Zoé struggled to stand upright and used a hand to wipe away the bloodstain from the corner of her mouth. With a detached tone and a voice as cold as the biting wind, she uttered, "There's something I want you to understand..."
'Something I need you to understand,' she really thought. And if someone had questioned her in that particular moment about the unexpected urge to justify her actions, she would've struggled to articulate the want, the need, that'd overtaken her. Perhaps it was because buried deep within her, despite her efforts to maintain the façade, she was motivated by some unspoken sense of guilt. Guilt for what had been done to him. For what she had done to him.
The Beast was an embodiment of both herself and her actions—a single, inseparable entity of twisted Id and Ego.
She needed to take responsibility. He was now of her blood. And... She'd been mortal once... Human. It was something most Kindred tended to forget. Or just chose to ignore. And some... Some desperately clung to whatever scraps of their humanity remained. She liked to think she was the latter. But she remembered those first few nights after the Embrace with startling clarity. Torturous clarity. There was only the hunger—a cloying emptiness, an unfillable, insatiable appetite for something.
And then there were the dark thoughts. They were relentless... Ceaselessly occupying her waking mind and thoughts with disturbing, perverse fantasies and cravings. It had taken her years of effort to come to terms with the fact that those thoughts had originated from within her, albeit repressed to some extent, and it had taken even longer for her to understand that, fundamentally, nothing had truly changed. Everyone had dark thoughts, but it was learning to master and overcome them that was the real challenge. It was saying "no" to that voice that demanded, that made you think there were no other choices to be made. There was always another choice. But that voice had always been there, even when she had been human. But it had been quiet, and subdued. Malnourished.
But now? It was different for Kindred. Their dark thoughts had the power to psychically manifest and seize control of them. It was horrifying. It was terrifying. And to learn how to restrain those emotions, to suppress innate instincts that craved dominance over everything lesser, required iron-clad discipline and guidance.
Her Childer had never received that guidance. Would never. She would see to it, by taking responsibility.
"I want you to know..." her chest tightened as she spoke, trying to keep an emotionless expression on her face. She opened and closed her mouth as she struggled to find the right words, "that this is for the best," the words sounded hollow, even to her. But it was all she had. All that she could offer. Sometimes... sometimes words truly fell short.
The young man showed no sign of acknowledging her presence. His head drooped, resting near his chest, rising and falling in sync with his shallow breaths. He appeared more delicate than ever, with his pallid complexion, disheveled hair, and torn clothes drenched in dark, drying blood.
She knew she didn't look much better. Hell, she felt how he looked- worn, exhausted... wounded. A near reflection of what she once was, a broken mirror image of her past.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, more to herself than to him. The weight of her decision pressed down on her, but she steeled herself. She had to do this, for his sake.
'And mine.' The thought added that much more guilt to her overburdened conscious.
She stepped closer, each movement deliberate and slow, as if approaching a skittish animal. "You... you deserved better," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
'I'm putting him out of his misery.' She was no psychologist, but she understood without a shadow of a doubt that tonight would leave him irrevocably scarred, even if there was a way to somehow keep him alive without bringing down the total weight of the Camarilla; she could smell the muted, lingering scent of fresh blood, gunpowder, urine, and feces from the police precinct.
His Beast had mutilated, killed, and fed on those people.
She knew what he would face, the internal battles that would rage within him, the guilt that would gnaw at his soul. She knew because she had lived it, fought it, and still struggled with it every night.
Even if she took the time to explain what had happened, even if he received a modicum of guidance, she doubted he would be able to reconcile his actions with what he had become. What he was. Instead, his reaction would be as old as the vampiric curse: He would deny, wallow, and grieve, gradually succumbing to guilt and crippling remorse. He would think himself a sociopathic murderer. And why? Because the Beast wouldn't allow him to feel guilty about feeding—about taking another's life after a successful hunt.
He would look deep inside himself and discover that he enjoyed killing—draining his prey of their life essence. She knew that feeling all too well.
