Transcribed by the Succubus Sysiasyia)
----------------------------------------
With the wolves bound to Natalie and their empty husks disposed of, the group got to work setting up camp. The clearing was a decent space to spend the night, and after the day's activities, a little rest was in order. Tents were set up, a fire pit was dug, and other supplies were unloaded from the wagon. For his part, Cole kept busy finding anything dry enough to fuel a campfire, a practice he had long experience with.
Returning to the makeshift campsite with another load of salvaged branches and tinder, Cole found his companions engaged in their tasks. Alia swaggered back into Camp with two unfortunate rabbits and a handful of early herbs. Mina and Natalie fussed over the big stew pot filled with fresh stream water while Yara watered the horses and brushed their coats. Eyes tracing across this scene, Cole found the newcomer, Kit, hunched down by the wagon, doing something to its side.
Depositing the firewood by the pit, Cole walked over to the Magi and found him carving strange flowing patterns into the wagon’s side. “What are you doing?”
Kit practically jumped in fright and almost dropped the ritual athame he’d been using. Looking at Cole, a slightly guilty expression on his face, Kit said. “Helping out. I’m not much good with all the ‘wilderness survival stuff,’ but I do know magic.”
Patting the carving he’d been working on, Kit explained. “I’m predominantly a Kinemancer with some Graviturgical skill. With the lantern to help, I should be able to reduce the weight of the wagon and its supplies. Y’know, to make it easier on the horses and allow for more cargo, like me.”
Frowning, Cole asked. “Did you tell anyone you’d be doing this?”
Kit cocked his head to the side. “No, why?”
A hundred similar conversations involving Rellim and his staff passed through Cole’s head. Mundane academic types could be insufferable, and they didn’t even have reality-warping arcane powers like Magi. Pulling on years of experience, Cole said. “Thank you for the aid, but please check with us first; we don’t want different enchantments or spells to clash.”
Cole didn’t bother to bring up petty notions like consent or personal property. To a Magi, they were trifles in the face of arcane mysteries. If he wanted Kit to cooperate, Cole needed to speak a language he understood.
Slowly nodding at Cole’s words, the Magi said. “I see; I hadn’t thought about that; yes, good idea.”
Getting up from his squat, Kit scratched his head and sighed. “It really is a shame about the sky-boat; this would have been the perfect time to relearn such magic, with the war on and all that.”
Cole leaned against the wagon and examined Kit; after Natalie’s prodding, he remembered the strange fiddler from the market and the ball. “Were our previous encounters truly a coincidence?”
Cleaning his Athame with a coat sleeve, Kit shrugged. “The first time I think so; I’m not certain about the ball, though. The Ivory Tower traditionally sends a few prodigies to major city events to show off, and I was a last-minute selection for the Solstice. I don’t know if my master was pulling strings to get me invited or not.”
The Athame left Kit’s hand then and floated over towards his backpack, finding its home in a leather sheath. Watching this impressive bit of telekinesis, Cole asked, “Is that how you survived the wolves?”
Stretching his fingers, Kit answered. “Yep, every time they pounced or got close, I gave them a little push, kept them off-balance.”
Frowning, Cole looked towards the patch of grass they found a dead wolf in. “What about the one with the broken spine? If you could do that, why didn’t you kill the rest of the pack?”
A sheepish grimace crossed Kit’s face. “I took offense when you said I wasn’t that powerful, but I really shouldn’t have. In terms of raw arcane strength, I’m lacking; my skills lie in finesse and complexity. Snapping an old sick wolf’s spine was a wasteful effort, especially after my ill-fated flight.”
Sitting near Kit was the strange crystal lantern he’d salvaged from the sky-boat. Cole hadn’t looked at the artifact too closely but guessed it was some kind of enchanted gemstone; such things were common in the highest order of magecraft. About the size of a child’s skull, a frame of reference Cole hated he knew, the lantern was almost spherical, with countless finely cut sides refracting its eldritch inner light. When he first saw the lantern, Cole thought its light was a pale white, but the encroaching twilight forced him to reconsider.
