C1 The Pact

It was a new moon. No guards by the walkway. The abbey filled with silence. The catacombs empty. A self-imposed exile which had expired long before vampires had grown weary of guarding their weakened charge. Over a dozen candles on the table. A mountain of tomes, scrolls, ink and quill carefully laid aside so as to minimize any damage from wax or fire.

Beryn, the progenitor of the werewolves and the leader of the resistance since time immemorial, had taken a seat by the window, his right leg carelessly situated above his left knee. He had not changed much in the past four decades. Dressed as a gentleman, he wore a three-piece suit, the modishly buttoned coat matching the grey waistcoat, the trousers and black tie pitched as a contrast. His hair cut short, the dark locks hinting at waves, the pointed beard and moustache pronouncing him a man of the times. The only estrangement lay in his eyes, unblinking slivers of silver staring across the dusty table, his careworn frame draped in the graceful light of the moon. His expression stating that this meeting would end badly if his time was maltreated. In many ways, Silas owed his life to that. Curiosity stemming from the werewolf-master's need to comprehend all that lay in his past. Though curt and somewhat uncouth, he always had an avid interest in history.

"Speak."

An accent.

Hunkering as if his robes had become part of his skin, the vampire Silas nodded, masking his curiosity at the werewolf-master's intonation. England then. The werewolf had settled in England. Perpetually on edge, he focused his thoughts. It had taken much to get Beryn back to his homeland. It would not do to waste his time. Come morning, the werewolf would be on the first train out of Belgrade. He scuttled backwards, his fingers creeping towards his beloved manuscripts, pulling one from the top of a pile. Placing it facedown upon the reading stand and paging his way carefully towards the centre. Every page a precious artefact in his hands, yet in spite of all his care, the vellum cracking near the spine, warm light causing the ink to flicker, the illustrations leaping as if the dead still wanted to live. As if stung, the vampire paused, backing away from the tome and pointing at the exposed illustration.

"Do you see?" Silas asked, licking his lips and trying to disguise the gravity of the situation. His voice made it sound as if he had come across a treasure. Except there was a mirror across from him. His lie staring him in the face. Bones starting to show in his cheeks. His cold, hazel eyes darting nervously. He looked as if he had not eaten in months. He looked as if he was hanging on by a thread.

He looked back at the chair.

Empty.

The werewolf had crossed the room. As quick as lightning, he was.

Stepping up behind him, Beryn picked up one of the candlesticks and brought it closer to the book. Squinting at the wood engraving printed upon the vellum. The detailed workmanship of an ancient book. One which could have been printed through China. In the case of vampire work, engravings were constantly more expensive than painted illustration. Disregarding the vampire's scowl, the werewolf-master handled the pages with his fingers. Turning them to see what lay before and after, and then once again, allowing the pages to rest. Like the candle, his eyes flickered over the text, gorging the words and committing them to memory. Absorbing the sordid content without comment.

On the left-hand side of the page, there was a wood-engraved image of a man tied to the ground. Hands and feet bound with chains, blood trickling from a wound in his chest, a stake through his heart. On the right, a quorum of twelve robed vampire elders passing judgement. A set of scales in the hands of their leader. Their faces uncovered and compassionate. As if they were carrying out a pardon rather than an execution.

Silas observed the werewolf's reactions circumspectly, aware that everything hinged on snaring his interest. He had always bartered knowledge in exchange for commodities. Worldly items he could neither afford nor pilfer…but in the last century, any level of captivation had waned as the well of information all but ground to a trickle. There were only so many books to show the werewolf-master. Only so many scraps to throw at the rabid dogs…but this was not one of the books Beryn had seen.

He had made sure of that.

"Mmph," Beryn murmured without interest. Shrugging, he turned away from the text and placed the candlestick back upon the table.

Desperate, Silas plied his trade. "Oh, it is more than that, Beryn. These ancient symbols…this engraving represents…"

"…an executed blood-seer, by the look of it." Beryn interjected quietly, his teeth growing as he spoke, his mellow voice at odds with the razor-sharp look upon his face. "Twelfth-century text judging by the margins. The illustration, however, is painted. Not a print. Original dating from the ninth century. The likely source being a chipped stone rubbing rather than a mosaic. Undoubtedly worth a good sum if you could procure a buyer."

The bones of Silas' face tightened by a margin. The book had failed. Apparently, he was not the only expert on art history. Perhaps he could still barter. The rest of the book was not a ruse…not entirely. Parts of it were real, but…

…bloods, the werewolf-master was already moving as if to leave.

He could not leave. Not yet.

Flouting danger, Silas dashed to the open doors, blocking Beryn's path. The mirrors were gone. He could not see his own face, but he knew he must stink of incompetence. Not that it had any effect on the damned wolf. Every century only hardened Beryn's heart a little more. The man was cold enough to freeze hell.