Any sane person would pause and ask themselves why they don't feel anything after draining a victim, whether on purpose or accident. And the answer frightens them into denial, into ignoring that question—repressing it. Because when they think about feeding, about killing, it's not guilt that dominates their heart, but satisfaction. Complete and utter joy. And there's nothing else quite like that feeling.
It makes you stop and wonder if you're less than human. It makes you question yourself: your motives, thoughts, decisions, goals, aspirations, judgments—everything becomes subject to your own intense scrutiny. Because you know, deep down, that you're not the same person anymore. And yet you don't feel different. You just are. You question yourself because you know, despite not feeling any different, that no decent human should ever think these things or should ever want these things. So what does that say about you? Are you even human anymore?
She remembered her moment when she'd broken down in abject horror: wailing and crying in an abandoned farmhouse as her Sire wordlessly watched.
It was an awful feeling. A terrible burden knowing that no matter how strong you once were, you were now an addict. And the only way to survive is to feed, empower, and embrace that addiction.
Some handle it fine, and some don’t. Others thrive, some muddle along. And the rest... the rest are broken, incapable of accepting the bleakness of their new reality. Their humanity completely rejects the Beast, and their fragile psyches avoid adapting to the new resident in their heads. In their souls.
Those Kindred are lucky if they only develop multiple-personality disorders.
And that's when the dark thoughts seep in through the cracks. Malevolent, twisted wants and reactions to people and conversations.
You suddenly want to hunt people. Trap, trick, lure, and coerce others into getting what you want—what you need. And you feel nothing from doing so. Just... Nothing.
For most, there's that disconcerting personal revelation when they find themselves at a crossroads. When confronted with the bleak, dreary reality that these aren't simply errant thoughts and impulses. They're thinking about it every night, every hour, and every waking minute. Consumed with immoral, inhuman desires. They begin to think they're monsters. And when they're at their lowest, the Beast strikes, promising them an easy escape from the self-inflicted torture and moral ambiguity they're crushing themselves beneath: Give in. Give in, embrace your newfound strength, follow your instincts, and fulfill your urges and desires. Consume. Hunt.
Centuries-old vampires find it challenging to control their well-known urges, let alone master and prevent their emergence.
A newly risen fledgling? He would be all sorts of messed up the next night. There were enough Malkavians around as it was...
There wasn't even a point in letting him try either; it was that much of a foregone conclusion. Maybe, maybe he would've had a chance if he hadn't hurt anyone or done anything he found morally reprehensible. But now?
She was doing him a favor. She knew that. She knew it. So why was she hesitating? Having made up her mind, she was on the verge of approaching her Childer when a surge of danger sent a warning through her senses.
Beside her Childer, a mysterious silhouette materialized while another emerged from the snowy ground between them. The closest shadowy form transformed into a tall figure, gradually becoming clearer until she could make out a black trench coat enveloped in ever-shifting shadows and an unadorned gray scarf that had one end draped across their chest. A masculine voice, filled with politeness, broke the silence. "Zoé Sauvage?"
'If it's not one thing, it's another...' her thoughts came to a screeching halt as her instincts warned her that these two were incredibly dangerous. It was in their posture, the way they carried themselves. Her lips pressed into a white line, and she felt like a headache was coming on as she closely examined the newcomers. Curiously, she couldn't detect the repulsive, sulfuric stench commonly associated with Oblivion practitioners emanating from their bodies.
The situation was already deteriorating more rapidly than her fatigued thoughts could keep up with, and the realization that they knew her name only added to her growing unease. 'Who-' her eyes narrowed with a dangerous intensity. 'The Emissary... The Baron... damn it all.' She was well aware that she was in no condition to fight, and they were fully aware of it too. Plus, they knew that she knew, and their deliberate decision to reveal themselves seemed like an offer of peace, albeit a dubious one. The fact that she had only sensed or seen them once they made themselves known sent a shiver down her spine. They could have easily ambushed her without any resistance. The fact that they hadn't suggested something worse than being randomly assaulted in the streets... politics.