As the Sun’s light drained away, the lantern’s true color became clear, or at least comprehensible. The light was more vivid, more intense, and more unnerving than any natural white could be. It was the white light cast by an alien sun or someone's idea of an alien sun, now bottled in cut crystal. Just glancing at the artifact made Cole wonder what long-term exposure to such an occult item would do; it also made him not want to know where the Lych acquired it. But unfortunately, Cole could make a few good guesses about the lantern’s origin.
Checking to make sure the rest of the group was busy, engaged in chores or conversation, Cole casually asked. “How many generations removed are you from the Sidhe?”
Kit’s face lost all its color, a dreadful effect, especially in the light of the lantern. “T-twelve, four elf, eight human. How did you know?”
Changelings: the hybrid spawn of the Sidhe, one of the most feared species in the world. Born with all the magical potency and shape-changing skill of the Fae but without a mind capable of wielding the power safely. It was said Changelings were doomed to a short life filled with madness and woe, trapped between worlds and unable to survive in either. Of course, doomed doesn’t mean infertile, and some of the luckier Changelings produced offspring. Even generations removed from these eldritch ancestors, the Sidhespawn kept flickers of the old mysteries within them, usually unconsciously.
Gesturing at the lantern, Cole said. “I’ve seen something like that before. It was the beacon of the Tiaracht lighthouse. The Elves on the island didn’t like outsiders getting near it, which made sense considering its origin. In fact, the only person who spent much time near the lighthouse was its keeper, an old fellow who liked to stare at clouds and sing songs in a pitch no one could match. Was he a distant relative of yours?”
Shaken and clearly expecting some kind of attack, Kit said. “I don’t think so; my family is from Lusitania. Are… are you going to tell anyone?”
Cole shrugged. “I don’t care what your ancestry is, and I won’t use what I know to hurt you without good cause. But I also don’t appreciate being misled; the sky-ship is only part of the reason the Lych sent you, am I correct?”
Kit untensed a little. “Yes, I’m here to help deal with the plague’s source.”
Momentarily confused, Cole was about to request clarification when things fit into place. The Gallarwylls, the faeries bound into the Screaming plague, were spawned from eggs summoned by the disease. So, where did the eggs come from? They couldn’t just be called from the Grey Beyond; the energy and rites involved were too much. But if something was laying eggs in the Aether, then a summoning would be possible.
“There’s a mother somewhere. The Vampires have a… ‘Gallarwyll queen’ imprisoned somewhere and are using her to create the eggs.” Rasped Cole, horrible comprehension soaking into him.
Kit nodded. “My master, the First Preceptor, had a suspicion when Isabelle Gens Silva explained her logic behind the cure, and he did some additional research. Creating and spreading a powerful pestilence like the Screaming Plague isn’t easy, requiring a lot of magical power and unique ingredients. Both of these could be acquired through a powerful faerie beast.”
A look of genuine horror spread across Cole’s face, an expression even the most twisted Undead monsters failed to illicit. “Have the Duchies gone insane? I thought there were treaties about not using Faeries like that? The Gallarwyll eggs were bad enough, but this… this is… fire-and-iron; it’s incredibly dangerous.”
The Final Gates, the ancient magical defenses created from Saint Myra the Martyr, did more than balance the influence of Gods; they shielded the world from the Fae. Because of the Gate’s shrouding power, the Hosts of Air and Darkness never returned to avenge ancient defeats. But the exact strength of the Gates wasn’t truly known, and nobody sane was willing to test exactly how much faerie attention was needed to overwhelm them. Calling up a familiar or a few Faerie beasts was one thing; infecting millions with fae larvae spawned by complicated repeated summoning was another. Leaving that big of a systematic trace in the Aether might attract the worst form of eldritch predators.
Kit looked a little sick at Cole’s words, and he said. “My master has been wondering the same thing. He orignally thought losing the Alukah was driving them to this point, but now he isn’t certain.”
