Outsider's Game: Night King

Chapters

03 - Cornered
04 - Least Dark Before Dawn
05 - Scars Of Nights Past
06 - A Hail Mary
07 - Connecting The Dots
08 - Moving Forward
09 - Lay The Shroud...
10 - ...Remove The Veil
11 - Lamb In The Wolf Den
12 - Fire And Fellowship
14 - Business As Usual
15 - True Faith
01 - Dark Refugee
02 - The Kiss
13 - Stars And Seas

03 - Cornered

Ch. 3 - Cornered

August 1950

“Good work today, Dougal. We couldn't have done it without you.”

Dougal Dempsey craned his neck back, looking to the horizon and the approaching dusk. A smile crept to his face, soaking the warm rays of the sun. “Thank you, Mr. Johnson. Lovely day, isn't it?”

“It sure is, my boy,” said Johnson, shading his eyes. A glint of light bounced off his naked scalp. He carried his briefcase out the door, the two men walking to the office parking lot. “Think I'll catch a drink with a few buddies of mine. Care to join me?”

“Love to, Mr. Johnson,” Dougal said, his own briefcase swinging along, “but I'm meeting my girl for dinner.”

“Ooh! What's the lucky lady's name?” Johnson said, grinning.

“Rebecca. We're eating at that new Greek restaurant.”

“Oh, I've seen that place. Say, have your parents met her yet?”

“My mother has,” Dougal said. He sighed, “Dad's not with use anymore.”

“I'm sorry, son, I didn't know.” Mr. Johnson frowned.

“It's alright.”

“If you don't mind me asking, how did he go? The war?”

“No,” Dougal said, “cancer. Lung cancer.”

“Well...” Mr. Johnson stopped walking, turning to face his young employee. “I'm sure your dad would be proud to see you now. You've made good for yourself, and stand to go a lot farther still.”

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. That really means a lot.” He reached out and shook his boss's hand. “See you on Monday?”

“Bright and early!” the boss said, inclining his head.

Disengaging, Dougal found his parked Crosley station wagon, and entered. As he combed his raven hair back, he was watched from afar by a man in a gray suit and hat. The man noted the man's license plate, scrawling it under the name “Dougal Dempsey” on a featureless notepad. He further jotted “new Greek restaurant – dinner with girlfriend” beneath it.

As Dougal sped away, the figure was nowhere to be seen.

Present

“Hey Princess! So glad you could make it!”

Bounding to the door, Cheese Sandwich – clad in a military uniform as a costume – grabbed Princess Luna's forehooves and shook them vigorously. His curly locks bounced up and down in time with his shakes. His smile broader than a battleaxe.

“He he...yes, thank you for having me,” Luna said, grinning. “...you...are the host?”

“Well no, but I organized the shindig,” Cheese said, shrugging. “The mayor is...somewhere around here. I'll try to find him.”

“Before you do, good sir, are there...party games?”

“Are there!” Cheese cheered, face lighting up even more. He pointed inward, towards a crowd of ponies assembled to one side. “Over here, we've got everything! Spider throw, pin the tail on the manticore, bobbing for apples. We've got-”

“Vampire!”

“Well, I don't think we have any vampires,” Cheese Sandwich said, rubbing his chin. “Except your assistant there, Princess. Am I right, Jeeves?”

“Quite,” said Kibitz, rolling his eyes.

“I don't know if we have any vampire themed games, though,” Cheese continued, tapping his head. He pulled out a rubber chicken, clad in army fatigues. “Boneless 2, you know if I came up with any...”

“VAMPIRE! VAMPIRE!”

The crowd of disguised ponies parted hard, allowing an earth pony mare run through. Her short mane of messy hair was matted with sweat. She wore a black and blue jacket, and sported a pair of red framed glasses. “Please help! Vampire!” She fell to the ground before Princess Luna, tears running down her face.

Luna stepped forward, leaning down. “What's wrong, child? What's this about a vampire?”

“Oh, I'm sure it's some kind of prank, your highness,” said Kibitz. “It IS Nightmare Night. One cannot take such things ser-”

“Silence, Kibitz!” Luna commanded, put a hoof softly on the frightened mare's back. “A vampire? Are you sure, miss?”

The mare nodded, runny eyeliner trailing down her face. “I saw it. In the bathroom. It was feeding off my friends!” She sat up, pointing towards the back of the room. “Over there!”

Through the parted crowd, across the floor of town hall, under a wreath of bat decorations, Luna spotted it. A bipedal creature, clad in black, with a purple shirt. Hair of pitch. With red running from its mouth.

Upon noticing all the eyes upon it, the figure scrambled back, retreating back into the secluded hallway.

The diarch of the moon scowled. “Everypony remain calm. I will deal with this myself.”

“Your highness!” cried Kibitz in confusion.

Luna's wings unfurled. “Not now, Kibitz!” She took to the air, flying forward.

Shit!

Dougal Dempsey bolted down the hall, dashing past a pair of amorous ponies. Their lips so locked, they attention so devoted to each other. It was easy to sneak past them the first time, and they remained completely oblivious even as Dougal ran by. If only the rest of the ponies were as inattentive.

He skidded at the door and rushed back into the bathroom. Took two steps before he tripped over the prone body of the fat pegasus.

“Damnit!” he choked, scrambling to his feet. Looking down, Dougal took a precious second to debate whether he should – or even could – lick closed the fat one's neck wounds before he left. He shook his head, running towards the window. He planted a foot on the toilet seat before he heard the noise.

“THOU SHALT NOT ESCAPE ME, MONSTER!”

Jaw agape, the vampire yanked the window open. Glass shattered against the wall from the force, shards clattering to the floor. He ducked his head through, then both arms.

He had most of his upper body through the opening before he felt some force tugging on his leg.

“WE SAID-”

“Gah!” Dougal cried, legs flying out from under him and pulling.

“THOU SHALT NOT-”

Wrenching backwards, the back of Dougal's head hit the window frame. “Ack! Hiiiiisssss ah! AH!”

“ESCAPE!”

Dougal flew legs first back into the bathroom, then flew into the opposite wall. He slammed into the mirror, smashing it. “Gah!” He flopped hard to the ground, a web of cracks radiating from where he struck the mirror.

He scrambled to his hands and feet. Dougal looked up.

“Thou shalt pay for thy...a human?” Luna said, hesitating a moment. A confused expression played over her face. She studied him wearily.

Dougal stared back, taking her in. A pony greater and grander than any he'd seen to that moment. More a horse indeed, though sporting a navy blue mane. Gifted with both wings – unfurled and bearing her aloft – and a horn – glowing with an aura so strong as to be visible with Dougal's unmodified sight. Her mane was glorious, like the twinkling of the night sky. It flowed with unnatural beauty. It was so...nostalgic. Familiar. Upon the pony's head was a dark crown. The Night Royal herself, Princess Luna.

It then occurred to Dougal: does she know of humans?

The mare regained her resolve, her horn glowing larger. “It matters not!” A great sword materialized in the air, glowing blue. It pulled back and up, high above her head.

No time for mysteries, Dougal thought. He jumped to the side, feeling the vibrations in the ground and the rush of wind in the air when the sword sliced down behind him. Scrambling quickly, he reached the prone form of the pegasus and lifted her bodily into his arms. With barely a pause, Dougal tossed the pony at the Princess.

“Hey!” Luna said, her forelegs catching the pegasus. She sank to the ground under the new weight, taking care as not to drop her. “Come back!”

Dougal was already out the door, running full tilt back to the main room. Stray strands of raven hair flopped over his face, and he brushed them aside. He passed the pair of kissing ponies, undisturbed from their congress.

“GET BACK HERE!”

The cainite continued running, sparing nary a glance to the voice following behind.

He had to get out, and the main hall was the only way. Assuming no ponies were foolish enough to get in his way, it would be a simple manner of rushing out the front door. Dougal would be known by very many witnesses – a deplorable lapse in secrecy no self-respecting kindred would abide – but he could escape to the outside. From there, it would be a matter of finding a dark place to hide. If he had to, he might be able to run all the way back to the cave for shelter.

...but to what end? Certainly he could get away, but if he lost the locals, what then?

November 1950

“Hand over your wallet!”

Sweat broke out on Dougal's face. His eyes roved over the gleaming metal of the revolver. He raised his hands, briefcase hanging from one hand. “Alright, alright. Easy,” he said, gulping. Slowly, he patted his trousers, fishing out the wallet.

Dougal looked to the mugger. The man had an aged cap pushed low, a salt-and-pepper five o'clock shadow on his chin. Perhaps it was the setting sun, or some trick of the buildings surrounding him, but Dougal couldn't get a good look at the man's face. The shadows fell too deeply over his features.

Dougal held up his wallet, offering it. “I don't want any trouble.”

The mugger snatched the wallet with his free hand, then looked down to the briefcase at Dougal's side. “I'll be having that case too, if you don't mind.”

Dougal blinked. “What?”

“Did I stutter, pal?” said the man, scowling. “I said hand over the briefcase.” The muzzle of the firearm rose, pointing toward the space between Dougal's eyes. “Now.”

He really couldn't do that. “W-what? Why?”

“Now.” The mugger drew back the revolver hammer.

Six months of work. Important reports – detailed notes. All that was needed the next day; the culmination of all that work. Gleaming sweat rolled down Dougal's brow. He extended the briefcase.

The mugger pocketed Dougal's wallet, then extended his hand to take the case.

Dougal lunged for the gun, seizing the man's wrist and pushing it up. “Raaah!” he growled, drawing his other arm back and swinging with the briefcase.

Crack!

Birds scattered in the distance, smoke billowing from the upturned muzzle. The briefcase slammed over the mugger's head.

“Gaah!” the man said, gritting his teeth. “Son of a-” He batted the briefcase away, his free hand balled into a fist.

Dougal drew back again, then swung his case down on the man's gun arm. The revolver fell from sweat fingers and clattered to the ground.

Dougal Dempsey wasn't going to let all his work go to waste. Not by some punk with a gun. Not...

A fist smacked Dougal in the eye. His vision swam. He staggered back, both hands lost their grip.

“Rrrrraaaagh!”

The mugger pounced Dougal, seizing him by the shirt with both hands. With one eye, Dougal saw the man's face: fierce, eyes alight with burning fire. The shadows fell away, revealing a snarling animal. A frayed wire, set to sparking. Dougal was half pushed, half carried several feet back, slammed against a brick wall.

“Aaagh!” Dougal yelped for the force of the rough treatment. Powerful fists pressed against his chest. Hot, foul breath cascaded over his neck. It smelled like blood.

The mugger pulled back, skin grown tight on his bright red face. “Gragh!” he roared, pushing Dougal again against the masonry.

Dougal thought, so strong! Who is this guy?

Not content with rough treatment, the mugger pulled a tight fist back. His face grimaced, hand shaking. Then, perhaps he thought better of it, and the mugger let his fist drop. His teeth retreated behind his lips, which formed into a deep frown. “Gah!”

He threw Dougal away, letting him tumble to the ground. “Oof! Ach!” Dougal cried, rolling over to his stomach.

The mugger stepped away, leaning down and snatching up his firearm and the briefcase. “Bastard,” he said, muttering under his breath. “Ought 'ta kill you...” He cast one sidelong glance at Dougal.

Dougal looked up, squinting past one black eye.

Face once again cast in shadow, the mugger began walking away. “Idiot.” He dashed, rounding a corner out of sight.

The dejected businessman groaned, hand outstretched towards the retreating figure. “...ugh...” he said, hauling himself to his knees. “...d-damn...dammit...” Dougal planted his hand on a knee and pushed to a standing position. Swaying, he rubbed his sore face. “Damn...” He looked towards the parking lot nearby, spotting his car. He took two weary steps before stopping.

He looked to the office building.

Not giving up. He wasn't going to let it end like that. Wasn't going to come into work tomorrow empty handed.

Dougal trudged back to the office. Despite the janitorial staff's objections, he worked all night.

Present

“So are doing something this weeken- HEY!”

Dougal burst from the hallway, knocking over party guests with a casual shove. His eyes darted back and forth.

He saw progressively more large eyes turn back towards him, but he ignored them. Tables were assembled throughout the crowded town hall, strewn with half-supped beverages or crumb-covered plates. Tablecloths stood out in alternating black and orange, better to match the decorations tacked to walls or hanging between support beams. A glittering disco ball spun lazily from the ceiling, casting little dots of light over the dimly lit crowd.

There. Gloomy as it was, Dougal could see it perfectly: the front door.

“CEASE THY RUNNING! THOU SHALT NOT ESCAPE!”

Dougal bolted for the door, ducking and squeezing around clumps of ponies. He kept low, and many ponies not already aware of his presence only noted his strangeness as he passed.

Have to get away, he thought, jumping over one pony like the track hurdles from his youth. It's so close. I'm so close.

“Sweet Celestia what is that!?” cried someone from the crowd.

“It's the vampire! It's here!”

Damnation, Dougal thought, stopping in front of a particularly large wall of meat. He swayed back and forth, trying to find an opening. Beyond the throng, the way cleared out to the entrance. Get out of the way!

“WHERE IS THE BEAST!?” came a booming voice from behind.

“Hrrrr!” Dougal growled. Thrusting his hands into the mass of ponies, he swung his arms wide. He pushed the costumed creatures forcefully from his path, eliciting cries of confusion.

“What the- HEY!”

“Watch it buddy, or I'll...I'll...oh dear...”

Dougal forced his way through, leaving gasping party guests in his wake. Some shuddered terribly at the touch of his hands.

“Eeeeek!”

The vampire's lips turned up into a grin. He dashed towards the double doors, one slightly ajar.

Twing! Fwoosh!

The floor tiles twinkled briefly. Then an enormous wall of sapphire flames erupted in front of the door, barring the way.

“Haah!” Dougal cried, screeching to a halt. His arms flailed wide, trying to stop himself tipping over. He staggered back, falling on his bottom. “Aaaaash!” he hissed, turning over and scrambling back on all fours.

His eyes stared into that inferno. Muscles shook all over.

“THE PRINCESS OF THE NIGHT SHALT NOT ALLOW THEE TO ESCAPE!” Luna said, flying above the crowd and hovering above her quarry. Her great wings flapped heavily, creating gusts of wind with every beat.

“That's it!” A shaking mare – the one who escaped earlier, Dougal noticed – pointed a hoof towards him. She stood safely surrounded by burlier, concerned stallions, including a mustached gentlepony(?) in an insulting Dracula cape. “That's the v-vampire! The one who h-hurt m-my friends!”

“GUARDS!” Luna bellowed, “FALL ON ME!”

In the periphery of Dougal's view, he could see scattered uniformed ponies converge on him. Two flanked the front door. Looking over his shoulder, he saw another two jump in front of the entrance to the hallway he entered from, casually herding frightened guests into it. All were dark like the night he loved so, with identical yellow eyes and bat-like armor.

The vampire crouched low, eyes darting fretfully around. The noose was forming around his neck.

March 1951

“Honey, I'm ho-”

“How dare you!”

A book flew into Dougal's face, smacking spine-first against his forehead. “Ah! What was that for?” he cried, clutching his head.

Rebecca strode forward, hand clutching a bright red telephone. “I got a call today, Dougal,” she said, holding up the Bakelite receiver. “It was some woman named Cynthia. Ring any bells?” She paused, studying his face. “No? Well, she knew you. Said she had a 'really fun night' last week.” Rebecca scowled, fingers clutching the receiver. “Care to explain yourself?”

“Cynthia? I don't...Rebecca, honey, I don't know any-”

“Have you been cheating on me, Dougal? Have you been seeing some...floozy behind my back!?” Rebecca spat the words out. A golden strand of hair fell over her face.

“N-no!” Dougal said, throwing his hands up. “I'm not! Baby, it's a lie! I would never-”

“Save it, mister!” she barked, jabbing the phone receiver at him. In a fit of anger, she grimaced and threw the phone to the ground. Marooned plastic shattered against the hardwood floor, a terrible crash ringing out. Pieces flew in every direction.

The woman grasped at her finger, wrenching off her engagement ring. This too she let drop, clattering noisily on the ground.

She walked right past Dougal, who stared gobsmacked at the bouncing jewelry.

“...it's...it's not...I didn't...” he mumbled quietly to himself. Dougal kept his eyes on the floor, seeing the ring settled in the shadow cast by the sun behind his stooped back.

Present

Windows?

Too small, and off the ground. Couldn't squeeze through without being caught and dragged back inside.

Back through the hallway?

Guards would slow him down. Enough to make him a sitting duck.

Burst through the wall?

No idea what these creatures consider proper municipal building material. Either way, it would take too much time.

Out the front door?

And brave the fire? It would take him precious seconds to work up the courage, if he could at all. Just the thought sent chills up his spine. Plus, the fire was probably magical. Didn't even need aura vision to see that.

Disciplines?

“SURRENDER, FOUL BEAST!”

Dougal looked around frantically. The party guests, sensing his predatory nature if nothing else, backed away heavily. Vast swaths of the dance floor were yielded by the shivering wretches.

All save one oblivious mare in the middle.

“Hey guys...where are you going?” the mare said, a drink in her hoof, a faraway look in her eyes, slowly gaining focus. She looked at the retreating herd. “What are you all staring...at...” She turned around.

Her eyes met Dougal's. Her pupils shrank. “...uh...”

Dougal dashed at her.

“AAAAAGH!” the mare screamed, a long arm coiling around her neck. Her hooves left the floor, being carried bodily into the room. Cold hands seized her, sapping the heat from her skin. “No no no no no!”

“STOP!” Luna cried, her ferocious expression giving way to fear. “LEAVE THAT INNOCENT PONY ALONE!” She flapped forward, ready to follow.

“Raargh!” Dougal growled, swinging his free arm wide at the approaching royal. He bore his fangs, his face scrunched with animal fury. “Ge-”

“WAIT!”

Dougal wanted to tell them to get back, but was pelted in the face with...something. Something...squeaky.

Everyone stopped. The princess touched down, sliding to a halt. The guards, advanced now, also halted. The frantic crowd had hushed. The frightened hostage in the vampire's arms merely whimpered.

Dougal blinked, then looked down.

Flopping on the floor, squeaking as it bounced, was a yellow rubber chicken.