Maybe she'd rather become embroiled in politics than dead... but not by much. The choice Zoé faced was a difficult one, balancing on the razor's edge between impulsive anger and nervous apprehension. 'I swear, Percival, when I get back...' she swore to herself, her mind racing with thoughts. While she suspected that there was something more to this 'random' encounter, she couldn't be certain. And it was this uncertainty that placed her somewhere she never wanted to be: the back foot. Should she throw caution to the wind, circulate her vitae, and strike first, or cede the first move to two complete strangers?
Zoé clenched her fists, feeling the familiar surge of vitae circulating through her veins, ready to unleash if necessary. Her gaze flickered between the two figures, assessing their potential threats and searching for any signs of aggression.
The tall figure in the trench coat seemed to sense her tension and raised a placating hand. "Please, we mean you no harm," he said, his voice smooth and calming. "We simply wish to talk."
'As if,' she thought. She was in a tenuous, dangerous position that made her want to lash out or run. She settled on optimistic caution. "Then who's asking?" she tightly spoke, carefully controlling her voice and tone while keeping herself perfectly poised if she needed to channel her vitae. Her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes rapidly flicked between the two figures. She was already rapidly imagining the opening moves if push came to shove: her goal would be to expend her vitae to the limit, immediately overwhelming them with brutal efficiency before fleeing into the woodlands at the city's edge.
It was perilous, and she knew it all too well. But the situation had changed too suddenly—it wasn't guaranteed she'd be put to final death for Siring.
Prince Walker was as traditional a Camarilla Prince as they came, but he was also an eccentric pragmatist. And they'd known one another too long for things to deteriorate to that extent immediately. But staying here, now? That was guaranteed death.
She would always take her chances with family over strangers.
The nearest newcomer stepped closer—the living, writhing shadows across his face sliding down his neck and wrapping around his shoulders and arms to reveal a pale, handsome face. Thick, long black hair hung across the front and back of both shoulders; he had a heavy five-o’clock shadow and thin red lips. Heavy brows sat over olive-shaped eyes with heavy red bags beneath. The front of his coat was open, with the gray scarf moved aside enough to display some dark chest hair.
Zoé’s nose wrinkled as she tried, and failed, to stop her gut reaction of aversion. 'What a sleaze-bag,' she thought, hoping that if a fight did break out, she could at least get a punch in on that stupid, cocky face before escaping. He was also giving off some seriously misogynistic energy, so his bruised ego would only be an added bonus.
She reined in her rampaging thoughts because, realistically, her odds were not good. And it took more willpower than she would've liked to admit to maintain a calm demeanor.
'This night has just been one step forward and two steps back,' she thought; nothing was going well, nothing! She sincerely hoped that the package The Emissary Whitaker asshole had brought for the exchange hadn't been crucial to Percival's scheming. But based on how things were playing out... she could be deluding herself into thinking family would support her—she was so screwed.
'Keep it together... One thing at a time, you can do this,' either way, she would have to wade through a lake of fire and shit after tonight—the key was to keep her head above the flames and the shit out of her mouth. This was doable. She could do this. She was going to get through this.
'Just gotta get the hell outta dodge first...'
"My associate and I," he gestured to himself and the other person beside her Childer, "-represent the interests of Baron Sever," his hazel eyes flashed with curiosity, "-and he is very interested in you."
"Yeah, well, he can get in line," she responded curtly and dismissively, her words slipping out before she could stop them. Immediately, she regretted her harsh tone. Why was she like this? Externally, she maintained her aloof demeanor, keeping her focus on her surroundings in case these two clowns got any bright ideas. That's when her keen eyes detected a faint frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.
'Damnit! They respect him... Damn!' Loyal Kindred were such a pain in the ass.
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"That was rather uncalled for, wouldn't you say?" the man inquired, his words measured and deliberate.
Zoé couldn't restrain herself any longer. "You're the ones stalking me, pal. You tell me," she retorted.
The tension in the air thickened.
The man raised both hands in an awkward attempt at a placating gesture. "I understand how this may appear, but please, you misunderstand," he began, clearing his throat. "Allow me to start anew. I apologize if we've left a poor impression. I've been tasked with extending an invitation to you, one that includes a secure escort to the Baron's personal Elysium in Montreal."