Letting out a long, slow breath, Cole traced over things in his mind. Kit was Sidhekin, or at least enough to still count for their artifacts and magic. A rare property, that when combined with his magical dexterity, made Kit perfect for manipulating Faerie relics. Like the lantern powering the sky-boat’s enchantments, or a similar artifact involved with the plague’s source. Kithar Marono wasn’t just some apprentice sent as a token aid to the cure effort, but a subtle knife pointed at the Leechs’ own weapon.
Calming slightly, Cole asked. “Why are you telling me this? Don’t you want to keep this hidden?”
Shrugging, Kit said. “If you knew enough to guess what I am, then hiding stuff from you would be counter-productive. After today, I’ve gotten a sense I’m going to need all the help I can get, and misleading you doesn’t seem like a good idea. Besides, you scared the shit out of me earlier, and I’d rather you trust me a modicum instead of putting an axe to my throat.”
A bitter snort escaped Cole. “Thank you. I will do what I can to help, but the core of my responsibilities lie elsewhere.”
Said core called out from beside the fireplace. “It’s getting cold, Cole; come help me warm up.”
Smiling at Natalie, Cole looked at Kit, “Are you up to playing some music for us tonight?”
The fiddler-magi gained a bit of his cocksure attitude again. “Of course.”
As they started to walk towards the fire, Cole paused and asked. “One last question: why did you want to see the Sage stone? It was a profoundly suspicious thing to do.”
Fishing in his pockets, Kit pulled out a shining coin. “My master gave me this; it's a tracking charm and how I found you. I figured if I showed how it reacted to the reliquary, you’d believe me.”
Cole looked at the coin and blinked in surprise; the mishappen piece of gold was familiar, one of the Heartstealer’s tracking coins repurposed by the Lych, probably out of some misguided sense of humor. “If you’d shown me that, to begin with, I’d probably have trusted you more.”
----------------------------------------
Ludaford died badly. It took close to twenty-four hours for the town to be completely sacked. Even with the outer wall breached and its main defenders dead, the fortress town held out for a shockingly long time. The few scattered pockets of resistance didn’t do much damage to the invading army of corpses, but they did buy themselves a few hourglass grains. But ultimately, it was a futile effort, and the few claimed motes of time were quickly washed away by a corpse tide.
Sitting in a highbacked chair scavenged from a wealthy merchant’s house, Lord Aloysius Wolfgang looked over the surviving citizens of Ludaford. They’d been assembled in the remnants of the town square, a huddled mass of maybe five hundred desperate souls surrounded by walls of steel-encased bone. The surviving population was roughly a sixth of the original count, judging by the census information Wolfgang’s thralls acquired—more than enough to support a breeding population.
From his perch, Wolfgang monitored his Gasha’s work. Reigning them in after the slaughter had been difficult but not impossible, and now the four surviving Gashadokuro were busy clearing away rubble and destroyed buildings like unholy crane systems. Keeping them busy was proving to be important; otherwise, the hungry animus within the giant skulls started eyeing up the surviving mortals. Aside from the crunch and clatter of the Gasha’s work, the night was filled with the sound of gentle weeping and the occasional scream. A troop of well-trained Thralls walked among the people of Ludaford, giving them the two gifts Wolfgang offered, the plague’s cure and the branding iron.
Marking conquered populations with an icy brand was a new policy in the Duchies, something the more hardline dominance factions had wanted for centuries. Born and bred citizens of the Duchies could be counted on not to flee, or at least not in numbers enough to matter; their newly subdued neighbors were a different story. Besides, adding a palpable mark of separation between citizens and captured serfs was good for social cohesion, giving the native peasantry someone to look down upon.
In a few weeks, the survivors of Ludaford would be marched east and used to bolster the population of Roloyo. Then, in four generations or so, the descendants of Ludaford would be indistinguishable from any other mortal in the Duchies, just more compliant livestock to be bartered and slaughtered as the Vampires saw fit.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Altogether, the occupation of Ludaford was proceeding like well-made clockwork, which was exactly the Black Fly’s goal. Duke Mika would be visiting tonight, and impressing him would be key to future plans. Wolfgang played a perilous game with players much stronger and more connected than him. Collecting allies and favors would be key not just to his ambition but to basic survival. Creating and unleashing the Screaming Plague hadn’t elevated Wolfgang’s prestige quite like he’d hoped. The tainted legacy of Countess Gens Silva and the innate skittishness around Fae shortchanged Wolfgang’s political capital.