“Good job, Boneless 2!”

Cheese Sandwich – garbed in a mock military uniform – hopped from the quaking crowd and stood tall in front of the toy, just to Dougal's side. He stared intently at the vampire.

Luna started, “...I...buh...citizen!” She extended a hoof. “It is too dangerous for-”

“Now listen here, you...you...weirdo!” said Cheese.

Dougal blinked.

“I don't know who you are, where you're from, what you need,” Cheese continued, sternly, “as long as you...understand...one...thing.” He punctuated his point by jabbing a hoof at Dougal. His eyebrows curled down. “I'm the super party pony, here. My name is Cheese Sandwich. And I won't let any of these guests be roughly handled by some blood junkie!”

Dougal raised a single eyebrow. He...he didn't rightly know how to feel at that moment.

Cheese stepped even closer, rearing up so he could be as eye level with Dougal. He narrowed his peepers. “If you want a hostage...” He slapped his chest. “...take me, instead.”

Blink.

...Dougal shrugged, then pushed the mare away.

“Hey!” the mare said, stumbling away, to be caught by a bystander.

Pouncing, Dougal wrapped his arms around the new pony's neck, holding him in front like a shield.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Cheese Sandwich said, hooves clutching at the strong, cloth-covered arms that held him in a chin lock. “Ack! A little...a little tight, don't you think?”

Dougal gave Cheese one look, then started backing away again, approaching a wall. Ponies behind him rushed to give the vampire room. Until finally his bottom bumped against the raised stage area. With his free hand, Dougal hauled them both up, backing up more. The band jumped – long having stopped playing their “tunes” - fearfully fled the stage, carrying their instruments with them.

He didn't have proper claws – in retrospect learning such a basic trick would have been both easy and worth the time – but Dougal nonetheless pointed his bared nails at the hostage's throat. With luck they wouldn't know the difference.

Cheese Sandwhich gulped. “Easy now, friend. Don't want to do anything...gulp...rash, right?” Sweat poured down his brow.

He smelt of diary products. Dougal found it mildly disconcerting. Even if he could also smell the blood underneath. Could feel it pumping under the skin.

“Give up, monster!” Luna said, taking to the air and hovering just beyond the lip of the stage. Her eyes were fixed upon Dougal. “There is nowhere left to run. Do not touch one hair upon that stallion's head...” Her eyes narrowed. “...or I swear upon all the stars in the sky I will reduce you to less than nothing.”

Look hard left. Look hard right. Unfortunately the stage had no exits. No back stage. Really, it was just a raised area. A small speaking place for a small town. Dougal wasn't getting out here.

“Is there a doctor in the house!?”

Dougal looked over the crowd. From the hallway, a couple burly stallions hauled the limp forms of Dougal's victims. Their friend, tears running mascara streams down her face, crying out to anyone who would listen. “We need a doctor! Somepony help! My friends need medical attention!”

A random unicorn pony dabbed a piece of fabric – torn from his costume it would seem – on the overweight pegasi's neck, trying to staunch the bleeding.

A stray lock of black hair fell over Dougal's face. He swallowed. His sight wandered elsewhere.

Weeping in the corner, his former hostage shook like a leaf, held by her friends. She choked out frightful sobs.

Dougal's dead heart sank. He looked to the crowd.

Dozens of fearful, staring eyes. How they cowered. How they trembled.

It was in Dougal's nature – the nature of the animal pretending to be a man – to fight. To go kicking and clawing and biting, if it meant even the slightest chance to survival. To employ all the unholy powers vitae afforded him. He could do it.

But...why?

Cheese Sandwich sighed, though it came out more a muffled choke. “I...sure hope Boneless 2 will get along without me.”

“A doctor! We need a doctor over here!”

“Unhand that pony now, monster!”

Dougal felt...very tired. He sighed.

“Whup!” Cheese cried, falling to the ground. He rubbed his neck. As he scrambled away, he looked in confusion at the vampire.

Dougal raised his hands over his head.

“I surrender.”

…

Luna blinked. She looked down at the retreating Cheese Sandwich, who merely shrugged.

She looked to the vampire. “...you what?”

“I surrender,” Dougal said. With one hand, he brushed a lock of hair out of his face. Then, thinking on it, he used his hand to slick his hair entirely back again, to limited results. His hands returned to their upright position.

“...you...I...” Luna said. Her mystical sword was raised above her head, ready to strike, but it wavered. Her eye...twitched. “...I don't...never before...I'm sorry.” She shook her head. “Thou are capable of speech?”

“Yes.”

“...I...see...” she said. “I have never met a blood drinker that could speak, and I have slain many.” At that, she considered the point silently, then grew grave. “Now you listen here.”

“I'm listening,” said Dougal, neutrally.

Her sword swung through the air. Tip came to rest against Dougal's throat.

Dougal noted the blade. Felt it against his skin. He gulped, mildly concerned. “I am listening intently.”

“I ought to kill you right now,” Luna said, her voice threatening to go full Royal Canterlot again. She forced herself to maintain her indoor voice. That product of many weeks of hard work. She was very proud of it. “Ought to smote you, and rid Equestria of your blight forever.”

“Alright. Go ahead.”

“What?” Luna cocked an eyebrow.

Dougal sighed. “If you want to destroy me, then do so,” he said wearily.

“...you...do not fear death?”

“I have surrendered, knowing full well your opinion of the undead,” Dougal said, shaking his head. “If execution is what you crave, I'm not going to argue.”

Luna's sword went slack, dipping slightly. Not too slack, of course. She tilted her head. “...why?”

“...hmm...” Dougal shut his eyes, pondering. Then he sighed again. “...I'm just...tired. I don't feel like running anymore.” He held out his hands.

“Gah!” Luna said, readying her sword. “What are you doing?”

He smiled meekly. “Letting you arrest me.” He joined his wrists together, hands limp in front of him.

“And what makes you think I'll arrest a vampire? And after your crimes against my subjects?”

“I don't know...” Dougal said. “That's up to you.”

“...this is a trick. You are plotting something.”

“Maybe.” Dougal cocked his head. “Would you rather just kill me now?”

Princess Luna stared into the vampire's eyes. They were...unusually dark. As light passed over them, it reflected off the whites, but dropped off completely in the black pits of his pupils. They were eerie eyes. Yet they appraised her casually, rather than with focused intent. Luna looked at his cheeks: coagulating blood from his victims running down his chin from the corners of his mouth. His was a...curious expression. Though buoyed not by continual breathing, the stench of blood wafted over to her from his lips.

She shuddered. With renewed resolve, she pressed the sword harder against the vampire's neck. It threatened to draw blood...if it could. If there was enough blood in it to shed.

It would be so easy. Her instincts cried out to destroy the beast, whatever it was. To cut off its head and piece its heart. To stake it for the sun so dear sister could destroy it at her leisure. Like Luna had done to a score of vampires before.

...but this was not like the vampires from one thousand years ago. Not quite like anything she'd ever seen. It had precedent, bits and pieces of it. But nothing of such a combination. In all her experience, Luna had yet to meet something as...singularly unique.

“Soldier!”

A guardspony trudged up. “Your Majesty?”

“Manacles,” Luna said dryly, eyes locked on that creature. Not straying for an instant. Still wary of tricks. No matter what, vampires were always tricky.

Dougal Dempsey simply smiled.

04 - Least Dark Before Dawn

Ch. 4 - Least Dark Before Dawn

April 1952

“Sorry! Sorry!”

Dougal Dempsey ran past the secretary's desk, sweating profusely. “Good...morning, Marsha,” he said, nodding to the woman.

“Uh, Mr. Dempsey,” she said, a worried look on her face, “Mr. Johnson wants to see you in his-”

“I know, I know,” he said, opening the door. Ducking inside, he ran through the main work room, trying to dodge around his fellow employees in his haste. “Excuse me...pardon...me...”

As he neared the boss's office, Dougal failed to notice all the eyes that followed him, or the complete cession of all noise.

Dougal popped through the door, brushing back his hair with his hand. “I'm...huff...sorry I'm late...Mr. Johnson. My car got smashed by a hit and runner when I got up this morn...ing...?”

A dour Mr. Johnson sat behind his desk, papers in his hands. His brow was furrowed deeply. He wasn't alone in the room. To either side of the desk were sharply-dressed gentlemen in gray suits and fedoras.

“...what's going on, sir?” Dougal said, frowning.

The boss sighed. “Come in here Dougal,” he said, scowling. “Gentlemen, this is the man.”

“Uh...boss, who are...?”

“Mr. Dempsey, we're with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said one of the men in suits. “We'd like you to come with us for questioning.”

“For what?” Dougal said, growing defensive.

“Embezzlement.” Mr. Johnson dropped the stack of papers in front of him. He tore off his reading glasses. “A thousand dollars, gone.”

“You're to come with us, Mr. Dempsey.”

“But I didn't steal anything!” The FBI spooks seized Dougal by the arms. “Let go of me! Mr. Johnson, I haven't done anything wrong.” He struggled in their grip, but they were too much. “I didn't-”

“Dougal!” Johnson rose to his feet. He pointed towards the young man. “You're fired!”

They dragged him out the door, Dougal twisting and protesting loudly. “I'm innocent, dammit! Let me go! I never did anything wrong! I'm innocent! Innocent!”

Present

“Attention passengers: the train is now leaving the station.”

Princess Luna narrowed her eyes. “I'm watching you, vampire.”

Dougal Dempsey raised his leg, resting upon his other knee. His hands rested upon the horizontal appendage, strong iron links clinking. He tested the manacles. They were bound as tightly as cold iron could be.

How cute, he thought. “I would be offended if you weren't, your highness.” He smiled.

As the train shuffled into motion, a whistle blared in the distance. The vampire felt the vibrations through the seat. He looked around. The train's seating reflected the American style – rows of seats all in one long compartment – rather than the English style, with its separated rooms. Not, of course, that these styles were specifically emulated. Dougal didn't think so. He didn't think it possible, like many things he experienced this night.

They were sitting across from each other, he and the Princess. Two burly guards flanked him, and he noticed more taking their places behind him. Dougal looked out the window, watching the darkened landscape fly by. He spotted a mass of village lights in the distance, before the shadow of a hill blocked the view.

“We have flying soldiers following overhead,” Luna added, seeing him eye the windows. “You won't get far if you run.”

“I had no plan to.” Dougal tapped his fingers on his leg, studying the brown mud stains upon his pant legs.

Luna stared wearily at the gesticulating digits. Finally, she looked to his face. “Who are you?”

“My name is Dougal Dempsey,” Dougal said, lacing his fingers. “I am a Kindred...it is...among our many words for vampire.”

“Well, Mister Dougal Dempsey, I am Princess Luna. And one thousand years ago, I was known as the Bane of Night.” Luna held herself up. “Can you guess as to why?”

“A thousand years...a real Methuselah...” Dougal whistled. “I am honored to be in your presence.” He point of fact had a very good idea why she was called...

“I was called the Bane of Night because I slew bloodsucking monsters like you by the wagon load!” Luna said forcefully. Her brow furrowed.

“...duly noted, your highness,” Dougal said, smiling uneasily.

“...yes...anyway...” Luna coughed. “I must admit I have never seen a...Kindred before. Where do you hail from, and why are you here in Equestria? Why do you plague ponykind with your...ghastly thirst?”

Dougal's smile dropped. “For your first question, I come from America. Have you heard of it?”

“No.”

“I thought not.” Dougal glanced out the window, collecting his thoughts. “...as for the second...” He shrugged. “...that...is a very good question. The truth is...I don't know.”

“You don't know?” Luna cocked an eyebrow. “How can you not know how you came here?”

Dougal sighed. “Let me tell you a story. I was minding my own business, when suddenly this pack of Caini...I mean vampires started chasing me.”

“Why?”

“We had a disagreement.”

“What kind of disagreement?”

“Oh, the kind that vampires get into a lot back home.” Dougal steepled his fingers. “I wanted to remain alive – or as alive as an ambulatory corpse powered by an ancient blood curse can be – and they wanted me dead.”

Luna raised an eyebrow.

“Anyway,” Dougal said, “I got cornered, we're about to settle our differences the old fashioned way...and...” Dougal splayed his hands, shrugging. “I don't know.”

“You don't...what?”

“I mean I got nothing. There's a huge gap in my memory I can't account for.” Dougal sighed. He tugged open his jacket to expose the stained purple shirt with a hole through it. “First thing I remember is waking up in a cave with a shaft of wood through my heart.” He watched as the guards around him studied his shirt with morbid interest.

“...you were staked through the heart?” Luna asked. “By whom? And why?”

“Like I said, I don't know. Weirdest thing.” Dougal was smiling. “Normally when a pack of...well, let's just say that me being left unalive was completely out of the question given the context. I don't know know who put me in that cave or why. If you want to know how I got here from my home, I know less than you do.” He clapped his hands over his knees. “I've certainly never seen a talking pony before, let alone an entire nation of them...no offense.” He smiled nervously to the Princess and the guards surrounding him.

“...hmm...I suppose you wouldn't...” Luna mumbled, rubbing her chin.

“Hmm? What's that?” Dougal asked.

“Dougal Dempsey, I believe you are no longer in your world.”

“I...can believe that.” Dougal shut his eyes, thinking.

A new world. One of colorful talking horses. For not the first time that night, Dougal considered whether he was going mad. Again.

“This cave...where is it?”

Dougal started. “Hmm? Oh I don't know the area at all, but it's a few miles from that town – Trottleville, as I recall,” Dougal said. “It was set inside a mountain; I'm sure one of the locals know of it, or could find it.”

“And then?”

“And then? Oh, yes.” Dougal linked his fingers again. “When I...disentangled myself from the trap – one that was rather elaborate I must say – I left and sought civilization at all haste. I simply couldn't stay out there one minute longer.”

“Why?”

“Lupines!”

“Lu...Lupines?”

“Werewolves,” Dougal said. “Humans who turn themselves into wolves. Big ones. I don't know if Equestria has such things, but my...world...is positively full of them. They keep mostly to the countryside, and they hate...HATE...Kindred with a passion.” Dougal shuddered. “Living in the cities often feels like being trapped on islands, with furry, angry sharks circling just beyond the city limits. Even the suburbs aren't entirely safe...”

“How many?”

“Lupines? Impossible to know, and no Cainite worth his salt is willing to-”

“No,” Luna said, rubbing her temples. “I mean how many vampires are there in your world?”

Dougal blinked. He looked at his lap, tapping his fingers. “Well, I don't know exactly. There's no real way to keep track of them all, independent as kindred are.” Scrunching his face, he pondered. “Well, I've heard one statistic...I don't remember where...that said that every vampire must have 100,000 kine – that is, mortal humans – in order to survive. This of course is inflated, since very bare minimum a vampire requires roughly fifteen humans in order to survive. But considerably more to remain unnoticed...”

“Unnoticed?”

“Well yes, we vampires long ago adopted a code of secrecy,” Dougal said. “We call it the Masquerade,” he continued, a little voice in the back of his head pointing out how silly it was to be talking about the Masquerade to someone – anyone – who was diametrically opposed to his existence. “...humph...anyway, we hide ourselves to the point where most mortals don't even know we exist, or refuse to believe it. As if it were some old superstition.

“Regardless, I think that statistic is overblown. A vampire could easily feed well and remain perfectly hidden on as little as 30,000 people.”

Luna frowned. How could he speak so...casually about feeding from innocents? “...so this means there are...maybe...two dozen or more vampires in your world?”

“Yes perhaps, I...what?” Dougal stared at Luna for a moment. “...no, in a small city. A small city has on average twenty to forty five Kindred, depending on individual siring policy...or whether there's been a crusade...”

“Wait, what?” Luna shot up in her seat, eyes bugging out. “I don't...twenty to forty...I...how many 'humans' are there in your world?”

“Hmm? Oh, a few billion.”

“BILLION!?”

Dougal braced against the chair for the force of the princess's astounded outburst. He blinked. “Thereabouts, yes.”

Luna, wide eyed, sank into her seat. She didn't speak for a long time. “...I...I cannot even begin to imagine...a billion humans? I did not mishear?”

“...uh no, you did not, your highness,” Dougal said. He looked around.

The guards were visibly disturbed.

“A billion...what even is a billion?”

The door behind Luna slid open. A very tired stallion of advanced age sauntered over. “My lady, are you alright?” said Kibitz, mustache bobbing up and down. “I heard shouting.”

“Kibitz...Kibitz...” Luna said in a breathy way. She was looking...miles away. “A billion, Kibitz. How could a world hold so many...”

“...um...” Kibitz said. He looked towards the vampire. “See here, I hope you haven't been upsetting her majesty, you...ruffian!”

Dougal looked the stallion over. Studied his tacky Dracula cape. Dougal raised an eyebrow.

“Hrmph...” Kibitz scowled, then patted Princess Luna on the shoulder. “We'll be arriving at Canterlot castle in about an hour, your majesty. Hang in there, I'm...going to see if I can catch a few minutes sleep.”

“...okay...” Luna mumbled, watching the schedule keeper wander into the next car. She sighed.

“Are you alright, your highness?” Dougal said.

“Yes, I...I am just fine.” Luna straightened up. She shook her head, trying to put on a serious face once more. “Dougal Dempsey, before you mentioned a...Masquerade. How is this enforced among your kind? If your numbers are correct, there should be...roughly a hundred thousand vampires in your world.” She gulped, considering the thought.

“...with difficulty,” Dougal said. “So many running around, it would be virtually anarchy. But we have government.”

“Really?” Luna said, both eyebrows rising, lids wide open. “Government? Among vampires?”

“Once upon a time, the only system of loyalty kindred had was to their clans,” Dougal explained, “but with the growing militancy of mortals against vampire kind – as well as the rebellion of the younger generations – many clans decided to band together and form a proper organization. Something to maintain Kindred law and order, formalize the rights of princes, and all that. Kindred call this sect the Camarilla.

“Within the Camarilla, there is a kind of order,” Dougal said, scratching his head. “...the...um...system is...centered around age. The more ancient the vampire, the greater the power. And...ah...all Kindred come together in an environment of respectability. Everyone behaves themselves, and tries to pretend they're not...well...monsters.