Zoé blinked in surprise at the unexpected turn of events. "The Elysium? That's quite the invitation," she dryly remarked, crossing her arms. "What does he want?"
The man's inscrutable expression softened, a knowing smile spreading across his face as he explained, "The Baron-" he emphasized the title, nearly causing Zoé's eye to twitch. "-has heard of your... unique skills and talents, and he believes you could be a valuable addition to our community. I can tell you that he's truly interested in discussing... opportunities."
"Takes two of you for that, huh?" Zoé quipped, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
The man offered a sheepish half-smile and extended his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Well, Ms. Sauvage, your reputation certainly does precede you. And to be honest, I won't deny that intimidation played a part in our approach," he admitted. However, his smile didn't reach his eyes, hinting at a deeper layer of concern. "But that's not the sole purpose. We genuinely hope to impress you." His casual demeanor shifted, and his gaze turned more serious, revealing the eyes of someone who had witnessed and endured much. "However," he continued, "the Baron isn't known for his patience." He blinked, and clarity returned to his gaze, which he frankly leveled onto Zoé without reservation. "With that said, the Baron would be most humbled indeed if you would do him the courtesy of accepting the invitation. And the escort. Immediately."
Zoé raised an eyebrow, her outward confidence unwavering. "Or what?"
The man blinked slowly. "Pardon?" he asked, disbelief tinging his voice.
Zoé adopted a nonchalant tone, a smirk playing on her lips. "Oh, my bad, I always forget the first thing to go with age is hearing," she remarked, unfolding her arms and tilting her head. "So, let me clarify, old man: I accept the invitation, or what, exactly?"
The man's reaction was immediate. He bristled, clearly stung by her insult. The pair silently stared one another down before the man eventually lowered his head and chuckled. The laughter quickly grew until it filled the air. "Ha, ha, ha," he laughed heartily. "Well... he told us you would be stubborn..." He looked up at her, his eyes carrying a challenge, a few strands of hair falling over his face. "...but it seems he failed to mention you were also stupid."
Zoé's placid expression froze over into a dangerous stillness, and her posture went rigid. Her voice barely rose above a whisper as she demanded, "What did you say?"
The man straightened, and the shadows swirling around his upper body grew darker and more menacing. "Hm, perhaps I'm not the one with hearing problems," he remarked with a smirk that quickly faded. "I want you to listen closely, Ms. Sauvage." His tone turned solemn and heavy. "Because I'll say this only once. You have precisely two options," he raised a hand, extending two fingers.
"Option one," he began, "you can graciously accept the Baron's invitation and accompany us. You'll be provided with an exclusive apartment beneath the Elysium, complete with a few blood dolls and a wardrobe for the occasion. Needless to say, your needs will be well taken care of." He lowered one finger.
"Option two," his eyes gleamed with a dangerous edge, "you can decline the Baron's generous offer and hospitality. In that case, my patience will have run its course, and you," he pointed the extended finger at Zoé, "will wake up tomorrow in Montreal." He lowered his hand. "Under far less agreeable circumstances."
Zoé weighed her options carefully, her mind racing as she considered the consequences of her decision. However, a sassy voice in the back of her mind couldn't help but quip, 'It's already Montreal; how 'less pleasant' can it get?' She chose to ignore that voice; it had a habit of leading her into trouble. Yet, beneath its mockery, lurked an undeniable truth. In reality, she had only one viable option.
"I think you forgot about option three," Zoé casually remarked, adopting a contemplative pose with a hand on her chin.
The man's eyebrows knitted together.
Zoé's eyebrows rose, clear surprise written across her face. "You don't know? Ah well," she continued, "Option three..." she paused, her seriousness morphing into a sly grin. "Is the one where I make you regret ever crossing paths with me." The whites of her eyes preemptively darkened as she carefully channeled her vitae in preparation for sudden, explosive movement.
Her declaration, however, hung in the air.
The man's jaw noticeably clenched, and his eyes flashed with anger. The writhing shadows around his figure settled into an easy, flowing pattern around his biceps and torso. A cruel smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "A poor decision, Ms. Sauvage."
