Book Of The Dead

Tyron pulled his cloak a little tighter around himself. A chill wind blew down the cobbled roads of Kenmor, the tall buildings providing less shelter than one thought they would. Perhaps these large stone edifices were responsible for conjuring the city's infamous breezes? He didn’t know, but travelling inside the walls at night was always particularly cold, even in the summer months.

The Western Road was filled with traffic, even at this late hour. Thirty metres wide, the thoroughfare cut through the city like a knife, dividing the northern and southern sides. The one and only safe passage into the central province, it was the main artery of the city, and one could argue, all of the east.

Crossing it was always a chore, but at the newly renamed Steelarm Square, it wasn’t quite as difficult. The wide open square provided enough room for the carts and wagons to spread out, allowing foot-traffic to pass through a little more easily. Since he’d entered the walls from the dock-gate after negotiating deliveries at the Silvership warehouse, this was the obvious choice to cross.

“Hey! Watch it, idiot!”

“Sorry.”

Tyron raised a hand in apology to a wagon driver as he stepped around a temperamental horse that flared its nostrils when he stepped too close. The Mage slowed his step and moved more cautiously until he was through the worst of it. He’d been rushing, as he tended to do when heading to this part of the city. The sooner this trip was over, the better.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t have better things to do. A backlog of orders at the shop needed to be seen to, before it began to cause problems. After spending his nights in the basement experimenting on corpses, his enchanting work had naturally suffered. Progress in Necromancy was important, but he couldn’t afford to let his cover slip. Two more sleepless nights should allow him to catch up, so long as the cores were delivered on time tomorrow, which would push him to almost a week without sleep.

As much as he hated to lose the time, he’d need a good night of rest before resuming his nocturnal studies. With his superhuman constitution and mental fortitude, he could go a long time without sleep, but pushing too far would begin to affect his spellwork.

Once he reached the northern side of Kenmor, his mouth twisted into a half-snarl without him realising it. The houses were larger, four or five storeys, and expensively apportioned. Despite the population still being dense, the opulence only grew more decadent the further north he went.

To his right, the Magister’s Tower loomed, and his fists clenched everytime he glimpsed it from the corner of his eye. Beyond that, the Noble Quarter and the Dawn Fortress, home of the baron, could still be seen outlined against the night sky. Separated from the masses by a tall dividing wall, of course.

Further north, the Gold District, another walled area of the city, but for a rather different reason. Home to the powerful slayers who had crossed the level sixty threshold before retiring, the Gold District was a gilded cage for the strongest warriors and most powerful mages in the province.

He wasn’t headed there, though, he was headed to Veil Street, immediately adjacent to the slayers' retirement home.

“Paper’,” a bored guard drawled as Tyron approached.

“Lukas Almsfield, here on business,” Tyron smiled easily as he handed his papers over.

“Uh huh, that’s what they all say,” the man snorted as he leaned casually against his post, eyes flicking over the page. “Only Bronze? Can you afford it in there?”

Tyron’s smile tightened.

“I’m not a slayer, I’m an Arcanist.”

“Oh shit. Forget I said anything, you definitely can. It’s criminal how much you lot charge for the most basic shit. How hard can it be to heat a fuckin’ toilet seat?”

Why don’t you try it then, idiot.

He continued to smile.

After a final glance, the guard handed back the papers, which Tyron stowed carefully away, before he turned and opened the gate.

“Welcome to Veil Street. Don’t mess with the golds. If they rip your face off, we won’t be doing much about it.”

“I appreciate the warning.”

After he stepped through the gate, Tyron repeated the process at the second checkpoint, ten metres down the road, before he was actually able to step foot on Veil Street. The moment he did so, he was enveloped by soft red light that emanated from the enchanted globes that hung from poles and storefronts down the length of the street.

At this late hour, the street thronged with people, laughing raucously, drinking and generally staggering about enjoying all the delights of this hedonistic paradise.

Tyron hated it.

Much as he had when crossing the Western Road, he moved cautiously through the crowd, being careful not to bump anyone or get in the way. You never knew if the man or woman you accidentally tripped was actually over level sixty and might cave your chest in with one drunken punch.

Scantily clad men and women moved through the people with the grace of dancers, mysterious smiles on their faces and laughter in their eyes as they serviced the crowds. Several spoke to him as he moved past, inviting him inside for a drink, or something more, but he politely declined each time.

Eventually, he reached his destination, a massive, five storey edifice, painted entirely red. Somehow, the building managed to pull off the colour without looking gaudy. The contours of the walls, the tiered roof and tastefully suggestive carvings, transformed the structure into a beguiling temple with just a whiff of danger about it.

Unlike most places of business on the street, there were no tables or service in front of the building, only six heavily armed guards in full armour flanking a massive double door. Held open, a steady stream of people moved in and out, along with a dark smoke that trickled through the top of the opening.