As the Gashadokuro finished clearing away much of the destroyed outer town, Wolfgang heard the unmistakable call of crows, lots and lots of crows. Standing up from his chair, he looked to Cleanor, who’d been sleeping off a heavy meal, and said, “The Duke will arrive soon.”
The Lamia’s eyes snapped open, and she uncoiled herself. “The flying court has come?”
The chorus of crows grew louder and louder, going from the caws of a simple murder to the raucous cries of an entire massacre. Looking up at the pitch-black night sky, Cleanor whispered. “That’s answer enough.”
Roloyo shared two borders with the Holy League and, much like its neighbor, the Southern Marches, hosted the lord’s share of fighting between the two patchwork empires. Even this most recent conflict was ignited by the Prince of Harmas trying to claim contested territory in the Dragontail foothills. Eternally embroiled in war, the Duchy of Roloyo constantly needed a strong hand across its lands. To this end, Duke Gens Umbria spent little of his unlife within his capital, instead traveling his domain and bringing his court with him.
As the crow-song became deafening, other sounds mixed in with it, the beating of titanic wings. Staring up at the sky, Wolfgang watched the stars go out as countless crows and other larger scavengers filled the night sky. Raining down from the heavens like the black blood of an undead god, the crows settled across Ludaford. Every rooftop was covered in twitching black feathers and beady black eyes, awaiting their master’s arrival.
Stepping down from the dias he’d used to observe matters, Wolfgang knelt on the damp cobblestones of the town square, Cleanor prostrate a few steps behind him. The other Vampires involved in the siege materialized in the square as well, taking positions of supplication nearby. Looking around the square, Wolfgang triple-checked the clear space he’d left was enough for the Duke to land.
The beat of great wings grew louder and louder as the flying court arrived in earnest. A quartet of horse-sized direbats landed in a rough diamond; each beast carried an armored knight in red. The four Scarlet Knights dismounted their beasts and checked the perimeter as the Duke’s steed came into view. Flying low over the town was a colossal eagle, a score of other winged monsters coming in its wake. With disconcerting grace, the eagle landed between the direbats, its entourage finding other places across the town square.
This close, Wolfgang could see the details of the giant bird, its black feathers with gilded edges, its massive steel-tipped talons, and its hollow, empty eye sockets. Much like its master, the eagle was an undead relic of the old empire. In another epoch, the eagle was the totem beast of an entire legion, a Jotunnspawn sworn to ancient Iskan. Now, centuries after its death, the creature’s mummified remains were animated in service to Duke Gens Silva.
Dismounting from the throne-like saddle atop the undead Aquilifer, the Duke examined the conquered town of Ludaford. Clad in black plate with gilded trim, hand resting on his sword’s pommel, he looked every centimeter the monstrous warlord he was. “Your new creations performed well, I take it?”
Still kneeling, the Black fly nodded. “Yes, my lord Duke. I breached the walls with five of the Gasha and sundered Ludaford’s other defenses.”
Staring up at the four titanic skulls hovering nearby, the Duke asked. “I assume one of them was destroyed?”
Wolfgang had considered creating a replacement Gasha from the dead of Ludaford but decided against it. The Duke was a soldier by origin and nature; he understood the inevitability of losses, unlike some more fickle Nobles. “Yes, my lord Duke, it was destroyed by the town’s priest's final effort. But I believe such a loss could be avoided with better support from other martial elements. Also, in terms of resources, it paid for itself many times over.”
Face shrouded in shadow, the Duke asked. “Give control of them to me.”
A little surprised, Wolfgang started to object but decided unquestioned compliance would serve him better. Stepping towards the Duke, Wolfgang reached to his side and unbuckled a strange, curved short sword. Holding it out, Wolfgang offered the blade to the Duke. Taking it, Umbria drew the blade and examined its single edge and odd guard. Barely visible even to Vampire's eyes were the series of acid-etched runes decorating the blade's flat, burned into the metal by the Gashadokuru’s ectoplasm.