Zoé's instincts flared in warning before he had even finished speaking, but it was too late. Her kneecaps shattered in a burst of dark blood and bone fragments that painted the snow-covered street. Crying out in pain and surprise, she heavily collapsed sideways, her ruined knees grotesquely giving way beneath her weight. And before she could react any further, an abrupt, ominous sound filled her ears—SCHLUNK!
The sudden, eerie noise echoed through the cold night air, strangely drowning out her cries. Then there was only pain. White-hot, scorching pain, unlike anything she'd ever felt. Then, like a switch had been flipped, everything went dark. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she completely collapsed face-down into the snow.
A new, third shadowy figure now stood over her body.
Another figure swept in with the wind like a hazy blur flitting across the ground before forming into a tall figure holding a hunting rifle at the ready. "Well, that was dramatic," the figure with the rifle remarked. He slung the weapon over his shoulder and knelt beside Zoé's limp form, placing a hand to the back of her neck. He looked up. "She's good and under."
The man who had spoken to Zoé earlier looked down at her with a blend of disappointment and satisfaction. "A pity. I had hoped she would see reason." He vanished, reappearing beside the fourth and final figure as they observed the young man's body. "What are you thinking?" he asked calmly.
"...I don't know," answered a soft, feminine voice. Her figure was shrouded in robes, and her face was hidden behind a thin veil of swirling shadows.
"Truly?" Trenchcoat's tone held a hint of surprise.
"Mm," the woman nodded. "I cannot read him."
"What about the stone?"
Her silence was brief before she replied, "It could work; then again, it might not. We would have to bring him."
Trenchcoat considered this.
The young man seemed to be a fledgling, possibly related to Zoé, as suggested by their earlier conversation, though they couldn't be certain. Normally, Janice would have provided more insight into his abilities, but her absence left them guessing. They faced a crucial decision: kill him to avoid the trouble of an uncontrolled fledgling, or bring him along, evaluate him, and possibly offer him a place within the Baron's organization. Extra muscle was always useful for protecting and transporting shipments. The question was whether this fledgling was worth the effort.
"I would like to take him," Janice decided.
Trenchcoat looked at her, pulled from his contemplation. "Oh?"
Janice crouched gracefully beside the young man and pointed to his upper chest, arms, and stomach, where his clothing was ragged, torn, or soaked in blood. "His mastery over vitae is exceptional for one so young."
Trenchcoat smirked. "Well, I always thought our vitae was meant to stay on the inside." He sounded downright pleased with himself.
Janice stood, the wind brushing snow from her shoulders. "Feel free to joke, Hjalmer. But this one is different; I can sense it." As she studied the young man, she wondered what made him unique. Her instincts rarely misled her, and there was something about him that set him apart. She made a mental note to investigate his history and potential.
Hjalmer crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "I thought you said you couldn't sense anything about him?"
Janice nodded. "Precisely. The absence of evidence is itself evidence."
Hjalmer chuckled softly and shook his head. "Janice, I've often thought about how dull unlife would be without you."
Janice continued examining the semi-comatose young man. "You remind me often enough."
Hjalmer smiled and turned away, his demeanor more relaxed as he headed toward his subordinates. "Well, someone has to ensure you know your work and presence are appreciated," he quipped, vanishing in a shadowy puff and reappearing beside the other figures.
Zoé lay on her back, arms at her sides, legs together. She looked like a sleeping angel, beautiful and untouchable. The picturesque vision was marred by her blood-stained face, matted hair, tattered designer clothes, and a wooden stake jutting from her chest, stained with dark crimson vitae. The scene was hauntingly silent, save for the occasional howl of the wind and the distant hoot of an owl.
"We good?" Hjalmer broke the silence, his eyes fixed on the lifeless body. Gone was the good-natured humor.
"Yeah, all set," one of the men replied. "But Savio here hasn't fed since last night and still needs to scrub the police station before the next team arrives."
Savio, fiddling with his rifle, muttered, "Sorry, didn't know I was on-call for ops until a few hours ago; I didn't get the chance."
Hjalmer's gaze shifted to Savio. "So, we won't make it before dawn?"