With a mixture of irritation and reluctance, Tyron squared his shoulders and moved to the door, sliding through the opening when an opportunity arrived.

The second he was inside, the scent of cloying smoke filled his nose and clung to his throat. The corridor was dark, lit from below with dim red lights projected from cores set at the joint of the wall and floor. From rooms branching to either side, he glimpsed people luxuriating in lush furniture, draped over each other as they sipped from delicate glasses or gleaming metallic goblets. As elsewhere on the street, there was laughter and boisterous enjoyment, but it was different in this building. The laughter was muted, but the indulgence more intense. A feverish need gripped these people so palpably Tyron could almost feel it on his skin.

He avoided being entangled by beguiling servers dressed in form-hugging black clothing and made his way to the staircase.

On the second floor, the smoke was even thicker, the lighting even darker, the people even more frantic. Without pausing, he pushed through into a lavish room, the walls covered in padded red leather, and cast his eyes across the dozens of impossibly handsome men and women waiting on the edge of the room.

When he found the one he wanted, his eyes narrowed and he approached with heavy steps. A young man eyed his approach, eyes widening with recognition and a sly smile on his face. Dressed in a vest and pants that left nothing to the imagination, with an ornate, carved black skull positioned over his crotch, he leaned back, putting his well formed physique on display as Tyron drew closer.

“You. In the back. Now,” Tyron growled.

“Why Mister Almsfield,” the young man smiled coyly, “aren’t you forceful today? Allow me to lead the way.”

He reached out to take Tyron by the hand, but the Mage slapped him away with a glare. With a hurt expression on his face and an excited gleam to his eyes, he sashayed through an open doorway and Tyron followed. Rooms on the left and right were barred with heavy, wooden doors, soft, muted sounds of passion drifting through. The pair walked past them both until they came to an unadorned door that the young man opened before bowing, gesturing for Tyron to enter.

Within the room was a plain wooden table with four chairs, modestly lit from an ordinary globe that hung from the middle of the roof.

With a sigh, Tyron reached into his mouth and removed the filtration device he’d put in before entering. It was uncomfortable, but better than inhaling that damned smoke. He placed it on the table before he sat, adjusting his cloak and resting his hands on his lap.

“Put him on the table and fuck off,” he said tersely.

The young man pouted.

“Mr Almsfield,” he said, his voice coy, “the mistress has given her instructions and you know that I must obey her wishes.”

Tyron glared at him.

“I warned you last time. If your mistress has something to say, she can say it to me directly.”

“Why, Mr Almsfield, you put me in a very uncomfortable position.”

Yet he sounded as if he quite enjoyed it.

The Mage’s hands rose and before the teasing expression on the escort’s face could change, they flickered rapidly through a sequence of sigils.

The Necromancer’s mind crashed into the other like a smith's hammer on a pinecone. He tightened his grip cruelly.

“Put him on the table.”

As if in a dream, the young man detached the carved skull from his belt and placed it on the table, his eyes glazed over.

“Now cut yourself,” Tyron whispered, drawing a jagged line down his own face, “right here. Deep. Do it now.”

The young man nodded, drool beginning to leak from the corner of his mouth, before he turned and left the room.

“Shit, forgot to tell him to close the door,” Tyron cursed as he rose and did it himself.

He sat back down and looked at the carved onyx skull with a mix of pity and exasperation. After all the pain and sacrifice, that this was the outcome, still angered him to his core. Though if there were one individual to blame….

“I told you not to piss her off.”

“Really? Really? Are you going to open with that every time, you fucking prick? How about, ‘Hello, Dove, how’ve you been?’, huh? Would that break your balls? A little bit of polite chatter to open the conversation. That’s how normal people do it.”

“Normal people aren’t talking to the enslaved soul of their friend who wouldn’t stop pissing off a vampire.”

“I didn’t think she was this mad about it! Do you have any idea how much cock I’ve seen in the last year? A lot! It’s fine if that’s your scene, obviously, but I’ve never swung this way, Tyron. Now they're swinging all over me! Day and night, it never fucking stops!”

“It’s a brothel. Of course it never stops.”

“Thanks for the words of wisdom. Are you any closer to getting me out of here or what? I do not want to be used to cup any more balls.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Work faster.”

“I’m doing what I can, it isn’t easy. I’m not exactly her boss. In Necromantic terms, she captured your soul fair and square.”

“I wouldn’t have even been there if you hadn’t locked me in my own skull to start with!”

“I know! Alright? I’m trying to get you free, it’s just taking time.”

The two fell into uncomfortable silence for a long moment.

“... Is she even coming?”

“Give her a second,” Tyron sighed.

Sure enough, several seconds later, they heard someone stomping down the corridor toward the room.

“How does she do that in heels?” Dove wondered.

“How do you know she’s in heels?”

“She’s always in heels.”

“Please tell me you aren’t still staring at her feet all the time….”

“A man needs a hobby.”

“I’m never freeing you, am I?”