Sheathing the blade and holding onto its scabbard, the Duke looked up at the Gasha; four sets of baleful false-eyes returned his stare. The titanic monsters knelt as one, their invisible limbs crushing debris beneath them. Holding the short sword and, by extension, control over the Gasha, Duke Gens Umbria nodded to himself. “How does it work?”
A less controlled person might have sighed in relief, but Wolfgang just answered the question. “The short sword, or ‘tanto’ as the manuscript called it, was a key part of the creation ritual. Whoever holds the tanto has control over the Gashadokuro.”
The Duke raised a single eyebrow, “What if the ‘tanto’ is stolen?” He pronounced the foreign word like he was tasting it, a soldier sampling a new weapon with his mind and mouth.
Wolfgang replied. “The tanto must be knowingly given for the link to shift, but this can be forced if it needs to be reclaimed. A troublesome vassal gifted Gashadokuro could be coerced into giving up the tanto. Unfortunately, if the tanto-holder dies, the Gasha are released to follow their instincts until a powerful enough Necromancer rebinds them.”
As Wolfgang talked, the Gasha stood up and walked around the town, their thunderous footfalls testifying to the Duke’s experimentation. One of the Gasha started to walk towards the square, its phantom feet leaving small craters in their wake. Watching its approach, the Duke asked. “Can the tanto be bypassed or subverted?”
The Gasha was now close enough Wolfgang needed to crane his head back to see its skull. “Not without significant effort. I suppose a Necromancer who severely outclasses the tanto holder could force control, but that wouldn’t be easy.”
Nodding, the Duke asked. “Anything else?”
Without hesitation, Wolfgang said, “No, nothing I can think of.”
After a few seconds of contemplation, the Duke gestured at Wolfgang and said. “Gashadokuro, kill him.”
The world slowed as the Gasha swiped down with an ox-sized hand. Wolfgang leaped back, pouring blood into his legs and barely escaping the unnaturally fast Rattler’s attack. Stunned and confused, Wolfgang turned to run when an armored fist slammed through his gut. The Black Fly looked up at the implacable Scarlet Knight as the warrior pushed his hand deeper into Wolfgang and gripped his spine. A flare of incredible pain tore into Wolfgang, and his legs buckled, the Scarlet Knight letting him drop to the ground, his vertebrae crushed.
Wolfgang’s jaw bounced on the cobblestone as he collapsed, and he could only watch as the Gashadokuro paused to raise one foot up to crush him. Eyes flicking to Cleanor, he found his bodyguard restrained by two swords at her neck. Feeling the displacement of air as the Gasha’s foot came down towards him, Wolfgang shut his eyes and seized control. While he couldn’t see it, Wolfgang smelled and heard the tanto’s blade sizzle as the runes melted. Information and influence flooded into Wolfgang’s mind, and he stopped the Gasha from crushing him.
Black boots with gold spurs came into view, and Wolfgang felt an unbreakable grip on his collar yank him up. Now, a few centimeters from the Duke, Wolfgang studied the granite-carved face of Mika Gens Umbria. Strangely, there was no anger in the Duke’s expression, just dry amusement. “Do you know what your mistake was, Aloysius?”
Wolfgang managed to rasp. “Leaving a backdoor in the Gasha I could use to regain control.”
Shaking his head with bored exasperation, the Duke said. “No, that was perfectly fine; your mistake was not telling me about it.”
The Duke snapped his fingers and gestured elsewhere with his free hand before saying. “You are clever, Black fly, very clever. In a few centuries, I imagine you’ll be one of the greatest Necromancers in the Duchies, but for now, you’re still young and foolish. Sensing the truth of the tanto, how ownership of the Gasha is merely loaned to the relic wasn’t difficult.”
One of the Scarlet Knights came into view, dragging a terrified-looking mortal man. Grabbing the mortal and shoving him towards Wolfgang, the Duke said. “Heal, and then we will discuss this properly.”