"Janice could help?" the other man suggested.
"She's taking the kid," Hjalmer responded.
"Seriously?" Savio and the other man exchanged a glance.
The other man knelt beside Zoé and placed an index finger on her forehead. He closed his eyes, and a small, blackened vein crawled up the side of his neck before receding a moment later. He stood with a sigh, wearing a frown. "This is going to be a tough one," he admitted, sucking his teeth.
"That bad?" Hjalmer asked.
The man pulled back his hood with frustration, revealing a pale face with sharp bone structure and wavy, wheat-blonde hair. "That bad. We should call ahead for a blood drop. Savio and I can do this, but... we'd need the following night off for sure."
Hjalmer nodded decisively. "Done." He knew his team's capabilities and ensured they got the rest they needed. "Thank you, Martin."
Martin heaved a weary sigh, pulling the hood back over his head. "Don't thank me just—"
"Pardon me, gentlemen!" a mature, masculine voice suddenly emerged from behind them.
Hjalmer reacted with lightning speed, drawing a serrated dagger and spinning around. In an instant, the blade's edge was firmly pressed against the neck of a well-dressed older man who stood casually in the middle of the road.
The older man's skin didn't yield beneath the blade, and his hands remained casually tucked into his coat pockets.
Martin swiftly pulled two short throwing knives from a belt around his waist, assuming a low throwing stance.
Savio vanished into a cloud of shadows, reappearing on the rooftop of a nearby office supply store. There, he shouldered his rifle and took aim at the older man.
The older man, however, arched an eyebrow at Hjalmer, his face radiating amusement. He appeared utterly unfazed by the serrated blade pressed against his throat.
The tension in the street had escalated to an almost palpable level.
Hjalmer's expression remained deathly serious, his cold eyes concealing the anxiety that churned deep in his chest.
The older man's amused smile broadened as he regarded Hjalmer. "You're more right than you think," he remarked, and with a wink, he vanished.
Savio and Martin reacted with visible unease, their sharp gazes scanning their surroundings for any sign of the man.
Hjalmer slowly lowered his dagger.
The old man's voice suddenly resounded behind them once more. "Well hello, my dear! And who might you be?"
Hjalmer turned to see the older man casually introducing himself to a cautious Janice, who stood protectively in front of the young man.
A shadowy blur materialized to Hjalmer's right, revealing a wide-eyed Savio, clutching his beloved rifle. A puff of displaced, powdery snow announced the arrival of Martin on his left, holding a throwing knife in each hand.
Martin started to speak but fell silent when Hjalmer signaled for him to hold his words. Savio attempted to raise his rifle, only to have a hand press it back down.
Hjalmer remained fixed on the newcomer, his expression unwavering. Behind his back, Savio and Martin exchanged glances before stowing their weapons. Martin smoothly slid both knives into their sheaths at his thighs, while Savio engaged the rifle's safety and slung it over his shoulder with a strap. The trio then cautiously approached the one-sided conversation between Janice and the old man.
"Say, you wouldn't mind if I took a closer look at him, would you?" the old man asked politely, extending a hand toward the young man.
Janice's hood shifted slightly as she glanced at Hjalmer over the old man's shoulder.
Hjalmer stiffly shook his head in response.
Janice reluctantly stepped aside, allowing the old man to approach the young man.
"Thank you, kindly," the old man acknowledged with a nod before lowering himself to one knee beside the unconscious figure. He placed his palm over the young man's forehead and closed his eyes.
"Mm. Mm! I see... well now... presumptuous of her, no?" the old man softly muttered to himself.
Within her cowl, Janice wore a deep frown, her eyes shifting between Hjalmer and the old man. Hjalmer's unwavering attention remained fixed on the old man's back. She followed his lead and remained silent, observing instead of acting as she would have liked.
"Good," the old man stated, opening his eyes and tapping his knee. With an audible sigh, he stood up. "I'll take this young man with me."