“...I see you're skeptical.” Dougal rubbed his hands, watching the princess eye him carefully. “Well, it's not like we aren't monsters...it's just that it's not a pleasant thing to dwell on. Especially not over centuries of existence. For some, it's easier to just pretend.” He rubbed his chin, thinking.

“Hmm...” Luna said. “What of these 'clans'?”

“Ah, the clans,” said Dougal, relaxing. “Well, Kindred can trace their descent from a common progenitor. While there is considerable debate on this point, the most common origin is that of the first generation vampire, Caine, known as being the first murderer...”

“The first murderer?”

“Indeed,” Dougal said. “Caine is said to have smote his brother Abel over...well, let's just say that it is a tale unto itself. As punishment for his crime, Caine was cursed by God to walk the Earth forevermore and subsist upon the blood of the living.

“From Caine, all vampires originate. He sired progeny – that is, he found living descendents of his other brother Seth and turned them into vampires. These in turn embraced mortals of their own, and on and on.”

“Have you done this to one of my little ponies?” Luna asked, scowling.

“Absolutely not!” Dougal said, raising his hands palms forward. “I would never...I wouldn't think of turning one of your subjects. Aside from the practical problems of having more competition...” Dougal scratched his face, “...I don't even think I could embrace a non-human.”

“Why not?” Luna asked.

“I don't know. It's been tried on...anim- Non-humans...and it's never worked.” A bead of blood sweat rolled down his brow. He absentmindedly wiped it up and licked it. “...smack...I don't know what would happen if it were tried on a sapient beast, though...”

“You will not!” Luna said forcefully.

“Wasn't planning on it, your highness. It's a process that cannot (easily) happen by accident. It is a purposeful action, the Embrace. Your subjects already bitten will not turn in the night.” Dougal smiled nervously. He could feel eyes upon him from all around the train car. “But if I may continue...cough...as the progeny of Caine multiplied and spread, they changed. Developed differences, both cultural and physiological. These branching bloodlines took the names of their founding great grandsires, and became the Clans.

“A number of these came together and formed the Camarilla.”

Tilting her head – and watching the “Kindred” ever more closely – Luna said, “Hmm...what clan do you belong to?”

“Ventrue, the...noble house,” said Dougal, smiling, “that is one of the pillars of the Camarilla. Our adherence to law and order is...without question.”

Truthfully, the distinction didn't really matter. Displaced from Earth as he was, Dougal could have said he was of Clan Roosevelt, of House Theodore, and it would mean as much to the ponies. But it wouldn't hurt to establish credentials in case contact was made to his world, or other Cainites found their way there. So it wouldn't hurt to say he was Ventrue.

It was a lie, of course, but that was beside the point.

June 1952

“Dempsey.”

Dougal opened his eyes. He sat up from his position on the bed. A single strand of hair fell over his face.

“You're free to go.”

As Dougal was led from his cell, he turned to the guard. “What happened?” he mumbled.

“Apparently they had another go at those papers. Fingered another guy. Talk to your lawyer, he's waiting outside.”

“Hmm...”

Outside, once he'd been returned his personal effects, Dougal saw his lawyer waiting by an old jeep. Army surplus probably. Andy Wick's suit was hardly in better shape, though he flashed a hundred dollar smile when he saw his client. “See? I told you I could get you out, Dougal, and I meant it.”

“Andy...hiss...” Dougal shielded his eyes from the glare of the noonday sun. “What's this about them finding someone else?”

“Well, I kept badgering the DA, telling him you were innocent,” said the lawyer, opening the passenger side door, “I guess they finally looked closer at those records and your holdings. Turned the pressure on your coworkers. Some accountant finally copped to doctoring the records. Put the misappropriated funds in a secure account in Mexico.

“Funniest thing, though,” Andy said, when the two were seated in the car. “All of the money that went missing was in there. The guy hadn't touched it at all.” He nodded his head, adjusting thick-rimmed glasses. “What's more...he can't for the life of him say why he did it. Claimed the urge just...came to him.”

“Yes, because someone just embezzles cash from a major business on a whim,” Dougal said, buckling his seat belt slowly. “It doesn't matter anyway.”

“What do you mean? You're free. Charges dropped and everything. What's the problem?”

“The problem is I don't have a job.” Dougal looked miserably out the window. “Just drive me home, Andy.”

Present

“Name?”

“Dougal Dempsey.”

The unicorn behind the desk glanced at Dougal briefly. He ignited his horn in a glow that matched that of the quill before him. He looked to the parchment, the quill dancing across paper. Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. The colorful feather bopped back and forth, shining a warm amber.

A curious application of Movement Of The Mind, Dougal thought, sitting up straight in the wooden chair. Can all ponies employ such magic? He stared at the unicorn, protected behind a steel mesh. Or protected from mundane danger, if nothing else.

“Race/Species?”

“Human Vampire.”

A raised brow. The unicorn looked wearily at Dougal, eying the bits of dried blood on his cheek that his tongue couldn't quite reach. The unicorn looked over Dougal's shoulder.

Luna nodded gravely.

The unicorn swallowed, then regained his dour, unflappable manner. Scritch-scratch. “Place of origin?”

“St. Louis, Missouri. United States of America.” In truth he'd not been in Missouri in ten years, and then only briefly. Dougal didn't really have a home there anymore. That, and there could still be people who knew him there. The plan was always to wait a century, then return when all old acquaintances were firmly in the grave.

“Age?”

“Seventy four.”

The unicorn levitated a small tub from the side of the desk. The contents – from Dougal's pockets – were dumped on the desk. One at a time, a glow enveloped the items and raised them to the unicorn's eye level. The quill remained similarly animated.

“Contents of pockets. Ring, with eight assorted small keys attached.” These were placed back inside the tub. “Assorted coins of...unknown foreign currency. Different sizes, designs, and metals.

“Folded...uh...”

“Wallet.”

“Excuse me?” the unicorn said.

Dougal chimed in. “It's a wallet.”

“Hmm...one wallet, made of...uh...leather...” The unicorn eyed it suspiciously, then opened it. “Contains assorted sheets of green cloth paper. All titled 'Federal Reserve Note', of various values.” Removing the bills, the unicorn noted their printed values, then began counting. “Total two hundred forty-five 'Dollars'.” He studied the stuffy humans adorning the bills, then set them aside. “Multiple hard plastic cards, as well as several paper cards. Also contains scrap paper and smaller paper slips, including assorted receipts.” Finally, he pulled out two folded, faded pictures. “Two photographs. One of...three Human Vampires...”

“Humans.”

“Hmm?”

“They are simply humans. I am an undead Human.”

The unicorn struck a line through a part of the page, then continued writing. “Three Humans, two presumed adults, one presumed child.” The unicorn examined the other photo, more recent. “The second, depicting five Humans, clustered together. Hmm...” He struck another part, then said, “four humans, one human-like creature with prominent horns.”

Dougal smiled sadly. Allowed himself to stare into space.

Returning the contents of the wallet, the unicorn picked up another item. Concentrating slightly, the unicorn unfurled the simple mechanism. “One folding knife.”

“That,” said Princess Luna, “will of course be confiscated.”

Dougal shrugged. It was just a pen knife. He fished it from the cluttered drawer of a house he broke into, twenty years back. He recalled it vaguely smelled of almonds.

He didn't really need it in a scrape anyway.

“One...uh...” The unicorn examined it closely. “This is?”

“A ballpoint pen.”

“Ballpoint pen?”

“Click the top.”

The unicorn held the device away from him, then depressed the top. It clicked, extending a metal writing point. “Hmm!” He carefully set pen to parchment, then gazed in mild wonder as it doodled without having to be dipped in an ink well. “Oh!”

Dougal coughed. Luna joined him.

“Ah! Yes, quite.” The unicorn returned the pen to the tub, then resumed. “One black candle.”

The vampire eyed it intently.

“One...plastic tube, with metal bits on top.”

“It's a lighter. Flick the button a few times, and it will create a small flame, like a match.”

Curiosity overcoming him, the unicorn depressed the button a few times, eliciting clicks. Finally, a small flame erupted from the top.

Dougal flinched ever so slightly. He gulped, if for no other reason than for living habit.

Blowing the flame out, the unicorn waved away the small trail of smoke, then moved on. “Two small booklets.” He leafed through one, checking the front. “One titled 'The Holy Bible'. Printed, small font. Slight blood stains.”

Good old Gideons, Dougal thought. He recalled that dingy hotel room. Recalled rooting through the bedside drawer, finding an edition small enough to pocket. Recalled how he still clutched it, leaping through glass, pack of slavering Sabbat hot on his heels. Remembered it weigh down his shirt pocket as he ran.

“The second book, a journal. Hand written. Mixture of Equestrian and...unknown language.”

“You write in Equestrian?” Luna asked.

Dougal looked over his shoulder. “Your highness, I write in English.”

Luna rubbed her chin thoughtfully. Dougal turned back, eying that journal.

“Next,” said the unicorn, “one beaded necklace, with silver cross pendent. Pendent adorned with the figure of a...Human with forelimbs stretched wide.”

Noting how long it had been since his last recitation of the fifteen mysteries, Dougal watched the silver Crucifix shine in the light.

“Lastly...one silk bundle.” The unicorn unfurled the silk cloth. Layer by layer, the folds retreated. Finally a leather sheath could be seen. Pulling completely away the silk, it revealed a knife. The handle was mildly etched wood. The blade glittered a bit.

Curious, the unicorn separated the knife from sheath. The blade come loose shone brilliant gold, though caked on the tip with a ruddy brown coat.

Dougal shivered just looking at it.

“One...small Gold dagger, tip stained with dried blood.” The unicorn blinked, staring at the weapon.

Luna's vision took in the dirtied tool. “Anything you wish to declare, Dougal Dempsey?” she said, looking down at the vampire.

He paused, then said, “Nothing upon Equestrian soil, your highness.” Dougal sighed. “You can keep the thing. I have no need of it, anymore.”

“Hmm...” Luna looked to the unicorn behind the desk. She nodded.

The gold dagger went to the side with the pen knife. “These shall be confiscated for safe keeping. The rest you may have back.” The refilled tub – minus two sharp implements – slid magically into a box attached to the metal grate. A guardspony standing nearby stepped forward, retrieved the tub, and forked it over to Dougal.

“Many thanks, good sir,” Dougal said, accepting the tub gladly. His bound hands began rifling through it.

Luna stood by, watching the vampiric human returning effects to his many pockets. Saw him leaf through the thick printed volume, then plant it in his jacket. Then she watched him curiously.

Dougal raised the beaded necklace to his face, examining closely the pendent. He affectionately kissed the little silver man, then pocket the whole item.

To the Princess of Night, the sight of a vampire treating such an item so reverently was...unnerving. “...we will go, now.”

Dougal smiled, rising to his feet. “Of course, your highness.”

July 1952

“No, mom, I can't came home. I need to look for another job.”

Dougal paced the kitchen floor, the base of a second-hand telephone in one hand, the receiver held by the other to his face. A fly circled filthy plates, stacked high in the sink. The kitchen table was strewn with bills and half-opened mail. A tray sat beside a cold cup of coffee, filled with ash and used cigarette butts. A heavily marked newspaper lay opened to the classifieds.

“I already tried talking with Mr. Johnson,” Dougal said, tapping the receiver nervously. “He said with all the negative publicity, he can't afford to bring me back...I know, but the public doesn't care that there was another guy. They'll only remember me. Most people probably won't have heard about him anyway...

“...no, I can't come to church, mom. I don't have the time...not even to visit the local places. Mr. Johnson had me busy enough, and then there was Rebecca...

“...mom, I don't need you to set me up with another girl. Rebecca was...she was the one, I know it.” Dougal stopped his pacing briefly. He lifted his hand, studying the engagement ring he kept on his little finger. He'd have to sell it soon, if times continued to be tough. “...plus, mom, I have enough problems as it is...

“...no, I don't think talking to Father Micheals will help. Besides, you know what they say: God helps those who help themselves...what do you mean that's not in the Bible? Sure it is...isn't it?* Whatever, I'll look it up later. Right now I...mom? Are you okay?”

Dougal paused his pacing, looking intently to the floor. His stable frown deepened in surprise. “...mom, that coughing sounds really bad. How long has that been...three weeks? Mom, you should see a doctor about that...”

Knock, knock, knock.

“...hold that thought, mom.” Dougal placed the phone and receiver down, then walked to the front door.

When the door slid open, there was no one on the other side. Dougal peeked out, looking from side to side, checking the apartment halls. In the faint distance one floor down and receding, he could hear footsteps.

Then Dougal glanced at the door itself, and found a sheet of paper pasted to the outside. He took it off.

Back in the kitchen, Dougal took up the phone receiver again. “...mom, maybe I will be coming home,” he said sadly, staring at the Eviction Notice in his hand.

Present

“Now where to, your highness?”

“The Throne Room.”

Luna walked regally down the ornate halls of Canterlot Castle, flanked by guardsponies, her blood-drinking charge in tow.

Dougal kept pace almost enthusiastically...at first. As they walked, his pace began to slow imperceptibly, even to himself. He felt an...unease. “...what will we be doing there, if I may ask? Sentencing?”

“If it comes to that,” Luna said flatly. “We will be meeting with my sister and co-ruler, Princess Celestia. She is the Princess of the Day, and if I know her like I think I do, she was not happy to be roused from her slumber so early.”

“...unfortunate...” Dougal said, casting side glances at the princess.

“What was 'unfortunate' was two of our subjects being hospitalized for blood loss,” Luna said tersely. “Why?”

“Other than general hunger?”

“Why so much? Why did you drain two ponies and not be satisfied?”

“I was starving, your highness,” Dougal said. “When I awoke earlier this evening, my supply of blood was almost entirely exhausted. When so famished, Kindred get...ravenous. I assure you I would not otherwise feed so deeply from any one host.”

“I do not find that reassuring, vampire,” Luna said, though she contemplated it. “Ravenous, you said?”

“...I must admit, your highness,” Dougal said, choosing his words carefully, “that a Kindred is not wholly in control of itself, even at the best of times.”

“You are a rampaging animal, then?”

“No, not as such.” Dougal paused ever so briefly, looking into the distance. The hall seemed so vast. He felt a dread, looking into it. “Rather, we are rational beings...caged with a terrible Beast. The Beast cares only for its own gratification; wanting to feed when hungry, sleep all other times. Every Kindred is shackled to the Beast, and must wrestle with it every night, that they may retain their rationality and Humanity. The...Camarilla...was created in part to encourage and enforce civility, Humanity, and restraint.

“Still...I...apologize for...what I did...” Dougal became suddenly very interested in his shoes, his head so lowered. He allowed locks of hair to fall in front of his face.

“Hrmm...” Luna continued walking. “You shall explain that again to my sister momentarily. We're almost there.”

The group passed a great mirror. Dougal noticed it, staring into it. He brushed back his hair. “How do I look?” he asked a guard. The pony said nothing, merely watched him. Dougal's nervous smile dropped a degree. He touched his face. “Is it warmer here, or is it just me?”

Eventually, they reached a set of massive double doors.

Dougal felt...an enormous pressure exuding from the door. “Uh...ah...eagh...” he grunted. A great weight was pressing down on him. “What...time...is it? Is it...dawn, already?” His hands rose to his mouth to stifle an uncomfortable yawn.

“Dawn will not be for two more hours,” Luna said, stepping to the door and turning to face him, “we have plenty of time. And if not, my sister can always keep the sun from rising if we need more time.”

Pause.

“...what?” Dougal said. His face contorted in confusion. He knew what all those words meant individually – somehow – but they created a sentence that, while imaginable, was divorced from any reasonable situation in which it could apply.

“Dougal Dempsey, meet Celestia...” Luna proclaimed, raising her voice. The doors slid open, sending a shaft of light into the hallway. It opened broadly, exposing the ornate throne room. Dougal saw a radiate alicorn sitting atop the high-backed throne. She was resplendent in her finery, a cascade of rainbow colors flowing from her mane. She positively glowed, and gave off great heat.

Luna continued, “...Co-ruler of Equestria, and Princess of the Su-”

“...eug...ack...ah...Ah...AAAAAAH!”

Dougal clutched at his eyes, throwing bound hands in front of him. “AAAAAAAAAAAGGGH!” he screamed, backing away on trembling feet.

“Dougal Dempsey?” said Luna, her royal airs dropping. “Are you alright?”

From within the throne room, Celestia saw the commotion. She took to the air, flying over rapidly. “Luna, my sister, what is-”

“No...NO!” Dougal screamed, scrambling back. “STAY BACK!”

The guards would have stopped him sooner, but they and their rulers could only watch as the vampire's face began smoking. It sizzled and popped.

“AAAAAAAH! GET AWAY!”

“Dougal!” Luna gasped, eyes widening in horror.

Celestia stopped her approach, more horrified yet by the sight and sounds and acrid smell. She cringed. “Oh dear!”

Dougal bolted in the opposite direction. A guard, remembering his duty, moved to intercept. He stood in front of the fleeing vampire.

The vampire slammed into him, looking out from behind clutching fingers. He grabbed the soldier's chestplate with both hands, startling the stallion. The pony looked at the burning face. He looked into the creature's black eyes.

“Keep the princesses away from me!” Dougal commanded.

As the guard entered a daze, Dougal scrambled around him and fled. More guards moved to intercept, but were physically tossed aside as the vampire ran, not seeming the slightest bit hampered by the weight.

“Oh heavens!” Celestia exclaimed, holding a hoof to her face.

“Dougal! Dougal Dempsey, come back here!” Luna began running.

Only to have the guard Dougal met rush into his ruler, forelegs outstretched. He clung to her, grunting with exertion.

“Gah! Zounds! What...what art thou doing, soldier?” Luna exclaimed, wrestling with the guard.

The stallion, gaze vacant, held pushed back against her. “Must...keep...away...” he muttered.

Luna stared into the guard's eyes, seeing his glazed, faraway look. “...mind control...” She scowled.

“Luna, stop,” said Celestia coming up from behind. When Luna disengaged from the guard, Celestia tried to walk past.

The guard shuffled in front of the Solar Diarch, though made no effort to engage. When Celestia moved to the opposite side, the guard followed her.

“Oh my,” Celestia said. “Soldier, stand down.”