Lunging out with his still-working hands, Wolfgang gripped the mortal and dragged him to his mouth. Sharp fangs and powerful venom ended the man’s screams as Wolfgang guzzled his blood. As a Strix, Wolfgang wasn’t predisposed to incredible regeneration, but with an entire life's worth of blood to fuel him, feeling quickly returned to his legs.
Shakily, his lower limbs not working right, Wolfgang knelt before the Duke and said. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord Duke.”
Armored fingers patted Wolfgang on the shoulder. “Considering your youth and usefulness, I’ll overlook this indiscretion. But do not expect such leniency a second time; ripping secrets free from your mind would not be difficult.”
Getting to his feet, Wolfgang watched as the two Scarlet Knights removed their blades from Cleanor’s throat. Dropping the tanto into Wolfgang’s hand, the Duke stared up at the unmoving Gashadokuro. “I want more of them; turn the dead of Ludaford into as many as you can.”
A little surprised but unwilling to question this unexpected mercy, Wolfgang nodded. “I will work from dusk to dawn until it is done.”
Still looking up at the Gashadokuro, the Duke added. “Repair the enchantment; the rest of my court will be arriving soon, and my Necromancers will record the ritual for wider use.”
After the tiniest hesitation, Wolfgang said. “Yes, my lord Duke.”
Squeezing Wolfgang’s shoulder with enough strength to dance the line between comforting and cruel, the Duke said. “Even in light of your error, I’m not going to rob you of your accomplishments. The Duchies will know you are behind this new weapon, and its success or failures will fall to you. I’m expecting great and terrible things from you, Black fly, meet my expectations, and you will be rewarded.”
The second part of the Duke’s message went unsaid. ‘Fail to meet them, and you will be punished.’ Nodding his head, Wolfgang managed to say. “I will not fail or disappoint you.”
Letting go of his shoulder, the Duke smiled, the humorless grin of a hungry wolf. “I know you won’t. Now go get changed; I expect you to attend court without your intestine trailing behind you.”
Somehow, Wolfgang hadn’t noticed his guts were hanging out of him, a memento of the Scarlet Knights's brutal blow. Glancing at his injuries, the Black fly nodded at his dismissal and shuffled towards the manor house he’d taken for his personal use. A nervous thrall opened the door for him and started to shut it behind Wolfgang when Cleanor arrived with a hiss of scales. Pushing past the thrall and slamming the door behind her, the Lamia gripped Wolfgang and shoved him against the nearby wall.
Weak as he was, Wolfgang couldn’t resist the furious snake-women as she wrapped coils around him. Pinned and bound, Wolfgang tried to speak but was cut off by a long talon pressed to his lips. Furious brown eyes glared down at Wolfgang as Cleanor reared up on her serpentine lower half. “You ssstupid sssself-asssured whelp! Keeping you alive isss my resssponssssibility! Doing that isss impossssible if you make sssuch idiotic choicesss.”
Wolfgang had never seen Cleanor so angry her vocal training failed. “I made a mistake; I wanted to keep my true control over the Gashadokuro hidden to maintain an advantage. I will learn from this error.”
Still glaring at him, Cleanor snapped. “A rare privilege, enjoy it.”
Heavily muscled coils of snake flesh loosened their grip, and Wolfgang was freed from the Lamia’s grip. Leaving her, Wolfgang headed for his improvised quarters, one hand clutching the amulet he wore around his neck. Just a little more time, a little more power, and he’d be free.
----------------------------------------
Natalie was back on night watch; she’d gotten a day and night of sleep the day after Kit joined the group, so she’d be good to stand guard for a while. Sitting atop the wagon’s canvas covering, balancing on one of the sturdy wooden ribs holding up the thick fabric, Natalie listened to the night sounds and watched her familiars play. The group camped deep in an old forest, a dozen meters from the road and surrounded by countless sturdy trees. Seventeen spectral forms loped between the trees, chasing each other in a haunting dance of ectoplasm.