"You can't—" Janice began, stepping forward but abruptly halted when Hjalmer blocked her path, delivering a resounding slap to her face. Shock and disbelief sent her stumbling backward. A warm, stinging sensation spread across her cheek. She snarled and moved closer to Hjalmer, their faces almost touching. Her anger flared, bright and hot, but instead of confronting her with a defiant gaze, she found Hjalmer's hazel eyes imploring her, his lips pressed into a thin white line.
Her burning anger extinguished in the blink of an eye, and she silently retreated, bowing her head.
Hjalmer ignored her and turned to the old man, lowering his chin. "He's yours. We won't interfere."
The old man let out a hearty laugh. Then, he materialized next to Hjalmer, casually slinging an arm over his shoulder as if engaging in friendly banter. "Now, here's a properly raised boy who respects his elders! A rare sight these days..." His gaze briefly shifted to Janice, causing her to retreat further into herself under his passing scrutiny.
Returning his attention to Hjalmer, the old man patted the man's chest. "Hmph! So rigid, so formal. Loosen up a bit, my boy. I'm no Baron, after all," he quipped, giving Hjalmer's shoulder a squeeze.
"We wish to express our respect," Hjalmer replied calmly, his eyes fixed on the ground between his shoes.
"Well, I can't argue with that! Consider me duly respected." The old man reappeared by the young man on the ground and started fishing something out of his pants pocket while mumbling to himself.
The four vampires remained as still as statues, their forms blending into the snowy night, while the air was filled with the old man's soft mutterings.
"Not there, maybe- here- nope- ah?... no, no, how about- ah!" The old man patted himself down, searching for something before smacking his forehead in exasperation and removing a plain ring from his right middle finger. "I swear if my head weren't attached to my shoulders..." He grumbled as he kneeled beside the young man, picked up his limp right hand, and slid on the ring before allowing the hand to drop back to the snow. "Anywho!" The old man stood and turned to face the group. "It was a pleasure meeting you all; may you never live to see the sunrise!" He chuckled to himself and crouched beside the young man again, reaching out to touch his chest. "Oh! I almost forgot!" He looked sideways at the group. "Make sure to speak exactly what I'm about to say to whoever the new Baron is, okay?"
Hjalmer inclined his head even lower.
The old man's grin widened. "That's the spirit! Now, remember this: rex noctis immortales evigilat."
"It will be as you say," Hjalmer pledged.
"Excellent. Alright then, I'm off. Behave yourselves! And never forget to savor your immortal lives—there's only one, after all." The old man touched the young man's chest, and both of them vanished.
A swirling mist of snow billowed through the surroundings. After a few tense moments, once it was evident that the old man had truly departed, the group visibly relaxed. But they couldn't fully let their guard down. The one who had just left appeared as an ordinary mortal to their senses. It was frightening. Disturbing.
Hjalmer released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding—likely because he hadn't involuntarily breathed in over two decades. His shoulders slumped as he turned to his team, gesturing toward the police station with a nod. "Go."
"But—" Savio began.
"Now," Hjalmer growled, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Savio pressed his lips into a tight line, then vanished into a shadowy cloud, reemerging inside the police station. He began the grim task of accelerating the decay of the police officers and their equipment until Oblivion's insatiable hunger had consumed them all.
"I'll, um... get her ready for transport," Martin murmured, rubbing the back of his head. He reappeared beside Zoé.
Hjalmer continued to stare ahead, a distant expression in his eyes, as if he were absentmindedly tracing the descent of the falling snow.
"Thank you," Janice whispered.
"Hmm."
They lingered in heavy silence, the wind howling, their clothing fluttering, and the snow continuing its steady descent.
"Who was that?" Janice finally asked.
"I... don't know."
Janice gazed at the back of Hjalmer's head before letting out a quiet sigh. She wouldn't press him, especially after he had potentially saved her life. However, her curiosity about the older man's words nagged at her.
"'The king of the night awakens the immortals'?" Janice asked, standing beside Hjalmer as her eyes followed the falling snowflakes.
"Yes."
She pursed her lips. "Why Latin?"
"...I don't know."
Another contemplative silence settled between them. Then, she asked, "What could it mean?"
Hjalmer let out a slow exhale through his nose. "It means... it means that the Second Inquisition is about to become the least of our worries."