“But...must...keep away...”

Luna looked to the other guards. “Pegasi, take to the air,” she said. “Follow that vampire! Do not allow him to escape from the castle, but do not engage if at all possible.”

“Yes, your highness!” saluted a few pegasi guards. They took to the air, flying over the ensorcelled guard. He made no move to stop or follow them, merely watching the Princesses.

Celestia turned back to the guard. “Soldier, look at me.” When he obeyed, Celestia stepped closer. “I'm going to enter your mind. Are you okay with this?”

“...I...” the guard shook his head blearily, “...of...of course, your...majesty...”

As the Solar Diarch lit up her horn and placed it upon the guard's head, the Lunar Diarch looked forlornly down the hall. She could no long see the vampire, nor even the guards sent after him.

Try as she might, she couldn't suppress the feeling that she just did a horrible thing. To a vampire.

This was a new emotion. “...oh dear...”

Author's Note

* No, it really isn't. Search all you want, that expression is not found in the Bible.

05 - Scars Of Nights Past

Ch. 5 - Scars Of Nights Past

December 1952

“How does it look, Doctor?”

“We got the tests in. Did them twice, just to be sure. I still don't understand it, there was no cause...”

“Just give it to me straight, Doc.”

“Sigh...your mother has cancer, Mr. Dempsey. Lung cancer.”

Present

“He's in here, your majesty.”

Princess Luna stared at the pantry door. Frightened kitchen staff milled around, shivering in the corner or acting like they aren't listening intently. The lunar diarch shook her head. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” said the guard, nodding. “The staff saw him burst through that door and ensconce himself in the pantry. They haven't seen him come out since.”

“Oh Princess, it was awful!” A severely frazzled cook walked over, hat askew, apron splattered with batter. “It crashed in, snarling like...like a mountain lion. Its face was burnt like untended eggs, and it just...just rushed on through. It knocked into me, I couldn't move for fear. And look!” She pointed to her front. “I was making batter for the breakfast donuts when it barreled into me, ruining my apron and the batter!”

“And in all the excitement, 'e upended my batch of omelets!” cried another chef. “Breakfast is, 'ow you say, ruined!”

Luna sighed, rubbing her face. “Alright, alright, everypony. It will all turn out fine. Just...resume work from scratch, and we will handle it from here.” She paused, then added, “And get my sister some coffee...and me too. On the double!”

As the staff nervously returned to their tasks, one young cook wandered over. “Your highness, how are we to bake or season if we cannot get into the pantry?”

“Uh,” Luna said, “...go to the secondary kitchen and get supplies from there. And if there are none, send somepony out to get them.” When the cook rushed out the door, Luna rubbed her eyes. “Such a long night. Anyway, about this creature.”

“Do you want us to go in after him, your highness?” said a guard.

“No...no, it will be like cornering a fox,” said Luna. “A wounded fox...why the pantry, anyway?”

“It has no windows, your highness,” chimed in a chef. “The supplies perish less easily without sunlight.”

“Yes, of course it is.” She sighed, turning to the guards. “It is nearly dawn now. He dare not leave while the sun is high. Hold the pantry. Let neither ponies in, nor that creature out.”

“Yes ma'am!” the guards said, assuming positions beside the pantry door. One stood below the kitchen windows, another two next to the kitchen doors.

“I shall return before dusk, to await him. As you all were.”

“Oh, Princess!”

A cook sidled over to Luna as she was leaving. She leaned in close to whisper. “Princess...there were live chickens in that pantry.”

“...why?”

“The delegates from the Griffin Kingdoms were flying in this weekend, and we were preparing...dinner.” The cook frowned nervously. “...I...heard them, when it...went in...the chickens, that is...”

“Yes, well, those chickens are gone,” Luna whispered, looking over her shoulder at the pantry door. “They're likely a lost cause. See to it a new set of chickens is procured for our Griffin guests before they arrive. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, your highness.” The cook walked off.

Luna sighed more deeply. “Where is that coffee?”

January 1953

A dog barked somewhere outside. Dougal awoke, rolling over.

Damn dog, he thought. What squirrel is it barking at now?

It went on a few moments, then... “Yip!” The barking ceased with a pained cry.

Dougal sat up in bed. He strained his ears.

Silence.

Covers were cast off. Creeping to the window, Dougal peek through aged wooden blinds. He soon gave this up, however, as the night was too dark and too deep to see by. The window offered a poor vantage anyway.

He snatched up his slippers, baby blue to match his pajamas. Old floorboards creaked beneath his heel as he exited his old room.

Dougal crept as quietly as possible, navigating the halls he knew so well. Footfalls were planted on spots known to sound least, a habit formed from boyhood ventures out after dark. His fingers brushed lightly against a familiar patch of wall. Darkness provided no obstacle. No here.

Alighting to the foot of the top of the stairs, Dougal cast a glance to his parent's room. Recalled the day of the funeral. His mother slept alone now, though at least she was finally sleeping. She spent hours coughing every night, and would doubtless wake later with another coughing fit. Never ending.

He shook his head, then descended the stairs.

Chill air struck him when Dougal opened the front door. He looked around. The suburban street was deserted, as it ought to be. He spied the pile of rust across the street. Once a child's favorite bicycle, it had apparently been left out in the rain one night. Dougal never learned the details, but the parents and son had gotten into a fight about it and, neither willing to move it, left the ruined contraption to molder away. When he'd left home, Dougal had seen it still free-standing; when he returned, the bike had according to his mother finally collapsed under its own weight.

Dougal ventured out into the yard. He cast his eyes and ears about. He saw no one.

Trekking through overgrown grass, he stomped to the fence marking the border between properties. Once a vibrant white – he knew, because it was Dougal who painted it in the hot summer sun – the fence was faded now to gray. The spot he approached, he knew to be the dog's favorite spot to watch cars roll by. Dougal very carefully leaned over the fence.

From the corner of his eye, something moved.

Dougal jerked his head in that direction. Head panning left, right. He stared at a patch of sidewalk and pavement illuminated by a dim street lamp. Straining his eyes he searched the street, but could see nothing for the glare. Dougal shivered for the cold, warm breath crystallizing into a white mist as it escaped his mouth.

He watched for a moment, then retreated to the house. Casting quick glances over his shoulders nearly every step of the way.

When once more surrounded by familiar walls, Dougal crept to the living room window. He peeked through the front blinds. He saw nothing by the glow coming down from the street lamp outside.

Slowly, he crept back up the steps. Wincing with every creak, Dougal traced his way back to his room. Shutting tight the bedroom door, he cast a look around the bedroom. Most free space taken up by boxes stacked to the ceiling. Papers and a typewriter were stacked on a little writing desk in the corner, a boyhood staple unused to adult concerns.

Dougal crossed to the bed and tucked himself back in. He slept poorly.

Outside his window, perched atop the neighboring house, a silent figure stared at the window. It cradled a limp, furry trophy in its arms.

Present

“How is the guard, sister?”

Princess Celestia watched as the guard in question retreated blearily towards the barracks, two other soldiers helping him. She frowned sadly. “For as deep as it was, the mental imperative to block our way was simple. I removed it completely, though I ordered bed rest.”

“Right, there could be lasting damage from the mind control,” Luna said.

“No, not for that,” Celestia said, turning to her sister and smiling. “Like I said, the command was simple. I meant he should get rest from the logic probe. It did more to tax his mind than the vampire did. Has he been found, incidentally?”

“Dempsey found his way into the pantry, and has locked himself in,” Luna said dryly. “He's not coming out, but I have soldiers guarding it. He won't escape...how are the guards he attacked?”

“Oh, a little banged up, but they insisted on remaining on duty,” Celestia said, hiding an amused grin behind a hoof. “I suppose we got lucky, he just wanted to hide.” She sighed. “It really was terrible, what happened.”

“Indeed,” Luna said. The two alicorns wandered into the throne room. The lunar diarch gazed up at the stained glass. “Attacking our subjects, stealing their blood, mind controlling members of the guard...”

“No, I don't mean that, Luna,” Celestia said, shaking her head. “I mean, those were bad, but...I feel terrible about what I did to him.”

“...you're not serious.” Luna raised her eyebrows. “Sister, what happened was not your fault. And it couldn't have happened to a more deserving creature.”

Celestia frowned. “Don't talk like that, Luna. It's a horrible sentiment. You heard that cry, you saw the fear in him. The pain. By my very presence, I cooked him alive.” She closed her eyes, touching her chest as if in pain herself.

“Sister, he isn't alive,” Luna said, shaking her head. “Dempsey is a corpse, fueled by the blood of the living.”

“Dempsey?” Celestia asked, opening one eye. The orbs were growing damp.

“Dougal Dempsey. His name. We talked at length, about himself, about his world, about his kind.” She shook her head. “I do not like what I heard of his world, or the 'Kindred' as he calls his vampires.”

“But you have talked to him. How did he behave?”

“I...oh, don't start, sister!” Luna walked past the solar diarch, huffing. “You always do this.”

“Do what?” Celestia said, displaying a mischievous smile.

“You are always so quick to forgive them,” Luna said, puffing her cheeks out. “It was the same with...Discord...” Luna looked to the ceiling, then around in every direction. She hoped he wouldn't show up unexpectedly, in some outlandish costume. She hated when he did that, and she was in no mood. “You would have forgiven Tirek and Sombra, had they given you the chance.” Luna sat on the floor, crossing her forelegs. “...you even forgave me my betrayal...”

“And I was right to do so for you,” Celestia said, walking over and placing a hoof on Luna's shoulder. “Now we'll be having no more of your classic Luna guilt parties. The angst clashes horribly with the carpet.” Celestia giggled softly, patting Luna's head.

“Hrrmm...” Luna groaned, blushing. Her cheeks were puffed out. “I do not throw guilt parties. And I am too respectable for angst.”

“Oh, somepony is just cranky because she's had such a long night. Go get some sleep, Luna. I will manage the day like I always do.”

“But what if the vampire tries something?” Luna asked, though she found herself yawning. “I...haah...I need to be ready if something happens.”

“Oh, just because you're the experienced vampire hunter, doesn't mean I can't handle one.” Celestia smiled, taking a seat on her throne. “If earlier showed anything, it's that I'm uniquely qualified to do so.” She frowned then, looking sadly in the distance. “He came willingly, this Dougal Dempsey?”

“...yes.” Luna rose to her feet. “He surrendered on the spot, and behaved himself the whole way. Obviously, he was up to something.”

“Or...” Celestia said, “...he was taking responsibility for his actions. And for his submission to us, I burned him. Simply awful.”

“You give the vampire too much credit, sister,” Luna said, looking over her shoulder. “You have not even spoken to him. How do you know he is not simply a terrific liar and actor? For what I've seen, that amiable personality is a facade. Underneath, he's still a bloodthirsty monster.”

“Maybe...” Celestia said, tapping her chin. “How to talk to him without being in his presence? Hmm...”

Luna yawned. “I guess I shall take to bed. Make sure I am awoken before sundown, sister.”

“Of course, Lulu.” Celestia smiled warmly at her sister's departure. As she sat alone, Celestia thought some more. “Hmm...perhaps...That...could be useful...”

March 1953

“...well, Mr. Dempsey, your resume looks impressive.”

Dougal grinned broadly, sitting tall in the interview chair. “Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

The interviewer shuffled through the papers. He was also grinning. “I see you're twenty eight this year. Old enough to have caught the end of the War. Tell me, were you in Europe?”

“...well, no, Mr. Jones,” said Dougal, scratching the back of his head. “I wasn't in Europe...”

“Ah, then you were on the Pacific front. I've heard some horror stories about what went on over there. There were the camps in Europe, of course, but...well I suppose you'd know it better than me, son.”

“...uh...no, I wouldn't, Mr. Jones.” Dougal's mouth switched nervously. “I...I didn't have the...honor of serving.”

The smile on Mr. Jones' face fell. “...why not?”

“Well, there was the draft and all,” Dougal said, scratching the back of his head more thoroughly now. “The rest of my class were called in, but...for whatever reason, Uncle Sam didn't send me my papers.”

“Mhmm...”

Dougal noticed now that the back of Mr. Jones' office was decorated by a rather prominent American flag and a glass box framing a military uniform. Dougal gulped. “...it's not like I didn't want to serve, Mr. Jones. They just didn't call me in.”

“You could have enlisted, son.” The man was studying Dougal intently now.

“...yes, I guess I could have...”

…

When the interview was over, Dougal walked out of the office, passing a row of chairs. He looked down, and saw another man get up and walk towards the office. He had a resume in his hands, and his hair was cut military style.

Dougal left, eyes downcast.

Present

The pantry door creaked open.

The vampire's head peeked out from the crack, looking around and blinking in the light. Then he caught sight of the menagerie of soldiers assembled in the room. Dougal's head ducked a little back.

“That's right. We see you. Come out right now, Dempsey.”

Creaking loudly, the pantry door swung fully open. Slouching and marred by several nights unkempt, Dougal stepped forward. His head was dipped, though he cast glances to either of side of him. Long locks of pitch black hair dangled in front of him.

He came to a stop before the impressive stature of the lunar diarch.

Princess Luna was standing at her full height. “Look at me, vampire,” she said, “Do not avert your eyes like a guilty child. You are far too old for that behavior, are you not?”

Dougal sighed. His head turned up, dark eyes rising to meet Luna's. Artificial light fell upon his face.

Luna gasped slightly. She studied the face, eyes absorbing every detail. Great burns and creases. She noted how some segments – horribly disfigured by any measure – had already begun to heal. But the damage was extensive. Luna's chest tighetened.

She shook her head, forcing herself to regain her composure. “...you are...healing, Dempsey?”

“...well enough under the circumstances, your highness,” Dougal said. He brushed his hair back with his fingers, exposing more of his injured face. He heard a guard nearby choke, then collect himself. The vampire cast his vision that way, watching how the guards eyed him with horror barely controlled by rigid professionalism. “I may heal myself of most injuries, so long as I have the blood. Ones from fire or the sun, however...” He leveled his gaze at Luna, trying to feign disinterest, “...such things take more time. And more blood.”

“And how many lives will you consume to heal those wounds?” Luna asked.

“None, if it can be helped, your highness.”

“I'm not happy, Dougal Dempsey,” Luna said, scowling. Her eyes bore into Dougal's.

Dougal looked to the ground. He could ill stand such an...intense stare. Moreover, instincts honed over decades required he avert eye contact save on his terms. It was simply common sense, among Cainites. “I...apologize.”

“Don't apologize to me, Dougal Dempsey,” Luna said. “Apologize to the soldiers you battered in your mad flight. Apologize to the cooking staff, crowded in the auxiliary kitchen so they could prepare dinner.” She leaned forward, pressing her snout directly in Dougal's face. “Apologize to the poor guard whose mind you violated!”

He shrank a little, if at least for the invasion of personal space. “...it was...my mistake, your highness,” he said, gulping reflexively, “it will not happen again.”

“It certainly will not,” Luna said, leaning back. “Mind control is a grave offense in Equestria, vampire. We do not abide it. Not a second time.” She looked away. “I knew your...amiable demeanor was merely a facade. You are more dangerous now that I originally thought, if you have this power. I knew I ought to have destroyed you, and be done with this business.”

Dougal tilted his head, thinking. Then, he bowed it. “I submit to your judgment, your highness.”

“...in light, however, of your...previously stated problems with a certain 'beast', however,” Luna said, sighing, “my sister insisted on leniency...she expressed regret over the injury that prompted your flight.”

Dougal's head rose. He narrowed his eyes. Thoughts wandered to the previous night. To the blinding light and the searing pain. He still smelled the smoke, it having seeped into his jacket.

His vision briefly wandered to a wall. He felt that dread again, somewhere far beyond it.

“Moreover,” Luna said, “Princess Celestia has yet to meet you and hear your testimony. She will not allow you to be judged until such time.” Princess Luna stepped aside. “Therefore, you will be held in the castle – under guard trained to resist mind invasion...” Luna narrowed her eyes at Dougal. “...until your unique vulnerability to my sister's presence can be arranged. Guards, escort this prisoner to the dungeon.”

“Yes, your highness.” Two guards took their place on either side of the vampire.

Dougal looked at them, then at Luna. “...very well.” He smiled at the guards, one made disturbing for the damage. “Lead the way.”

As Dougal was walked towards the kitchen door, he turned to Luna. “Oh, your highness?”

She sighed. “Yes?”

“Am I to be fed?”

She sighed deeper. “You are a greedy creature, vampire, and your appetites sicken me.” Luna covered her eyes with a hoof. “But yes, we have arranged your...meals...with the blood bank. You will find chilled bags in your cell.” She peeked, eying him gravely. “Assuming you have no problem with cold blood?”

Dougal smiled, looking forward. “We all must make due with shifting circumstances. I can deal.” He began walking again, his escorts leading him out the door.

Luna looked after him. How he clapped his hands behind his back as he walked. She noted with concern how the new, strong manacles swung with broken chains from his wrists.

Heard him ask his escort, “Perchance, am I allowed reading material?”

06 - A Hail Mary

Ch. 6 - A Hail Mary

“The knife has no anomalous properties.”

Princess Luna looked at the unicorn behind the weathered oaken desk. “Are you sure? You haven't sensed any magic?”

“Oh, I've sensed magic,” said the unicorn, adjusting her thick glasses. “Just not in the knife. It's the blood that pinged.”

“The blood?” Luna stared blankly. She looked down at the desk. The gold dagger sat on a silk cloth. Much of the ruddy substance caking it had been scraped off, leaving a glistening surface beneath.

“Yep. We sent the samples in for testing. It told us two things. One, it's not from any species native to Equestria.” The unicorn mare shuffled through some parchment on her desk, levitating a relevant sheet. “And two, that it's got a dark resonance, the blood. It's unusual in its magical properties, only found where the undead are concerned.”

“The undead...” Luna said slowly. She nodded her head, still staring at the dagger. It wasn't that big a surprise. “But the blade...it had nothing? No magical properties?”

“Far as we can tell, it's regular gold,” said the mare. “No residual signs of enchantment, not even temporarily. The one and only thing irregular about the blade itself is that someone would make it out of gold at all. Gold is among the softest metals known. When alloyed through high alchemy with silver it produces rare Mythril, of course. But just gold makes for a terrible weapon. Signs show this blade wasn't used very much at all, which is just as well.