He craned his neck, glancing through the wide doors to the outside. He had not left this abbey in two hundred years. Clouds moving towards the new moon. It would rain this night…and there was a stage-coach waiting outside. Four horses. An enormous dark werewolf sitting on the carriage box, holding the reins and keeping the horses calm, impassively staring at him as if he were fresh-meat. He turned back to Beryn.

Once the werewolf-master stepped into that stage-coach, his life would be finished. No one came to the abbey…and he could not leave it. The walls were his consolation, the sky his only fear. Must he beg? No, he would not. Begging never got him anywhere. No, he would bargain for his life…food.

Protection.

He forced himself to say the words. "And what if I was bartering more than the book?"

"Oh?" Malevolently, Beryn tilted his head, silver eyes squinting in feigned interest. "You mean it comes with a dust-jacket as well?"

Ouch.

"No, but…" Again, Silas licked his lips. He was famished. "…y-you remember why they banned the blood-seers?"

"The only reason I remember," Beryn answered. "…is because I helped hunt them down." His nails had grown into sharp talons. The face no longer human. A cruel concoction of haggard lines, wolfen features upon a man's skull. Death might be a boon, but there was a way out.

The historian felt himself falling to his knees. "And now…" he cried. "…what would you do if you had one? Where might your war be?" His voice had risen up high, the shrill sound of a ferret entombed. The dark werewolf was behind him. He could not run…but if the man would only listen. "Please…think if you had a blood-seer on your side…"

"There are none left."

The talons rose…

"There is one left!"

…and paused.

Eyeing the sharp claws of the wolf, an inch from his eye, Silas breathed, the shallow sound of panting. He was alive. The talons did not move however. Beryn had merely paused in the act of killing.

"A lie?"

"N-no," Silas sputtered, shaking his head. "…but she is my creature. My…my find. She will only answer to me, to my words."

"She?" A hint of curiosity in his voice. Barely a hint, but it would do.

"Why do you think she has lasted this long?" He was desperate; he would give every ounce of knowledge for the sake of his life. The claws were almost grazing his eyeballs. A cruel blow if Beryn were to take his eyes. He would not survive then. Protection or not, he needed his eyes. "Almost unheard of…a female seer. The council hunted men for so long, the seers chose to break their own covenant. Men training women. If the hunters did it then…why not the seers?"

"And what is to stop me from killing you and simply taking the seer?"

Silas paled, wanting to back away but frozen in place. Iron hands restraining him from behind. The dark werewolf. Somehow, he had not believed Beryn would kill him until he said those words. Words spoken so evenly. A decision previously made. The question only a courtesy. Four decades had changed the man more than he'd realised. A darker creature, even more ruthless, the beast was degenerating. Harsher. No longer the tender-hearted man he once was. No longer the stonemason learning to read by candlelight. Had Beryn forgotten he had kept their secret? He had aided Cecilia, the vampire elder. He had helped her in her time of need. Yet this is what her death had done to the werewolf-master...the centuries since her death. He was a beast. A werewolf in nature as well as form. He had kept their secret…

…and yet here he was, inches from yet another heinous act.

The historian began to mumble, his words quivering as he tried to talk his way out of death…

"You know, I…I remember once when we were b-both back at the coven. I could not have been more than…than a hundred. In the courtyard, I was reading to the…the Lady C-Cecilia…and you were overseeing the reconstruction of the stables…" Callously, the claws began to grow, creeping forward to his pupils. Unable to bear the sight, Silas closed his eyes. Praying to whatever gods of intelligence he could think of. Intelligence was his strong point, not valour.

"…and she saw a vampire stabbing a…a h-horse through the neck. The horse had…" His voice broke. He breathed, forcing himself to remember the exact details. "…it had thrown Lord Garrick…and in his ire, he killed the horse." His hands were shaking so much. He could not see the effect his words had, but neither could he bear to open his eyes. The hands on his shoulders were like chains. He needed Beryn to remember why he had to show clemency.

He sputtered on. "You…you could not have been more than…eighteen at the time, but Lord Garrick entered the stables and forced you to bring him the foal of the dead horse. The creature was half-mad with fear, but…" He licked his lips, aware that his entire body had started to shiver. Careful not to shiver forward lest he scratched himself against the talons. "…he made you brand it for his household. And years later, he rode it as his favorite even though he had killed its mother. The Lady Cecilia, she...she loathed him for that. Do you...not remember?"

Silence.

He opened his eyes.

Beryn was standing about ten feet away, leaning against the door post. Arms folded and appraising Silas as if he were a medieval thesis on Latin. The beast had stepped back for the moment. Not a hair out of place, the suit as pristinely pressed as it was the moment he arrived. Except it was starting to rain.

"Fine," the werewolf-master said pointedly, stepping back into the house. "…but I will need to see the goods before I barter. Where is she?" He gestured forward, brusque now that he was in the mood for haggling. The dark werewolf let go of Silas' shoulders.

And for a moment, Silas nearly wept. "In the tombs," he panted, getting to his feet. "Come with me."

Unnerving the way the man switched his emotions.

Painfully unnerving.