Sixteen wolves and one sheepdog, mortal enemies in life, her servants in death. Grist joined with the Lupus pack surprisingly easily, one of his teeth added to the wolf skull and his own scuffed dog skull set aside as a memento. Watching as Grist and three of the Lupus bounded over tall bushes and under low branches, Natalie felt her mind growing accustomed to the psychic weight of her familiars. Commanding and getting information from them was becoming easier and easier. In fact, the ‘play time’ she let them indulge in was a break from their earlier, more strenuous activity.
Over two hours, she’d guided the pack through tracking, stalking, and corralling a very unfortunate deer towards the camp, where it met its end at Natalie’s fangs. Neither Cole nor Yara could provide the amount of blood Natalie needed, so hunting like this was extremely useful. In fact, after learning the basics of skinning and gutting wild game, Natalie’s nightly hunts were doing wonders to buoy everyone’s rations, not just hers.
Watching the wolves move through the underbrush, Natalie felt a strange itch in the back of her skull. Suddenly cautious, Natalie glanced around and nearly fell off the wagon top upon seeing Isabelle sitting beside her. Stifling a surprised yelp, Natalie recovered quickly and looked at her mentor expectantly. “Well, how are you feeling?”
This was the first time Isabelle fully manifested since leaving Vindabon, and how easily she’d done it disturbed Natalie. Reacting to their mistress's emotions, the expanded pack stopped their play and stared at Isabelle. Looking down at the pack with bored disinterest, Isabelle said. “You are growing stronger, but not fast enough for my purposes.”
Rolling her eyes, Natalie said, “Clearly, you’ve recovered if you are complaining?”
Tapping her fingers on the wagon’s canvas, Isabelle said. “I’m not… complaining, simply stating facts and problems. By any reasonable standard, you’re developing leaps and bounds more than any Vampire your age should. It’s just… well, I’ve not just been in hibernation the past few days; I’ve been thinking about things.”
Natalie’s sarcastic attitude melted; she knew Isabelle’s tone. The older Vampire was trying to open up, something she didn’t find easy. Still tapping her fingers in the same repeating pattern, Isabelle said. “I need a new body, and I have a plan to acquire one. But like most things these days, I need your help.”
Refusing to meet Natalie’s eyes, Isabelle elaborated. “With a little preparation, it's possible for me to take over a body permanently. Particularly the body of something undead or… unnatural. Since you and Cole are heading for the frontlines with the Duchies, I…”
Isabelle trailed off, but Natalie understood the implications. “You want me to help you find a body to steal.”
The former countess nodded. “Believe me when I say there are many servants of the Archduke even less deserving of existence than me. I’m not asking you to kidnap some poor peasant and let me possess them, but if there is an opportunity to capture a female vampire or similar, then please take it.”
Hearing this, Natalie licked her lips anxiously and slowly asked the question that haunted her every thought. “If you wanted to, could you take over my body permanently?”
Still refusing to look at Natalie, Isabelle jerked her head in a slight nod. “Not easily, but I could.”
A long, pregnant silence filled the night until Natalie forced a miscarriage with a single question. “Did you consider doing it?”
Mouth opening, Isabelle whispered in a voice so small even a Vampire’s ears suffered to hear it. “Yes.”
A second silence, this time burdened with twins, stretched on until Natalie spoke. “Thank you for being honest with me. If I can do this for you, then I will.”
Finally, looking at Natalie, Isabelle’s mouth fell open in shock. “Truly?”
Staring up at the distant stars overhead, Natalie said. “In three days, you managed to cure a plague meant to destroy entire countries. All it took was a little prodding and someone to keep you in line. I bet you'd do hells of a lot more in three years with me and Cole to help.”
Reaching out to where Isabelle’s hand should be and touching the absent air, Natalie smiled. “You were honest without me needing to threaten, bribe or cajole you. After everything we’ve been through, after everything you’ve done, I feel it's right to help you have another chance.”
Both women stared at each other for a long time, the tiniest tremble in Isabelle’s lip giving away the maelstrom of emotions inside her. In something less than a whisper, Isabelle rasped. “Thank you.”
Laying back so she was staring up at the glittering heavens, Natalie said. “You’re welcome.”
Slowly, tentatively, Isabelle mimicked Natalie, and the two stared up at the sky together.