“It's the oddest thing, really. Only thing I can guess is that it was decorative to begin with, and was used in a fit of passion. Maybe.”

The alicorn stared intently at the dagger. Watched it glisten in the light. “Do you...mind if I keep it?” she said, looking at the unicorn.

“Of course, your highness!” The mare levitated the dagger before her. “Just give me a chance to scrap off the rest of the blood and clean it, and I'll have it ready for you.”

“That is much appreciated. Thank you.”

The unicorn gazed at the dagger with one eye. “May I ask why you need this particular weapon, Princess?”

“...insurance. I don't know why, but this dagger...it means something more to him than just a weapon to be used.”

“'Him', your highness?”

“The vampire. Dougal Dempsey.”

August 1953

“Draft dodger. Draft dodger!”

Dougal slammed his glass of whiskey down. The bar top and everything on it rattled. Drops of precious booze flew up from his glass with the force.

“I didn't dodge the damn draft!” Dougal said, fingers squeezing the glass. He gritted his teeth.

“Uh huh,” said the bartender, wiping down a glass with a rag.

“I didn't!” Dougal insisted. “Why does every...single...business...think that I dodged the draft. They didn't ask for me!” He angrily brought the glass to his lips and shotgunned the drink. “It's like a damn hive mind out there. How the hell do they keep hearing about me? And why the hell is everyone getting all patriotic about it? So I didn't serve. Why the hell should that determine whether I can do the fucking job?”

“Mm hmm.” The man tending bar uncorked the whiskey and topped Dougal off.

“I mean...thank you...what's a guy gotta do to make use of his business degree, around here?” Dougal gulped back more liquor.

“What kind of business?”

Dougal looked to his side. A rather slick Italian sauntered over, seating himself next to the unemployed businessman.

“What?” Dougal said.

“What kind of work you do, my friend?” the man asked, adjusting his cuff links.

“...I was a manager at my last job,” Dougal said. “Handled accounts, kept things running smooth.” He sipped more whiskey. He could feel his toes tingle. “Then, I get arrested on trumped up charges. Extortion.”

“You do it?” the man asked.

“No, someone else eventually confessed. Problem is that I spent a couple months in jail waiting for that to happen. By the time I'm out, my image was toxic. Boss had to let me go, even though I was innocent!” Dougal brushed back his hair. “And now, because I didn't jump at the chance to join my college buddies dying in the war, everyone has decided that I'm not American enough to hire.

“And I need work. Not just for me, but for my mother.”

“You support your momma?” said the stranger. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth; began fishing in his pocket for a match.

“She's got cancer. Just like dad.”

The man whistled. “Holy smokes, that's rough. Speaking of.” He offered a cigarette.

Dougal held his hand up. “No thanks. Besides, it was smoking that killed dad.”

“Your mom smoke?” the man said, eying his cigarette thoughtfully. He lit it anyway.

“No...that's the strangest part.” Dougal stared into his beverage. “Never smoked a day in her life. And it's weird, because her coughing fits started up out of nowhere. When we went to the doctor, he couldn't understand it. She'd developed this...this mass of tumors overnight...”

“So you need money for her treatment?” the stranger said. He took a long drag. Blowing a great billowing cloud of smoke, he said, “Donny. Mind giving us some space?”

The bartender nodded to the man. “Sure thing, Tony.” He walked off.

Dougal watched the bartender abandon his post. “...how do you...?”

“Nevermind that,” the man said, leaning closer to Dougal. “Listen, I'm always in need of...quality help at my...businesses.”

“Really?” Dougal said, then stopped himself. He coughed. “I mean, what kind of work is it?”

“Well see, I employ a lot of mooks for what I do,” the stranger said. “Thing is, there's no shortage of lunkheads, but never enough competent guys managing them.”

“Like a foreman? Teamsters?” Dougal turned more fully towards this strange Italian.

“...you promise not to tell anybody?”

Dougal moved away, tilting his head back and looking at the man sideways. “...are you a spy for the Reds?”

“No! No...” The man started laughing. “Nothing at all like that. I might not have been oversees when the fighting started either, but I'm just as American as you. I love capitalism.” He leaned forward, gesturing with his fingers for Dougal to come in.

Dougal leaned in closer.

“My business isn't treasonous,” he said, “but it ain't strictly...legitimate, if you get my meaning.”

“...you're with the mob?” said Dougal.

“And since you apparently really need work, I can offer you a job. How about it?”

“No, no,” Dougal said, shaking his head. “I couldn't do that. I can't...join the mob.”

“What do you have to lose?”

Dougal said nothing, staring into his drink. The whiskey was gone, leaving only wet ice to jingle in the glass.

“Tony” reached into his jacket and pulled out a card. He summoned a pen as well, and started writing something on it. “Well, if you change your mind...what was your name again?”

“Dougal...Dempsey...?”

“Dougal.” The man placed the card on the bar. “If you change your mind about the job...” He slid the card Dougal's way. He stood up from the stool. “...give that number a call. Ask for Tony.” With that, he walked away, not even turning once. The door to the bar swung open, casting the man in a silhouette against the glaring afternoon sun.

Dougal eyed the card. Eyed his empty glass. Eyed the card.

He sighed.

Present

“These volumes checked here. Yes, thank you.”

“Right away, sir!”

Luna's hooves clattered against the cobblestone floor as she descended the steps. When she hit the bottom step, he nostrils took in the musky, damp smell. The noted (with certain satisfaction) that the dungeon was so rarely used. Most of the cells were empty.

Except the one at the end. “Excuse me!”

Luna stepped aside to allow a mare guard rush past. “Excuse me...uh, where are you going?” Luna asked.

“Your highness!” the guard saluted, twirling on her hind legs. “I'm going to the library!”

“For what reasons?”

“Because Mr. Dempsey has a list!”

“Of books?”

“Mm hmm!”

“Has he been doing this often?”

“I've been running back and forth for three days so far!” She began scaling the steps. “I finally suggested getting a list of books for him to choose from, instead of asking for different ones every time. I have to go, your highness! Bye!”

“...bye?” Luna turned back towards the depths of the dungeon, frowning. “Dempsey.”

She ventured forth, and forthwith came upon the deepest cell. Two guards flanked the door. A glow emanated from the little window.

“Open the door, I wish to see the prisoner,” Luna said.

“Of course, your highness.”

A key was placed in the door lock. It clicked, and the door flew open. Luna ventured inside, bracing herself for anything.

She did not expect to see the vampire sitting on his bed, a lamp installed on an end table, with a thick book in his hand.

No, scratch that. The lamp wasn't sitting on an end table. It was sitting on another stack of books to go with the many that surrounded him.

“Ah, your highness!” Dougal said, shutting the current book in his hand, save for a single finger that remained inside it to mark his place. Luna noticed how his burns were significantly diminished since that night. “I didn't know you were coming to visit.”

“Dougal Dempsey...what is all of this?” Luna asked, gesturing to the many, many books littering the cell. “Have you really been reading all this?”

“Well of course, Princess.” Dougal sat up in his seat, waving a hand in the air. “If I'm to remain here for an indeterminate amount of time, I might as well learn everything I can about the world I have just entered. So I have.”

“So you have, yes,” Luna said, staring at the books. “You read more than Twilight Sparkle.”

“Who?”

“Twilight Sparkle, my sister's former personal student and current Princess of Magic.”

“Oh? Do tell!” Dougal leaned forward, dark eyes opened wide. “A Princess of MAGIC, you say? What do her responsibilities entail? What kind of magic? Does it...”

“Dougal Dempsey, please,” Luna said, waving a hoof plaintively at him. She sighed. “Are you always so...enthusiastic?”

Dougal's bright smile waxed, and he slumped against the wall, rubbing his scalp. He sighed. “Sorry, I've just...I've been reading for so long that I've lost track of the normal flow of time. And maybe a few other things.” He shut his eyes.

“Are you sure that was not simply your attempts to lure me into a false sense of security?” Luna said, watching him closely.

“More likely, I've gone slightly insane,” Dougal mused. He picked from the tomes he'd amassed like a literary magpie. “The other night, I was reading...one of these books, I can't recall...and had to stop and remind myself that I have to take everything written in these books seriously.” He discarded the one book he'd been reading – apparently a book on the dietary variations of various Equestrian races and cultures – and picked up another. “Take this for example. 'Equestria: A History'. It reads like a child's storybook. Not just in that it uses very simple, very storybook language, I mean that I feel like I'm reading a fairy tale. And yet your guards insist – and other books agree – that everything described in this tome literally happened.”

“I...don't understand,” Luna said, mouth hanging open. “Our history seems...ridiculous to you?”

“It seems...like I've stepped into fancy and myth,” said Dougal, flipping through pages. “These are the sorts of things parents in my world tell their children to entertain them. They don't tend to have actually happened. Yet...yet I'm now dwelling in a world of colorful talking ponies...” Dougal's hand smacked against his face, pulling his flesh down with it. “...and then I started just accepting it at face value, and then started reading more and more, trying to find the end and...” He slumped over, head in his hand. “...Princess, I feel like I'm going mad, or that I went mad some time ago, and I can't stop.”

“...well, um...” Luna said, jaw flapping as she tried to find the words. “...you aren't mad, at least anymore than I think you already were. I mean...hmm...”

The two remained silent for a long time.

Eventually, Dougal sat up in his bed and asked, “When do you think I shall be made to 'talk' with Princess Celestia?”

“My sister has told me she is working on a solution,” Luna said, breathing a sigh of relief. “She hasn't promised anything, nor is she forthcoming about the exact avenues she is pursuing.”

“Hmm...” Dougal glanced sidelong at the ceiling, at a spot on the far side of the cell. “I feel her presence, you know.”

“You do?” Luna said, eyes widening.

“When we entered the castle the other night, I could feel something,” Dougal said. “I didn't know what it was. Now that I've...met her highness Princess Celestia, I cannot help but notice it. I sense her moving around the castle. Like a bright lamp swinging about...”

“Really?”

“I hate it.”

Luna raised an eyebrow.

“No offense to the Princess, but...” Dougal shut his eyes. He steepled his fingers. “...it's not a comfortable feeling, being in this place. When she draws near, I feel the terrible weight that in the past only ever accompanied the risen sun.”

“Would you leave, if you could? That is, return to your home?”

“I would rather be anywhere but here, regardless of her patience and hospitality,” Dougal said. He smiled slightly. “Despite your understandable, justified animosity, you yourself have been exceedingly lenient. I thank you for this. But indeed, I would like nothing more than to return to my own world. It would be best for everyone.” He opened a book, skimming pages. “Do you have a method for transporting me to my own world?”

Princess Luna rose to her hooves, blinking in bewilderment. She sighed. “None at the present time, no. Our own magical researches have, for some time, considered this very problem...” Longer than Dougal had even been there, as a matter of fact.

Dougal's ears perked up once again at the mention of magic.

“...we shall continue our researches, though we have no leads as of yet. Hence, why it is imperative we figure out what to do with you in the meantime.” Luna walked towards the cell door, knocking against it. “Open up.”

“Yes your highness.”

As the iron door swung open, Luna made to leave, then paused. “One last thing, Dougal Dempsey,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “A question. Does the word 'Skull Heart' mean anything to you?”

His head tilted slightly. Dougal's mouth twisted to one side. Finally, he said flatly, “Never heard of it, your highness. Why?”

Luna blinked, then turned back to the door. “Nothing. It's not important. Do not think overmuch about it.”

“Have you had any luck?”

Princess Celestia stepped carefully between piles of broken machines. Her wings hugged her sides, conscious as she was of knocking something over. She supposed that whatever system of organization existed in the castle workshop was fully functional to the engineers on duty. Not all her little ponies could be as filing-obsessed as her former student.

For this, she was frequently glad, she admitted to herself.

“Ah, Princess Celestia!” an engineer unicorn turned to the solar diarch. His work clothes were covered in oil stains and dust. He motioned to a pile of parts disassembled before him. He frowned. “Alas, not quite. This machine is over three hundred years old, and I'm just now figuring out how it works. Not to worry, however.” He smiled. “Given enough time, I'll be able to start reproducing vital parts, and it'll be up and running.”

“That's good to hear,” Celestia said, eying the work. “Did you receive my memo? The one that said I'd like its range extended?”

“I did, your highness. Once I have it working at optimum efficiency, we can work on putting in the longer wires.”

“Then I will leave you to it,” Celestia said, nodding. She started her way out the door.

“Say, Princess?” the engineer said, calling after her. “If you don't mind me asking?”

“Hmm? Of course you may. What would you like to know?”

“Where did you get this wonderful toy?”

“Oh, that's easy.” Celestia beamed proudly. “It was a gift.”

“Ave maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum.”

Luna walked down the dungeon hall, hooves clattering on the cobblestone. She came up to the guard-flanked cell door. She paused, listening. He ears twitched.

“Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.”

She looked at the guards. They simply shrugged, one of them taking up the keys and fitting them into the lock. Mechanisms tumbled and clanked.

“...Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus...”

The door opened wide, and Luna stepped inside.

“...nunc et in hora mortis nostrae finalis. Amen.”

Dougal stood in the middle of the cell, facing away from the door. His jacket lay folded on the bed; he wore only his purple shirt. Clasped in his hand was that string of beads, ending in the bizarre pendent. He thumbed the last bead in a long string, letting it join the others.

“Dougal Dempsey,” Luna said, “I...”

Dougal held up his free hand, bidding silence.

Luna closed her mouth, leaning back. What was he doing?

Dougal continued, “Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto...” He began wrapping the necklace around his hand, curling it all up. “...Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.” Finally, his hand clutched the pendent, pinched between finger and thumb. He stared at it, then brought it to his lips. Kissing it, Dougal allowed it to drop again.

He turned to his visitor. “I'm sorry, your highness,” he said, “you wanted to see me?”

Luna blinked, mouth agape. “...what was that about? Are you chanting magic spells?”

“No, no, no! Of course not!” Dougal said, shaking his head. He was smiling broadly. The burn scars were almost completely gone, as if they had never existed. “I was engaged in prayer to my God.”

“...I...” Luna said, blinking twice more. “...you...are religious?” She pointed a hoof at him. Her mind was set spinning, her face scrunched up in confusion. “You?”

Dougal chuckled. “I perfectly understand your skepticism,” he said, hands playing with the beads. “A foul undead monster, giving prayer to heaven? It seems so far-fetched.”

“...I have never known a vampire to do that, no,” Luna said. Then again, until Dougal arrived, she had never known a vampire that gave any thought to matters outside its own survival.

He looked at the pendent. “It's true, most of my kind have a dim view of religion. If they believed in a God at all in life, they often rejected Him after the Embrace. That God had cursed or damned them eternally, or else that He did not exist at all. By their thinking, what god could allow them to be changed so horribly, forced to feed upon the blood of the innocent.” He lifted the necklace up, admiring it.

“And you, Dempsey?” Luna asked, cocking an eyebrow. “You do not?”

“To be perfectly frank, your highness,” Dougal said, gazing at the figure on the cross, “I never had time for prayer, back when I was alive. I didn't have a rosary...” He slid his fingers over the beads. “...nor a Crucifix.” He lightly tapped the cross. “Nor did I bother attending church. It was...time consuming, and I didn't want to so waste my time.

“When I died and became Cainite, I suddenly found myself with an abundance of time, and so little to fill the void in my heart. In effect, I am the opposite of most Kindred.” Dougal looked momentarily in the distance, then back to Luna. “Does your country have priests or churches?”

“...I would not know,” Luna said, looking at her feet. “There was a long period where I was...absent from Equestrian affairs...”

“I know,” Dougal said, stepping backwards. His hands brushed against a stack of books. “I had plenty of time to read of your government and recent history. You were...banished, if I remember correctly.”

Luna dipped her head solemnly. “I...do not wish to talk about that...”

“Of course,” Dougal said, letting his probing hand drop. “We all have pasts we're not proud of. “ He began examining his finger nails.

She looked up, frowning slightly. “...that was not fair, Dougal Dempsey. Playing upon my past, just to earn my sympathies.”

“It is always good to talk to someone who can empathize,” Dougal said. “It helps to know one is not alone.” He looked at the pendent – the Crucifix. “About those priests...”

“You will have to ask Celestia, when she communicates with you,” Luna said, turning her head away. She peeked sidelong at him. “Why, exactly, do you need a priest? Any Equestrian religious leader would hardly suit your needs...whatever they are.”

“...I need someone to confess to,” Dougal said, frowning.

“Confess? Confess what?”

“My sins.” Dougal held up the Crucifix for Luna to see. “I am a Christian – a follower of Jesus, the Christ – but I am also Catholic. I was raised Catholic, and took it back up when I...died...” He shrugged. “It is a denomination in love with ritual and tradition. Other sects play fast and loose with devotion, prizing the intent of prayer over its form, with the idea that God will understand regardless. But Catholicism holds the proper forms in high regard. One of these is the Confession: confessing one's sins to a priest in order that they might be forgiven. And given circumstances beyond my control – more or less – it has been a long time since my last confession.”

“...is this a pressing...concern?” Luna asked, squinting her eyes. Almost as soon as the words escaped her mouth, she wondered if what she said was massively insulting.

“Not especially,” Dougal sighed, pocketing his rosary. He walked to his bed and took up the jacket. “God in heaven knows what I've done, I can always break protocol by asking him directly. I suppose. In any case, I am also not in any hurry.” He put his now very wrinkled jacket back on, covering the hole in his shirt that was still stained with blood. “I am, after all, immortal.” He smiled at Luna. “At your highness's sufferance, of course.”

She grunted. “Of course,” Luna said mockingly. She looked around the cell. Newspapers were taped to the walls, various notes and circles written across them. She stepped closer, noting how many of them were business periodicals, or else articles of current events. “I see the guards have also been providing you with newspaper.”

“They are very kind, despite what I am,” Dougal said, bowing. “If this was out of bounds...”

“It's...not against the rules to provide prisoners newspaper,” Luna mumbled, stepping away from the wall. “Is there...anything else you need?”

Dougal cocked an eyebrow. “Hmm? Well...” He motioned to his clothes, in all their filthy glory. “I new set of threads would be appreciated. If it's not too much trouble.”