The door crashed open to reveal Yor in her icy majesty. Her black satin dress managed to cover everything, yet still reveal it all at the same time. Snow-white skin, raven black hair and burning red eyes, she hadn’t aged a day in the last four years, appearing exactly as she had the day Tyron had met her. Albeit, much better dressed.

Civilisation agreed with the Vampire. She’d been significantly happier in the capital than in the woods. Right now, she looked anything but happy.

“Again, Tyron?” she glared daggers at him.

“Who’s Tyron? I’m respected businessman, Lukas Almsfield.”

“Oh shut up,” she snapped before she stormed into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. “You dare to mark another of my toys?”

The Necromancer glared back.

“I warned you. Treat Dove with some respect or I’ll do worse to your slave next time. I know you can fix the cut with no scarring. If he gelds himself, I wonder how well that can be repaired with your blood magick.”

“I will do what I want with that pervert until he has paid for his actions.”

“Don’t push it, Yor, or I’ll pick him up and walk out with him tonight. Do you want to test your Mistress' patience that far?”

“Be silent,” Yor growled, animalistic fury igniting in her eyes.

Tyron felt her influence try to seize hold of his thoughts. He stiffened in his chair and grit his teeth as he fought her off.

“You didn’t,” he roared as he stood, slamming his hands down.

The two glared at each other across the table.

“Mummy, daddy, stop fighting,” Dove said plaintively. “Or do with less clothes on. Angry sex is fucking hot.”

Silence hung in the room for a moment before Tyron clapped a hand to his face.

“You idiot,” he muttered before he laughed. “Why do I even bother?”

He sat down and gestured for Yor to do the same. The vampire complied, her anger dissipating a little, though she glared daggers at the skull on the table.

“I still don’t understand the whole brothel thing. I thought vampires couldn’t even have sex,” Tyron shook his head.

A slight smile curved Yor’s ruby red lips.

“Sex is a weapon. Even better, it’s a weapon that can’t be used against us. Besides, in places like this, where memories are blurred and inhibitions are low, people are easily parted from their blood. My Coven is drowning in it this past year.”

She practically shivered as she said it and Tyron twisted in his seat uncomfortably.

“Just don’t go overboard. It hasn’t been easy getting you established.”

She arched a brow at him.

“Are you saying your investment has gone poorly?”

Anything but. He made almost as much money from the Red Pavilion as he did his own store. Tyron was quickly running out of things to spend his wealth on.

“I mean, you have greater ambitions than a brothel in a well-heeled part of town. If people start turning up dead, or undead, then your project is going to be burned out before it really gets off the ground.”

The vampire leaned back and pursed her lips. A distracting sight.

“You aren’t wrong and we are being careful. I’m maintaining a tight grip on my people. Very tight. That isn’t what you should be worried about.”

Tyron rolled his eyes.

“What is it this time? More planning permits? Identities need to be mocked up? I’ve been jumping through so many administrative hoops I feel like an acrobat.”

For once, Yor hesitated.

“Not… so much. This time, it’s politics,” she said the word with genteel distaste. “You have agreed to help the Court, and we appreciate your ongoing assistance, but you must recall our previous discussion about factions.”

He did. Vampires, as it turned out, bickered and squabbled between each other even more than non-immortals. To be fair, they had a lot of time on their hands and cared a great deal about hierarchy. In fact, they cared about nothing quite so much as hierarchy, if his understanding was correct.

“That’s all your side,” Tyron waved a hand to dismiss the issue, “I don’t want to get involved. You and your Mistress have my help establishing a presence in this Realm, that was the agreement. If other vampires have an issue, then you need to deal with it.”

Yor’s smile revealed a little more fang than usual.

“Oh, we have been dealing with issues. The problem will be when our rivals reach out to you directly. This realm, this empire, is ripe for our influence, like a fresh, unplucked fruit. So many potential servants, so much blood. The more others sniff around, the more they will want a slice.”

“And you’re blocking them, which means they’ll try to go around you and come straight to me.”

She nodded.

“Not all of us are quite as… socially minded as my Mistress. Others prefer a more direct approach. You will find their entreaties to be difficult to resist.”

“So the answer is?”

“Stay hidden. If they don’t find you, they will need to work with other, inferior intermediaries, people we can safely cut off.”

Thanks to agreements secured by his parents, Tyron was a little more protected and not so easily disposed of. Without that, Yor and her Mistress might have erased him already. Now that they were established, the Coven was growing in wealth and cultivating influence at an obscene rate.

Tyron leaned forward and rubbed at his temples.

“Sometimes, I think this alliance is more trouble than it’s worth,” he groaned.

“You’ve only begun to scratch the surface of what the Court can do for you,” Yor purred. “We are moving forward with procuring certain knowledge for your use, as an example.”

The Necromancer perked up immediately.

“That’s… great news,” he said eagerly, eyes gleaming.

“Are you guys going to fuck or what?” Dove demanded.