Where Shadows Lurk and Darkness Dwells

12

Paris, France,

Term of the Pike - Farmer's Moon

Cormorant's Pace, Sojourn of the Starwort, at the Candlemoth Pass

Run 292 after the First Cataclysm

Placing the long-stemmed glass on the round side table, Long Qian watched in silence as the bubbles rose to the surface, breaking through the golden hue of the heady wine. He disliked champagne, but had promptly accepted the drink from Marina Stravidis's hand, when she'd welcomed him into the house owned by the Lord of her coterie. The man both she and Christos called father - though in reality, he was only their maker - the man who'd made vampires out of them. From all the bites Stravos Gallanis had distributed in his life as undead, only two had managed to ascend beyond the stage of vrykolakas, to become minor vampire lords themselves.

Marina and Christos, as unlike as could be, both physically and mentally. Where Marina had a head of lavish dark hair, Christos sported shoulder-length golden curls that brought out the blazing green of his eyes. Where she was owner of a long nose and a wide, cutting mouth, whenever she opened it to speak, his lips were plump, always moist, a little weak.

Where Marina was hard, Christos was softness himself - but both made use of the seductive charms nature had previously gifted them with and that the vampire condition only enhanced. And Long Qian had been impotent to resist Christos Stravidis's allure, since he'd met him.He searched the room - spacious and garishly decorated in hues of gold and sage green that shouted of money but not of taste - registering the prevalence of Caucasian faces. Here and there, a dark skin blazed between the sea of pinkish complexions, heralding African, Middle Eastern, Indian and Pakistani origins. His gaze rested longer on a woman, whose olive eyes sparkled in tune with the golden accents of her hijab, her stunning face framed by the lavishly decorated fabric. A creature of rare beauty, she was, with a wild, unruly lifeforce. Shifter, surely, for only those announced their condition in such silently loud voices. The woman, her senses warning her of the quiet observation, turned that pair of olive eyes on him, their shape elongated by carefully applied dark liner. She smiled, he smiled back, both acknowledging the mutual attraction. Tingled by her powerful qi, Long Qian hesitated - just standing next to her in innocent conversation would provide him with a feast of nourishment to last him through the night, no matter what this brought his way.

But she, being a shifter, would notice her lifeforce being discreetly drained, no matter how little Long Qian syphoned from her. Lowering his chin, he shook his head and laughed at himself - Paris made him giddy, slightly careless. Maybe he shouldn't have come, but in the aftermath of Bae Haneul's conviction and subsquent death, his sojourns had been filled to the brim, his presence in Joseon a requirement not to be forsaken. It hadn't crossed his mind to leave, other than the constant travels from Busan to Seoul, where he often took An Iseul so she could feast her eyes on her son. On every single occasion, he'd tried to persuade her, meeting constant failure. In the depths of her heartache over the loss of her husband, she still refused to come forward and make herself known to her son.

This was a dangerous game she kept playing, Long Qian warned her every time. Just because the fox spirit had failed to manifest all these years, it didn't mean the young man didn't carry it. Using himself as example, he'd told and retold the story of his making, how he'd fallen ill with the sickness that had been raiding the streets of Shanghai, where he'd been helping his mother treat the sick who couldn't afford a Physician, both using their knowledge as healers to provide some alleviation to the afflicted. He'd recounted how one night, as he left the tiny flat where a daughter looked after her ageing mother, he'd taken a short cut, for he hadn't been feeling well, himself. And that short cut through the local cemetery had placed in the path of a newly-risen jiangshi, who'd found him easy prey. But the sickness running in his body had helped save him from the undead, though his mangled neck said otherwise. He'd fallen to bed and never got up again, according to his parents, who'd mourned his death by following the rites of old, his body placed in a clean white sheet at the centre of his bedroom.