Luna rubbed her face. “I will talk to Princess Celestia about this. Oh, and she has informed me that she shall be able to talk to you in a few days time.”

“Oh? Excellent!” he said, clapping his hands. “I look forward to it...provided it doesn't kill me...” He paused, then nervously chuckled. “Unless that's what she wants, of course.”

The princess merely rolled her eyes. She was still thinking.

“A priest, huh?” she muttered under her breath. If Dougal heard her, he responded not.

May 1954

“The souls of the just are in the hands of God and no torment shall touch them. They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; and their passing away was thought an affliction, and their going from us, utter destruction.”

A great crowd was assembled, most so silent as to not crowd out the rushing of the wind. They were more as a mass than a group; black as coal, with a dozen solemn, weeping heads sprung up from it. They curled like a serpent around a hole gouged from the soil. Suspended over the hole was a polished pine box. Countless bundles of sweet-smelling flowers sat upon the box, or else clutched in the beast's many hands.

The beast's many eyes were centered on the box, or upon the singular individual that stood at its head. One, in the face of many. Clad in the vestments of his duty.

The priest recited on, “But they are in peace. For if in the eyes of men, indeed they be punished, yet is their hope full of immortality; Chastised a little, they shall be greatly blessed, because God tried them, and found them worthy of Himself. As gold in the furnace, He proved them, and as sacrificial offerings he took them to Himself. Those who trust in him shall understand truth, and the faithful shall abide with him in love: Because grace and mercy are with His holy ones, and his care is with his elect.”

At the opposite side of the circle, Dougal Dempsey barely heard the words. They comforted him little. He could only stand and stare at the box.

The priest droned on and on, until finally he finished. “Amen.” A signal was sent, and the coffin was lowered into the ground. Any spare flowers were cast into the hole.

Dougal's eyes watered up, but his expression remained hard. All around him, men and women, mostly older folks, took turns approaching him with condolences. He registered that they likely knew as little of what to say as he did; he nodded his understanding, though the words meant little. He did this each time in turn, vaguely aware that the crowd was diminishing. Each well-wisher he barely knew saying their peace and departing, or else leaving with any words left unsaid.

He stepped back as the grave diggers walked in, and began piling the dirt atop the coffin, filling in that grave. Dougal noted almost numbly that she was being entombed in raw ground, cut off from him forever. The diggers spared him no glances, and he required nothing from them.

The funeral director approached solemnly. “Dougal...Mr. Dempsey, I know...this is a hard time,” he said, looking meekly at the ground. “I knew your mother – your father too – and I...well, I know you're having a hard time these days as it is. I won't press you if you...take your time paying...”

“...no...” Dougal choked, weakly, “...I'll get you your money.” He sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, letting his cheek moisten a little.

“...alright...” nodded the funeral director. He stepped away, turning back briefly before walking off.

And then Dougal Dempsey was alone. Slowly, he traced the outline of freshly packed earth. He stopped at the gravestone, a sentimental message chiseled beneath his mother's name. Only a foot and a half away, the headstone of his father lay, the earth at its feet long grown over by grass.

The man stood there, rooted to the spot, tears rolling down his face. His composure broke down, and Dougal wept, sobbing openly in the seclusion of the cemetery.

Hours passed.

Finally, with the setting sun shining warmly on his back, Dougal trudged off.

He walked for many minutes, letting the wind blow through his hair and whip his black jacket about. In minutes, he came upon a pay phone. His dress shoes tracked dirt on the pavement when he took his place before it.

Dougal's hand quivered, latching onto the receiver. He fished for coins through his pockets, almost numb. A quarter went in, a business card came out; fingers played over the numbered buttons.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Click. “Hello, this is Tony speaking.”

“This is Dougal Dempsey. We met in a bar last year. Is that job still open?”

Author's Note

Whoops! Did I inject a bunch of religious stuff into this unassuming fanfiction about vampires and ponies? Where do I get off, right?

I'll try not to make a big thing about it. For the record, I the author am Protestant. I just think a lot of Catholic stuff is cool. Plus, it makes sense given what we'll see later.

07 - Connecting The Dots

Ch. 7 - Connecting The Dots

Present

“It's time, Dempsey.”

Dougal looked up from his latest book – Equestrian Trade Law – and cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?” He clapped the book closed.

Luna nodded from the door. “This way, please.”

The vampire rose from the bed, setting the library book on a pile. He placed his hands in his pockets, joining the Princess and the entourage of guards. He bore a smile on his unblemished face.

Ascending the steps, the party exited the dungeon and took to the halls.

Dougal squinted in the much brighter areas. He had almost forgotten how intense the light could be. “Where are we headed, Princess?”

“This way,” Luna responded, leading the way. “We have a room set up for the...conversation.”

Dougal looked to the wall, noting by the intense pressure emanating from it the position of the dread solar diarch. If he didn't know better, he would call anyone who dictated the path of a heavenly body to be a god. Good thing he knew better. “Her excellency Princess Celestia won't be present herself, will she? I admit I'm still ignorant as to how this 'meeting' will be conducted.”

A thought occurred: were they simply going to hold him down and allow Celestia to approach, burning him alive? Was this all an elaborate ruse? And if worst came to worst, would he be able to effect an escape this time?

The urgings of the Beast notwithstanding, did he even want to?

“We're almost there,” Luna said. She reached a turn, and led the party around it.

The vampire could feel the heat drawing closer with every step. They were heading roughly in its direction. Dougal gulped – calling upon that all-too-human reflex – and clutched at his collar.

Finally, Luna stopped, motioning with a hoof to a room along the side of the hallway. “We're here. After you.”

“...as you wish,” Dougal said, smiling nervously. As he approached the door, however, his eyes wandered to the floor. A thick rubber cable ran out from under the door, and led away into the distance. Dougal blinked, then opened the door. He peered inside.

In a lavishly decorated waiting room, there were two chairs facing a coffee table. Atop the table was a large, ramshackle device. A microphone was attached to the front, and a gramophone-style horn speaker sprouted from the top, aimed towards the chairs.

Dougal walked forward. “This is...”

“Take a seat, Dempsey,” Luna said, motioning to the far chair. She seated herself in the one closest to the door.

With mounting curiosity, Dougal took his allotted place. The guards stood behind them, with one watching the door. He looked to them: they took only passing interest in him. They too were more visibly interested in the strange device.

A short unicorn stallion in an oil-stained apron walked into the room, heading for the device. Flaring up his horn, the unicorn enveloped a switch on the device with a pale green aura, and flipped it.

The machine began to hum. The unicorn leaned towards the microphone. “The machine is now activated, your highness. Are you receiving?”

“...yes, I am hearing you now,” said a voice, pouring from the machine's speaker. While the sound cracked and warbled in quality, the voice was soft and warm.

Dougal remembered. Remembered the sound of the older Bell devices of his youth. He almost forgot how much the technology of his own world had progressed in the time he'd existed.

“We hear you clearly, sister,” Luna said, speaking at the machine. She had an unsure expression, and leaned forward a little. “Can you hear us?”

“Yes I can, Luna,” said the voice. It was a very feminine voice, and it followed with a giggle. “What a wonder. Is our guest there?”

“He is here,” Luna said, motioning to the vampire, as if it would help identify him to a disembodied voice.

Dougal's mouth, thus far opened slightly in dawning comprehension, now curled into a smile. “Hello, your highness. I am Dougal Dempsey.”

“And I am Princess Celestia,” said the voice, taking up a regal tone. “How are your injuries? I'm afraid I did quite a lot of damage, if Luna is to be believed.”

“Thanks to time and your generous ration of blood,” said Dougal, “I have made a full recovery.”

The voice paused, then said, “...I am glad, and also apologetic. I never meant to do you unnecessary harm. I hope you can forgive me.”

“It is quite alright, your highness,” Dougal said, steppling his fingers. He cocked his head to the side. “...this device. May I ask...?”

“Oh, this old thing? It was a gift I received, some three hundred years ago. Given to me by an aspiring inventor. He considered it a curiosity, and sent to me with his regards. He called it...oh, what was it?” A rustling followed on the other end of the line. “Ah yes, it's a 'Voice Throwing Thingamagig'. I doubt he had any other proper name for it. He was eccentric, but gifted.”

“It's a telephone.”

“Hmm?” said the voice.

“Uh...?” said Luna, looking over to the vampire.

Dougal continued, “Sorry, but that's what it is. Or at least,” he said, adjusting his jacket, “it's what we call it in my world.”

“You have such wonders in your world, Mister Dempsey?” said Celestia.

“They are as ubiquitous in my world. Nearly every building had one. We've had devices for speaking over long distances for quite some time.” Dougal felt that pressure, in the distance behind him. Felt it through the walls. “Your presence is strong enough that I can feel it throughout the castle. I feel it now, and you are not too far away. Which means that this device probably has a short range.”

“For now,” chimed in the engineer unicorn. He turned nervously away when Dougal looked towards him. “I-I mean...once we make longer cables, and figure out how to stop the signal from degrading.”

“Oh, that's something we solved years ago,” Dougal said. He turned back to the device, ignoring the brightening eyes of the engineer. “The cables that connect phone to phone criss-cross my world, so that anyone may speak to anyone. Next door or across continents, it matters little.” He stroked the chair's arm. “Ours are smaller, too.”

“Fascinating,” said Celestia. “But I fear we may be getting off topic. I'd like to talk about Nightmare Night.”

Dougal sighed. “Yes, of course. I apologize for that...and for assaulting some of your men...and for dominating one of them...”

“May I have an explanation from your own words, Mister Dempsey? I have heard Luna relate what she learned, but I'd like your take.”

“Certainly.” The Cainite crossed a leg. “I awoke on Nightmare Night in a cave at the foot of a mountain. I have no knowledge of how I got there from my own world, or indeed of how I lost consciousness in the first place.”

“The Equestrian Guard found this cave, as you described earlier,” said Luna. “We have no reason to believe he was lying on this front.”

“I awoke starving, your highness,” Dougal continued, “and wandered looking for sustenance and an escape from the wilderness that is, in my world, unkind to vampires. I did not have the strength nor speed to chase down a wild animal, and so set my sights on the town of Trottleville. It was there I discovered my...displacement.” Dougal ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it back. “Overcome with hunger, I set about...hunting...I apologize for my troublesome turn of phrase, your highness.”

“I understand,” said Celestia. “It...troubles me greatly, to know that someone would be preying on my little ponies. But I can also understand when a creature – any creature – needs to feed in order to survive. It saddens me, when these two facts come into conflict with each other.” There was a pause. “Was it absolutely necessary to feed from the townsponies?”

“In lieu of any other source of blood, it could not be helped,” Dougal said. “A starving Cainite – that is, a vampire – must feed. The Beast inside requires it. And it will always have its way, even if it must assume control to get it. There is a saying amongst the Camarilla: a beast I am, lest a beast I become.”

“I see. It is unfortunate. Mister Dempsey, I will inform you that the two mares you assaulted and fed from were released a few days ago. They are in good health.”

“I am glad to hear this.”

“Trottleville, naturally, asked for your destruction,” Celestia continued. “I went there personally to hear their accounts and to talk to their council. In the interests of fairness – and to avert an angry mob – I talked them down.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

“You are, of course, banned from ever setting foot in Trottleville again.”

“...of course. I expect nothing less.” Dougal smiled nervously. A single drop of crimson sweat rolled down his cheek. He wiped it up with his fingers and licked it clean. “Am I to be executed for my crimes?”

“Hmm...” The voice on the other head paused for a moment, then said, “I'm not sure. Do you want to be?”

“What makes you think I do, your highness?”

“You surrendered, allowing yourself to be carted off to almost certain death,” said Celestia. She sounded concerned. “Luna also tells me you described yourself as 'tired'. And you've shown no desire to effect escape, and a cavalier attitude towards being punished...do you want to die?”

It took a very long time for Dougal to formulate an answer. He rubbed his hands together. Finally, he said, “Perhaps...it is better to say I have no...particular aversion to dying. Or, contrarily, no particular attachment to my unlife. I have...seen and done enough as a vampire that...death doesn't scare me. In truth, I was coasting up until now...I had no concrete goals. If I died now, would it be so bad?”

Celestia was silent at that. The sound of weight shifting on a seat could be heard. Then silence. Eventually, she said, “...what...would you say if I told you we wouldn't be executing you? That, in fact, we planned to pardon you your crimes?”

Dougal blinked. His head turned sideways, looking towards Princess Luna.

Luna looked at him solemnly. She said nothing.

He tilted his head to the side, then tilted it harder. He could feel his dead neck muscles stretch. “...I...really?”

Luna nodded, though she wore an unhappy expression.

Dougal turned to the machine. “Really?”

“Do you want to die?” said Celestia, though her voice sounded concerned.

“...I think I would rather not, no,” said Dougal. He laced his fingers together. “Am I pardoned?”

“I have...reviewed the testimonies of the ponies of Trottleville,” said Celestia, “as well as talked to the guards, and to my sister of course. And now, hearing from you, I am sure of my impression.

“You are an intelligent creature, fully capable of reason and even a concern for innocent bystanders. Your...grisly diet aside, your greatest crime was obeying your physical needs in a time of considerable hunger, and in an unknown land. It is my belief that, properly sated by blood drawn for the cause, you are perfectly capable of behaving yourself in Equestria.

“Of course, then we must consider your ability to control the minds of others.”

Dougal leaned back. He looked sidelong at Princess Luna, who returned it with a glare.

“Given this ability, I cannot allow you to wander around unsupervised. I have no idea – no way of knowing – how much havoc you could do by influencing the minds of my little ponies. In any case, I must insist on a promise not to use this ability, bare minimum.”

“I promise not to dominate the minds of your citizens, Princess,” Dougal said, raising a hand up in salute. “Scout's honor.”

“...right...still, I must insist on guards – at least two – at all times. They will be guards specially trained to resist mental intrusion, as now.”

“Of course,” said Dougal.

“Other than that, I can see no use in keeping you locked in the dungeons,” Celestia said. “Until such time as we discover a way to return you to your world, you are free to live in Equestria...on strict probation. You will be permitted to house where you may within Canterlot, under guard...”

“Princess,” said Dougal, raising a hand out, “if I may.”

“Hmm?”

“I have a request,” he said.

“I very much doubt you are in any position to make demands, Dougal Dempsey,” said Luna, frowning at him. “My sister has already convinced me to allow you to move about, instead of remaining in the dungeons where we can keep an eye on you.”

“And I am grateful for your mercy, Princesses,” said Dougal dipping his head. He looked to the machine. “However, there are some pressing matters I wish to talk about. The first is her highness, Princess Celestia, herself.”

“...me?” said Celestia, sounding confused.

“Her?” said Luna. Then her ears perked up, and she looked away. “Oh...”

“Princess Celestia,” said Dougal, “though I harbor no ill-will towards your person, and can obviously tell you are a kind, merciful, understanding ruler that Equestria is blessed to have on the throne...I find my continued placement anywhere near your presence to be intolerable.”

“Oh...” said Celestia, “How so?”

“Perhaps it is because you share a singular sympathetic bond to this world's sun,” Dougal said, “but as we've seen I cannot be in your presence without being burned. This effect is lessened but not eliminated by being separated from you by the mere length of the castle. It feels like the sword of Damocles hanging over my head, and as a creature of the night I cannot abide it.”

“...I am sorry if my presence makes you uncomfortable, Mister Dempsey,” said Celestia, a sorrowful note in her voice. “I think that Luna...may...have mentioned this before, but I...I didn't think it was as horrible as you make it sound. What would you have done about it?”

“I would like out,” said Dougal. “Specifically, I would like to spend my probation in another Equestrian city. Fully within the borders of your domain, but moved far enough that I no longer feel your presence. I was thinking...coastal Baltimare. I've had an eye on the ocean for some time.”

“...hmm...I...suppose Baltimare is...acceptable,” said Celestia. “Luna, what do you think?”

Luna frowned. “I do not like the idea...he is far from Canterlot, so I will not be able to immediately intervene if he tries something.”

“This is true, to one degree or another, of all of Equestria, though.” Dougal looked sidelong at Luna. He smiled. “Besides, you say that as if you don't trust the Equestrian Guard to handle me. Give them some credit, your highness.”

“Mmrrrr...” Luna growled. She looked at the ground.

“Come now, Luna,” said the voice from the machine. “We can trust the Baltimare city police and the guard to handle it from there. And if he's stressed by my presence, he's more likely to snap and go wild, isn't he?” Celestia giggled. “Besides, the ocean will do him good...and you, since I know you will want to check up on him frequently.”

“...fine...” Luna said, pouting.

“Then it is settled,” Celestia said, “Mister Dempsey may make his home in Baltimare. Is there...anything else you would like to discuss?”

“There is, actually,” Dougal said. He held up his hand, gesticulating with his fingers. “What am I to do?”

“To do?”

“Yes.” Dougal grinned. “We have discussed my probation, but not my purpose. I am here until or unless I can be returned to my home, but that could be forever. It might never happen, meaning I'm stuck here. And I am immortal; all the more time to be bored. I cannot sit around reading books and papers and doing nothing. Moreover, the ponies of Equestria will not abide happily a parasite on the state; they will abide far less a shiftless parasite with no night-job. It is not in my nature, either, to be a layabout; I have lived that life once, and I hated every minute of it.”

“Then what would you propose be done about this, Mister Dempsey?” asked Celestia.

Dougal crossed his leg and planted both palms down on the knee. The vampire smiled.

“Princess, let's talk business.”

February 1955

“Where the hell have you been, Dougal?”

Dougal Dempsey pushed the door closed, clutching a large suitcase in his arms. Shifting the weight to one arm, he brushed back his long, sweat-drenched hair. “Sorry, Tony...”

“Work started two hours ago, Dougal,” said the mobster, adjusting his tie. “Had to come down here because they said you hadn't...what's with the suitcase?”

Dougal carried his bag to the table. He spotted some soot on his arm and brushed at it. “My damn house burned down. I didn't have time to call.”

“...holy shit, man, that's crazy.” Tony scratched his head. “What happened?”

“Had to get the cops involved – don't worry, I don't keep anything incriminating at home,” Dougal said, brushing more violently at his jacket sleeve. In frustration he threw his arms down, then began rubbing his forehead. “Had to stay back with them. They think it might be arson...Tony, it was my parents' old house.”

“Damn,” Tony said. “Arson, huh? Might be someone out against us. Well don't you worry, Dougal, we're going to find the son of a bitch and pay him back.” He smacked his fist into an open palm, for effect.

“Yeah...” Dougal scratched his head. “...Tony, it feels like someone is out to get me.”

“No shit, man.”

“Not like that, I mean. I feels like the world is conspiring against me, since way before I joined. Remember when I told you I lost my job because of a frame job, and I couldn't get another one because every business – reputable business that is – decided to get really patriotic at the worst time?”

“Vaguely...”

Dougal crossed the other side of the room, running a hand over the office file cabinet. “My work getting stolen, being evicted from my apartment...that bullshit call Rebecca got...”

“Rebecca?”

“Doesn't matter,” Dougal said, waving his hand dismissively. “It's like...it's like the last five years of my life have been one lousy turn after another. I don't want to sound paranoid, but...why does it feel like someone out there is trying to ruin my damn life?”

“So long as you don't think your mother's cancer was orchestrated,” Tony said. “No way someone planned that. Come on, you're just seeing ghosts where there are none.” He stepped over, placing a hand on Dougal's shoulder. “Now, burning your house down? No way we let that go. I'm going to have some of the boys I know look into that shit.”

“...thanks, Tony,” Dougal said.

“Now, you got a place to stay?”

“I'll crash on the couch here, for now.” Dougal walked to the table and patted his suitcase. “Only stuff I have left, that I could save from the house.” He sighed. “What are the guys doing? We still on schedule?” He began adjusting his shirt.

“Yeah, they're in the work room. Sure you're up to work?”

“I sick of letting bad shit keep me down, Tony. Let's work.” Dougal exited the office, Tony in tow. He marched through the hallway and found the work room.

All around, burly men were busy stacking and loading boxes. They looked up as the two men entered. A few nodded or grunted in acknowledgment.

“Everything in working order, men?” Dougal asked.

“Yes boss, the shipment arrived on time,” said one of the workers. “We did a count, and everything's here.”

“Good, good.” Dougal approached one of the boxes that was open. Inside, cushioned on a nest of shredded paper, was a clean, black rifle. He took out a pencil and jabbed at it once or twice. Eyes wandered over the table, spotting another open box, this one with shells. He sighed. On the one hand, he liked working. On the other, he hated the illicit nature of it, and that he was working up from smuggling shipments of cigars and restricted foreign products to guns and ammo. Oh well, at least it wasn't drugs...yet. “When is the truck arriving?”

Tony looked at his watch. “Funny, should have been here five minutes ago.”

“Someone go out and check the streets,” Dougal said. “And watch out for co-”

Bang. Crash.

One of the men by the window fell over, his head bursting out like a crimson flower. Glass rained down over his corpse.

“Jesus, shit!” Tony said. “Get down!”

Bang. Crash.

Another man, too slow on the draw. A shower of blood splattered over the man next to him, who jumped back against the wall, clutching a shelf. “Eric! Eric got shot! Eric, no!” the man said, sinking to the floor.

“Everybody do-”

Crash. No bang. “Aaaagh!”

The group of men, ducking their heads and scrambling for weapons, looked into the center of the room. They gasped, or stared on eyes bugged out.

A figure crouched in the middle of the room, glass that glittered in the light falling like rain from its back. The figure slowly rose to full upright position. It was a man – or some vague suggestion of a man – standing six feet tall.

One of the workers was clutched by the neck in the figure's enormous jaws. Blood dribbled down, painting the man-thing's pale, bald, pot-marked skin a bright scarlet. Its head was misshapen, and criss-crossed with prominent black veins beneath thin, waxy skin. The figure did not seem to labor under the weight of the full-grown man in his mouth.

The victim, in this case, twitched and gurgled, eyes wide and staring up at the ceiling. Blood flowed from his mouth, joining the flood from his neck, dripping to the floor.

Dougal – rooted to the spot – stared gaping at the figure's face. “...ack...haaaah...” Dougal chanced a glance at Tony.

Tony's eyes were bugged out, sweat rolling down his face. Then he scowled. “K-kill it! Shoot the damn thing and make it DIE!”

One of the men pulled out a machine gun and started firing. “EEEEEEEEERRRRRRIIIIIIC!” he screamed, bracing as the muzzle flashed.

Hot lead smacked into the creature's flesh. Its jaws opened wide – wider than should be physically possible. Its victim fell to the ground, limp like a discarded rag doll. Blood pooled at the figure's feet.

The figure turned to the one firing, great holes developing by the second. Clothes – old and worn already – were torn to ribbons, along with their wearer's skin.

Finally, the trembling gunman stopped firing. Sweat and tears ran down his face, his teeth clenched in horror, rage, sadness. “g-g-g...gah!” he sobbed, the machine gun shaking his his hands. His finger continued depressing the trigger, but only clicks emanated from the weapon.

The figure looked upon the man.

“Oooooh...G-g-god-d...!”

The figure rushed the gunman. A bony, gnarled arm pulled back, then swung horizontally across. It created a loud smacking sound when it hit.

Dougal's eyes followed the man's head as it flew across the room. They turned back just in time to watch the gunman's headless body slump to the floor, machine gun clattering loudly to the ground.

Crash.

“Rrrraaagh!” shouted a small, furry creature as it landed on the floor, crunching glass beneath its leathery feet. A toothy, slavering mouth whipped around, beady little eyes – slitted like a snake's – seeking out a target. It leaped towards the closest man. “Sssragh!”

“Fuck! Fu-” The man's face sprayed blood in a wide arc, four long, jagged cuts bathing it crimson.

The creature pounced on the man, slashing again and again with four-inch long talons. Cloth and denim and skin came away in shreds all the same.

“Aaaah!” said a worker, pulling out a hand gun and unloading at the dwarfish animal's back. He gaped in horror when, after firing his entire clip, the creature wasn't even slowed down. One bullet visibly bounced off the creature's back. “W-what the fuck are...?”

“Get out of there!” Tony shouted, drawing his own pistol.

The creature looked over its hunched shoulder, smiling wickedly with sharp, gator teeth. “Rah!” it roared, attacking the man.

“Ah! Ah! AAAAAAH!”

A door burst in nearby, a leather-clad man stepping through. He raised a machine gun – one handed – and fired bursts into the air. “Ah ha ha ha ha!” he laughed , bearing huge fangs.

Behind him, a lithe, gangly creature stepped lightly around the other man. It had no shirt on, instead exposing a mass of faces across its chest and shoulders. Or perhaps they were only the impressions of faces, with no eyeballs, protruding noses, or teeth and tongues. The fingers on its hands were long and spindly. Its head was topped with four large ridges, running left to right, and it jerked as it looked around.

It opened its mouth, four enormous insectoid appendages folding out from the orifice. Each was ended with a sharp spike. “...k-k-kill them...sssss...” The many mouths that adorned its flesh mimed speaking in time with its words.

Dougal Dempsey looked on, heart racing, face pulled tight in fear. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow. His hands her clutched defensively over his mouth.

He ran.

08 - Moving Forward

Ch. 8 - Moving Forward

Outside

“Did I miss anything?”

“No, little one, you did not miss overmuch. Your champion has been consolidating his new position in the world.”

“Meaning?”

“Business, mostly.”

“Boring! When are you going to do something, Mister Dougal? Do I have to start pulling your strings?”

“He will find something...interesting to do, I'm sure. We must simply be patient.”

“I don't want to be patient...and why are they just accepting him like this? I was expecting him to fight against this world's forces from night one. Him against the world!”

“Perhaps Mr. Dempsey is simply better with people than you thought.”

“...do they know what kind of man Mister Dougal is yet?”

“From what I've gleaned, he's still keeping parts of himself hidden. We all have ways of hiding ourselves. Either by outrunning the past – something I know very well – or by building up a shell around oneself...isn't that right, Lily?”

“...you don't play fair, WeeJee...where's Rosie?”

“Mr. Rose has wandered away, likely tending to any number of projects our kind get up to. I believe he stated – in iambic no less – something to the effect of stirring irons in fires hither and yon. I forget the exact rhyme. His champion has settled into the monotony only the content enjoy, so there's no reason for him to stick around.”

“Will any other new 'friends' show up, do you think?”

“Eventually. In the meantime, Little Miss, how about a walk?”

“I'll ride, thank you.”

February 1955

“Oh God...oh God...oh please...”

Dougal shivered, hands clutched to his head. Huddled in a pitiful ball, he hid beneath the desk in the main office. Tears ran from his eyes, snot from his nose. He shook all over, gritting his teeth and straining his ears for clues as to what was going on in the building.

He didn't much care for what he heard.

“Oh God, rats! Rats! Aaaaargh!”

The sound of a dozen squeaking, scurrying rodents could be heard just outside the office door, along with the thumps of running feet. A gun went off once...twice. Dougal flinched with each loud bang. A small, chilling cry went out among the rodents, followed by a scrap and thud.

Dougal, breathing heavily, turned and looked under the desk towards the door.

One of the workers – Dougal couldn't remember his name – was sprawled on the ground in the hallway, legs and lower torso in view. The man began crawling away with one arm, desperately clicking an empty pistol with the other.

Then the rats swarmed into view, before swarming over the crawling man.

“AAAAAAAAAH!” the man screamed, continuing his backward retreat out of view, if only for momentum of impulse. His feet remained just visible as they kicked wildly. “MY EYES! MY EYES!”

From the other end of the hall, the legs of the very tall intruder with the disfigured face limped into view. Its pants were splattered with blood and riddled with holes, but it walked regardless. It stooped over the man being savaged by rodents.

“N-nah...No! Nooooooo!” the man shouted. “N-ngghffa!”

The rats chased after as the man was dragged away. Loud thuds retreated further and further, banging against the walls.

“...aaaaaa...” Dougal whimpered, clutching his chest. Felt the pounding of his heart, heard it in his ears.

Bang. Bang.

Dougal flinched again, retreating precious inches back. He held his hands over his ears.

Bang. “Y-you...cock-sucking sons a'...b-bitches...”

Tony scrambled into the room, crouch-walking, stumbling. His main hand clutched a pistol, his off hand clutched the sucking wound in his stomach. He tripped to the ground, then tried desperately to haul himself up again. His gun wrist caught on the back of a chair, and Tony tried to pull himself up by it.

The very spindly creature lumbered into view.

One impulse told Dougal to cry out; warn Tony of the danger. Instead, Dougal clapped his hands in front of his mouth, eyes wide and streaming salty tears.

The Italian mobster apparently heard his pursuer, and allowed himself to flop to the ground. He twisted mid-fall, so he could train the gun on the monstrosity. “Sons of bitches!” he shouted, firing.

Muzzle flash, a spray of blood. The gangly figure jerked back briefly, then walked into the room. The grotesque, nightmarish flesh on its chest absorbed the impact without fanfare. Just another hole to add to the collection.

“Agh...” Tony grunted, twisting on his back. He jammed the trigger again, but found his piece empty. “Ack...the fuck you doin', playdough face? Don't you know whose operations you're fucking up?”

The figure loomed silently, taking a single extra step. Mandibles twitched.

“You...agh...you think the Family isn't going to know about thisss...ah...shit?” Tony scooted back, towards the desk. “You th-think they c-can't learn what went down? You know who we are, don't you?”

“...sssssss...” With an audibly creak, the shirtless, many-faced creature stood on top of the Italian and bent down. Long fingers grabbed hold of the mobster's shirt, pulling him in.

Tony swiped with the pistol, whipping the creature in the face. It impacted with a wet thud. He reached back and swung again.

With its free hand, the creature caught Tony's wrist, squeezing it. Squeezed it really hard.

“Ah!” Tony gasped. “Aaaaah!” He dropped the gun.

The creature let go. Tony's wrist came away disjointed and mangled, bending in unnatural ways. His skin looked like chewed gum, ending in a twitching hand.

“F-fuck...dammit!” Tony said, staring at his ruined arm. A tear formed in his eye. “F-f-fuck...you asshole!” He gritted his teeth, looked up at the creature. “If you kill me, they're going to learn everything! You hear me? Everything! You don't fuck with the Gio-”

Bony fingers clapped over the Italian's mouth. The palm pressed against his lips. Then they sank into it.

“Mphmm? MMMM!” Tony groaned, eyes growing wide as saucers.

“...sssss...why...you are...not...dying...” the creature said, mandibles clicking and waving in front of its mouth. It was too dark for Dougal to see what was in the pit behind those mandibles. Probably for the best. The spindly creature looked at Tony with a cold, clinical gaze.

The fingers pulled away. Tony's good hand slapped over his face, feeling the patch of unbroken skin where his mouth should have been. “MM! MMPHMMM!”

It cast a shadow as the creature twisted on its heels and grabbed Tony's leg. Rising up, the creature began to pull, dragging Tony away. “...not...dying...not...yet...”

“MMMMMMMMMMM!” Tony moaned, clawing at the ground frantically. He could find no good purchase, allowed only one good hand. His hair fell over his eyes. As he was pulled out the door and out of sight, he caught a glimpse of the hiding Dougal.

He looked at Dougal pleadingly, clutching the door frame. “Mmphm...” Then he was wrenched out of sight. “Mmmm!”

It was a full minute before Dougal could stop sobbing, eyes unblinking after that spot. His hands remained over his mouth, not daring let a single sound escape.

Somewhere nearby, more gunshots and screams could be heard. Along with the howls of animals.

Present

Briiing. Briiing. Brii-

A cold hand rose from the silenced alarm clock. A weary eye – pits black as the night – peeked from the covers and noted the time. Five forty five. The hand swung free over the edge of the bed.

He sighed. Felt the last vestiges of the sun dipping across the horizon line. Knew the sky would grow as dark as his room was at the moment.

Dougal Dempsey dragged himself out of bed.

First, the shower. Lukewarm water poured over him. As he cleaned himself, he looked down at his right leg. Saw the black tattoo applied just above the ankle.

Recalled the ritual used to make the tattoo permanent. Felt again the molten metal applied to the freshly inked skin.

Dougal shuddered. He washed on.

Done with the shower, he thumbed through the closet. It was miniscule, the closet, just like the apartment, though it served his needs just fine. As he pulled on the prepared shirt and slacks, he considered when it would be time to start looking for a bigger apartment. He dismissed the notion. There was already so much else to do. So many details deserving his attention.

Knock, knock. “Mr. Dempsey. She has arrived.”

Such as the honored guest. “Thank you, Seaward. I'll be right out.”

Fully decked in his suit and effects, Dougal opened the door, nodding to the guard posted outside his door. He turned to the stallion standing in the hallway. “Good evening, Seaward. How does my hair look?”

“Good evening, boss. Your hair is sticking up a little in the back.”

“Ah, thank you,” Dougal said, taking out a comb and brushing back his hair as best he was able. He always had to guess, though he'd gotten reasonably good at it. “Has the Princess waited long?”

“About an hour, sir.” Knot Seaward was a unicorn of navy hair (highlighted with a sandy brown), and coat gray like stormy weather. He wore his little vest and topped his snout with wire-frame spectacles. Upon his flank was a seagull with a quill in its mouth.

Over the course of his confinement, Dougal researched many topics. Many, many topics. Among these was the subject of naming in pony civilization. According to his research, it had not occurred to the pony races, until their migration to Equestria over a thousand years before, that their penchant for naming their children in ways that perfectly fit their future endeavors was not, strictly speaking, normal. That in fact other species – donkeys, minotaurs, griffins, etc – were not so clairvoyant in their naming (not that they were above adopting the convention in their own guessing manner). This came, it would seem, as a genuine surprise, something ponies had never noticed they were doing.

That the phenomenon was magical was without question, just as it was with the Cutie Mark. But the exact mechanism behind this seeming species-wide pattern of coincidence still eluded them, as did what it all meant. Four hundred and fifty years ago, one theorist coined the phrase “name that rings true”, to describe one theory. That when parents throw around baby names, they will come up with one that just “clicks”; a name that resonated so well as to be almost unquestionable in both its obviousness and correctness. Even if such a name is missed or not put forth, the child may very well encounter a name or nickname that rang true to them, and adopt it retroactively.

Knot Seaward was the second son to a sailor, from a long line of sailors. The Seawards made it their business, and their common name reflected this (Dougal had a lot to read on the subject of such hereditary naming as a function of hereditary occupation). Unfortunately for Knot, the penchant for pony names to be puns had a triple, not double, meaning. His first trip to sea on his father's boat was, in his words, unpleasant. He acquired his Cutie Mark when spying a seagull landing on the deck of the boat, signaling their approach to shore and an end to his misery. From there, Knot made it his mission – some say his special talent – to be connected to the ocean while remaining as attached to the land as possible.

Which is how Dougal eventually found him. Struggling manager of a failing shipping firm, drowning his worries in apple booze. Luckily for him and Dougal, the business was worth so little that it was a trivial matter to buy it from the previous owner. At first Dougal assumed the stallion had been an incompetent. In reality, he had been embezzling for quite some time, cooking the books. The irony was not lost on Dougal.

It took quite a lot of talking with the police to convince them to go after the old owner, who disappeared shortly after the sale. He has yet to resurface.

“May I see today's progress report?” Dougal asked, setting off down the hall.

“Of course, Mr. Dempsey,” Seaward said, levitating a manilla folder to his boss. “All deliveries on time, all back expenses paid. Morale is higher than it's been in three years, and we're finally hiring new ponies.”

“Good cheer all around, then,” Dougal said, examining the reports. “All it took was a parasite being replaced with a vampire.”

“Quite.” Seaward gestured to the living room. “Here she is, sir.”

Dougal handed back the manilla folder, stepping into the sparsely decorated room. A window on the far wall was pitch black. Not that it wouldn't be pitch black during the day; Dougal had the whole apartment sealed with blackout paper. Sitting on the plain, serviceable couch was Princess Luna, flanked by two additional guards.

Luna stood up. “Dougal Dempsey,” she said.

“Princess, it is wonderful to see you,” said Dougal, bowing. “Sorry to keep you waiting. How is Baltimare treating you so far?”

“It has been pleasant,” Luna said, looking away. “I have had plenty of Sauerkraut, which I am told this town is famous for. Then again, the crab is apparently famous, at least among griffin residents.”

“I have heard both of these things,” said Dougal, nodding. “Though naturally...I have not tasted them.”

“No...” said Luna, narrowing her eyes. She walked to the adjoining kitchen – even more sparsely decorated – and opened the refrigerator. Luna pointed inside at the many hanging bags of precious red liquid. “You have been busy sampling the citizens of Baltimare.”

Dougal tilted his head forward slightly. “I see that your highness has taken the liberty of beginning her inspection of my abode.”

“I received word a few days ago, Dempsey,” Luna said, “that you have stopped cuing at the blood bank for your allowance.” She pointed again at the bags. “Where have you been getting this?”

Dougal clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “Princess...would you like me to show you?”

“You...buy it?”

Princess Luna looked with bewilderment around the room. The place was sterile, and decked with medical supplies and a comfy chair. Bottles of antiseptic were placed in bulk on a counter, as were containers of fresh, unopened fluid bags and needles. A picture of a mare and her friends in scrubs adorned the counter as well. In one corner, an industrial refrigerator hummed away, preserving its liquid gold.

There were two doors into the room. The first led into the office of Dougal's shipping business proper. The other led outside, where a sign stood advertising “Bits For Blood”.

“Princess,” Dougal said, leaning against the wall, “I found it...non-optimal to be dipping into Equestria's existing stores of blood, just to feed me. That is normally reserved for medical purposes, naturally.”

“Yes, but I was informed that there is almost always a surplus of blood,” Luna said, staring at the chair.

“Nonetheless, I do not like to exist on welfare,” said Dougal. “I grew up during what we call the Great Depression. The recession to end all recessions, and even the wealthiest in any community were hardly well-off. Back then, living off handouts was common.” Dougal frowned. “That doesn't mean we had to like it. Many men had their pride, and though it is a sin, I cannot simply let go of it myself. When it comes to my sustenance, if given the choice, I would happily pay for it.” Dougal smiled. “Frankly, it's a breath of fresh air, in light of decades of necessitated predation.”

“But...b-but...how?” Luna looked at Dougal. “How have you not been arrested? We have laws against the sale of pony blood...don't we?” She turned to a guard waiting in the corner, who looked confused a moment and then shrugged.

“Oh, I certainly met resistance on that front, for a bit,” Dougal said, walking towards the fridge. “A license to draw blood, in exchange for money? The city office was quite solid on this matter...until I informed them I was a vampire.

“That apparently got their attention, as they sent an agent to meet me. To verify my story. Had no one informed the city medical community that I was here? Well, that at least cleared that up. Well...that and a letter from Princess Celestia.”

“My sister...she didn't...” Luna's eyes bugged out.

“She didn't tell you? Strange.” Dougal scratched his head, then shrugged. He opened the fridge, picking through bags, looking for one with an earlier draw date. “Anyway, I am now allowed to pay ponies for their blood, in bits. So long, of course, as the blood drawing process is performed by a trained professional, and adheres to health and safety standards.” He wandered to the counter, picking up the framed photo. “Nurse Healing Hooves does much of the work, and oversees our intern Cherry Heart. She's a peach, if you forgive the fruit pun. Ask Seaward if you need to get in touch with either.” He poked a straw into the bag. “If you don't mind, your highness, I haven't had a chance to feed tonight.”

“I...ugh...” Luna stared at the picture, trying not to look at the vampire at his grisly feast. “Where do you keep finding these folks, Dougal Dempsey? These ponies who are willing to work with you, or the ones who willingly sell you their blood?”

“Hmm?” Dougal sipped the red liquid – cold, but he was used to this by now – so happily that he almost missed the question. He gulped, licking the straw and the inside of his mouth to prevent spillage, even of a drop. “Oh, there are plenty of people around, willing to serve anyone if the price is right. It's all about finding the ones who most need the help, and providing it.”

“And all they have to do is serve a predator, right?” Luna mused.

“Predator though I am or was, I am one thing specifically in this world, your highness.” Dougal held up his index finger. “A businessman. When Princess Celestia agreed to loan me money, it was a trust she put in me to use it wisely. I have done so, investing that money into this venture, with every plan to make it profitable and repay my debt. And just as a merchant sells what others need in return for something he values, I am engaged in a trade of something they value for something I need.”

Luna looked sadly at the comfy chair, which no doubt found many ponies in to give their lifeblood for this creature. “Still doesn't seem right at all...aren't you afraid that this will cut into the blood donated for medical purposes? You are paying them, after all.”

Dougal shook his head. “There is a flaw in that thinking, your highness: what makes you think the people I buy blood from were ever going to donate it otherwise?

“Why give blood for free? Because of altruism. I'm not exactly an objectivist, so I have no acrimony towards altruism. One who donates their blood for medical services does it because they believe they should, and have the means to do so.

“It is not, however, always possible to be charitable. The ponies that come in that door do not do it because they believe they are doing anything noble. I'm required to state up front exactly what the blood is used for: me.” Dougal held up the blood bag for emphasis. “They come in here because they need money. Everyone needs money, soon or later, and everyone can use just a little more. The mare supporting three kids on her own, the stallion working to pay off a debt. An aspiring colt, saving up for that trip to another country...the beleagured children, saddled with their parents' medical expenses...”

Luna cocked an eyebrow, watching Dougal frown and look into the middle distance. He seemed...very far away.

“...there is always a need for a little more,” Dougal continued, “especially if things go wrong. But there's only two ways to get money: taking it illicitly, and selling something. In the case of the latter, that 'something' takes many forms. Food, product, labor, service, entertainment, time, space. Our very bodies. So long as someone else values it, it can be leveraged to afford a person the resources they need to get what they want. And as stunningly ideal as Equestria is – I find myself liking it the more I learn about it – it cannot escape from that fact. Societies and economies, communities and careers, are built on that system.

“What I have done is allow the common pony to leverage value from something they never could before: their blood. Directly.” Dougal placed the straw into his mouth and sucked. His throat was awash in that delicious, metallic juice. His tongue tingled. He smacked his lips. “...others may find it repugnant. The ones who come to me find it...profitable.”

“Doesn't that lessen the value of life, though?” Luna asked, eying the bag as Dougal dumped it in the medical waste container. “You make it out to be a commodity to be bought and sold. Is that a good thing?”

“We buy and sell many things, that we really ought to value more, Princess.” Dougal brushed a lock of hair from his face. “Time is one such thing. In order to get more of it at all, we must spend so much. Sometimes we throw away the time we have for value, time we could have spent in other ways...like with our family, or on matters of faith.” Dougal fished out his rosary and crucifix, holding the silver cross to the light. “What I have lost is considerable. Since becoming a vampire, the only thing I have in abundance is Time.”

That, he thought to himself, and the Power of the Blood, of course.

February 1955

“Think there are any more left?”

“Maybe in the...”

As the voices passed right by and then faded, Dougal ran out the office door. He checked either direction, and saw two figures disappear around a corner.

Saw also the splatters of blood leading the same direction, like some bleeding mass dragged along the ground. It smelled awful.

Hand over his face – as much to keep from puking as to remain quiet – Dougal set off in the other direction. His ears were peeled for any noise, though he heard plenty of his own beating heart. His feet stomped over the tiled floor, dodging increasingly large pools of vital fluids.

Then he found the work room. Dougal gulped, trying to avert his eyes from the carnage.

Crouch-walking, Dougal picked his way over the abandoned battleground. Under a table, around a stack boxes, tip-toeing between scattered and spent rifle shells, over a beaten bo- OH HOW LOVELY THE CEILING IS. LOOK AT THE CEILING, HOW FINE THOSE TILES ARE. THEY'LL NEED TO REPLACE THE ONES PUNCHED WITH BULLET HOLES.

Dougal shivered, passing over a mound that certainly was not the corpse of one of his workers. The ones he'd directed for the last several months. He pinched his nose, to guard himself form the overwhelming, sickening stench of blood. Could practically taste the iron in his mouth. As he found the busted-in door, Dougal noticed how one of the puddles had been...licked at. Extensively.

He gulped, running out with nary a backward glance.

“Oh! Where do you think you're going, mouse?”

Standing outside the door was that leather-clad thug. His front was absolutely soaked with red spots, as were his hands. The machine gun was slung on his back, and was replaced in his hand with a bent lead pipe. He had a slight beard, a mullet, and thick black sunglasses.

The man was smiling, displaying sharp incisors.

Dougal's heart sank. “Gah!” he squeaked, bolting toward an intersection of two alleys that bordered the building. He tried for one direction.

Blurring from out of Dougal's peripheral vision, the man cut him off. Planting his feet right in front of Dougal, he laughed. “No, no, no, little mouse.”

“Hah!” Dougal gasped, skidding and flailing his arms. Unable to stop himself, he collided against the thug's chest.

The man pulled Dougal up – without visible effort – and looked him in the eyes. “You're not going this way,” he said, voice as gravel. His breath stank of death.

He threw Dougal back, and the latter slammed hard to the concrete ground. “Agh!” Dougal cried, scrambling to his feet. His eyes were locked on the thug...or whatever he was.

“Well, what are you doing, mousie?” said the man. He raised his pipe and struck sideways at the wall. Chunks of brick came away under the impact, chunks and dust. The lead sparked, and bent further. “Run!” He struck the wall again, even more dust flying away. “Run! Ha ha!”

Trembling all over, Dougal turned and ran. Ran as fast as his feet could carry him. He stumbled once, then scrambled up to run some more.

Behind him, the laughing and bashing faded in the distance. “Run! Run mouse, run! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Dougal could not bear to look back.

09 - Lay The Shroud...

Ch. 9 - Lay The Shroud...

Present

“Do you have the last piece?”

“Yes.”

The last jagged fragment was placed on the table. It sat among several others, formed into a curling horn.

Several ponies stood around the table, gazing longingly at the collection. Garbed in thick black robes, they smiled in anticipation.

One sat at the head, standing up straight. “Then the next phase shall begin. Upon the next dark moon, we shall perform the rite. For this, we shall require...sacrifices.

“Go forth, my brothers and sisters! Bring us the ones whose blood shall bring about our shadowy miracle!”

“We hear and obey!” the group responded in unison, before dashing off in all directions.

The leader smiled, extending a hoof to the ceiling. “For Darkness!”

“Your highness. It is lovely to see you two nights in a row. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Princess Luna stood at the door. “Dougal Dempsey, are you...doing anything tonight?”

“Tonight?” Dougal said, cocking his head slightly. He looked behind him. A single, thick book lay on a plain glass coffee table. Next to it were the daily Baltimare newspaper, and a mug of warmed blood. Aside from the two guards milling about the kitchen, trading stories, the apartment was empty. Dougal turned back. “...not...especially. Is there a reason you needed me, Princess?”

She coughed. “...I actually...have tickets to the local...theater. Would you...like to go along?”

“Theater?” Dougal stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I have no objections, if that is what you wish...but why me? You do not like or trust me.”

Luna coughed again. “Well...you see, my sister received free tickets to the Baltimare cultural festival. But...work has kept her busy this season, and she was unable to attend.” In truth, Celestia did not care for the theater house director. Partly for being not a very pleasant individual, and partly because every time she goes anywhere it becomes a scene. But she received tickets every year regardless, and looked for excuses not to go.

Luna smiled nervously. “So...she has given me the three tickets, that I may attend. And since you are in the neighborhood...”

Dougal smiled. “Of course, your highness.” He scratched his head. He was terribly bored as it was, and it was the weekend, so he had no business to attend to. Then he stopped. “...three...tickets?”

“Hello! My name is Twilight Sparkle. It's wonderful to meet you.”

Three individuals stood on the platform of the Baltimare train line. The vampire looked upon the lavender-colored alicorn that stood before him. She was...smaller than the alicorns he was familiar with.

Dougal smiled. “Nice to meet you, Twilight Sparkle.” He extended a hand, bending over in order to do so. “I am Dougal Dempsey.”

Twilight extended her hoof and shook it with Dougal. “Nice to meet you, Dougal Dempsey. Is it true you're a real live vampire?”

“For a certain value of 'live', yes,” Dougal said, nodding. “Is it true you are a Princess?”

“Yes! Princess of Friendship.” Twilight nodded. “I used to be Princess Celestia's number one student, until I became an alicorn and got upgraded to Princess.”

“Dougal cocked on eyebrow. “Really?” he said. “Regular ponies can transform into alicorns? I was unaware of this. My researches into the lore of your world have been...well, they sort of dance around the issue of just what an alicorn is or how they come about.” He turned to Luna. “Princess Luna, is this how you came into your own?”

“Uh...no, I was born an alicorn,” Luna said. “It is a very rare development. The latest born alicorn is Princess Cadence.”

“Interesting.”

“Isn't it?” Twilight said, jumping up and down with a broad smile on her face. “Lately I've found myself learning so much I never even thought possible.”

“By chance, how...many alicorn princesses are there?” Dougal asked, scratching his head.

“Just those four, that I know of,” Twilight said. “Celestia, Luna, Cadence, and myself. That's of course not counting the non-alicorn royalty, princes and princesses.”

“...and those use the same honorifics and titles?”

“It is...complicated...” Luna said, rubbing her elbow. “Should we not be going?”

“Oh, yes!” Twilight said. She levitated the bags at her side, placing them on a conveniently placed trolly.

“Didn't your friends come with you, Twilight?” Luna said, head jerking in either direction.

“Mmhmm,” Twilight nodded. “I told the others I would be seeing you, Luna, and that they should go to the hotel without me. I'll meet up with them later.”

“Alright,” Luna said, motioning one of the ever-present guards to get the trolly. “We have a carriage waiting this way.”

Twilight looked up at Dougal. “And on the way, you can tell me all about yourself.” She clapped her hooves together. “This is going to be so fun!”

Dougal tilted his head, then sighed, smiling. “Very well. What would you like to know first, your highness?”

“Uh...have you ever heard of the Skull Heart?”

“Princess Luna asked that of me too,” Dougal said. “I have never heard of it.”

“...uh...the Canopy Kingdom?”

“No.”

“...where do you come from?”

“The United States of America. Specifically I was born in the state of Missouri, on the North American continent.”

“...um...”

“Wherever you think I am from,” Dougal said, looking down at the diminutive royal, “perhaps it can best be said that I am not. From whence are you getting these questions?”

“Well,” Twilight said, rubbing the back of her neck.

Luna looked back at them both, staring at Twilight. Their eyes met.

She seemed to say “later”.

“...um...how about we change to some other topic?” Twilight said.

“If you wish,” Dougal said, though his eyes drifted over to the dark blue princess. Was there something these ponies were keeping from him? “What would you like to know?”

“How much blood do you need to consume to survive?” Twilight asked, her face brightening up.

“Ah, that I can answer. It often varies depending on certain factors, but to wake up each evening, I need...”

February 1955

“...huff...huff...huff...”

His feet smacked against the concrete, leaving steadily fading prints in scarlet. As he approached a street lamp, he sprinted towards it. Sweat dripped in a torrent across his skin, drenching his dirtied suit.

He had to get to the light.

With a final burst of speed, he embraced the light, sickly yellow and flickering slightly as it was. He doubled over, gasping for breath. His shaking fingers ran through his slick black hair. He brushed locks from his face. Wheezing, he turned tentatively to look behind.

The alley he had just come from was devoid of pursuers. He could see none in the darkness beyond the lamp that illuminated him. Nor did he hear anything from back where he came.

“Lovely evening, isn't it?”

Dougal jumped back, looking furtively around. “Ah...who...who's there?”

There, in the dark in front of him. Dougal spied him, though he neither saw him before, nor heard him approach.

It was a tall fellow, perhaps have a head taller than Dougal. He was a stocky man too, though the effect may owe more to the large, thick overcoat he wore. It was a gray-black, the coat, coming down to the man's knees.

The man had long hair, reaching to his shoulders and black as obsidian. He stood just beyond the light, so his face was obscured. But Dougal could almost make out a scraggly beard. Atop his head was a bowler hat that matched his overcoat.

Strong, shadowed hands clutched a cane.

“...please, you've got to help me,” Dougal said, standing up straight. He pointed behind him. “There are these...oh God...these things back there...”

“Oh, I know all about them.” Voice, chill as midnight, gravely by just a bit. He might have smiled, in that darkness. “Nasty stuff, out in the dark. The night is full of them.”

“...I...I...what?” Dougal said, straining in a vain attempt to see the man's face.

“You look tired,” said the man, tilting his head to the side. “Are you feeling well?”

“...no...no, I'm not,” said Dougal, shaking his head. “I'm sorry, who are you? How do you...?”

“Know what those things are?” The man turned sideways, throwing wide his arm. “I will tell you, if you follow me.”

Dougal blinked, several times.

“Your name is...Dempsey, is it not?”

“...I...how do you know my name?”

“I have been...keeping tabs on you, for quite some time,” the man said. “I also have it in good authority you don't have a place to stay for the night. Would you like one?”

“A place to stay?”

“And...answers,” said the man. He turned around, beginning to walk away. “Follow me, Dougal Dempsey, and I will give you all the answers you could ever want.” He walked a few steps, moving further into the darkness. Then he stopped. “You don't have to, of course. You can go your own way, forget about tonight. About monsters. About who I am and what I want. I won't stop you.

“But...you will never know.” He began walking again.

Dougal stared at the retreating figure. Licked his lips, tasting the salt from sweat and tears.

The darkness frightened him greatly.

Somewhere in the distance, behind him, he could hear a series of roars.

“...w-wait!”

Dougal ran forward. “Wait for me!”

Present

“Do you have theater where you come from, Mr. Dempsey?”

The three sat snugly in a row, among rapidly filling seats. Well-dressed ponies sat all around them, though many stole glances at the royals in attendance. Some dispensed with the charade entirely, and stared openly. Many excited conversations could be heard among them, gossiping of the presence of Princesses.

Others cast more concerned glances, and exchanged rapid, more fearful words. No one had failed to notice the predator in their midst.

Dougal caught one staring at him. He stared right back, meeting the earth pony stallion's eyes.

The pony ducked behind his seat, shrinking down and covering his head.

Sometimes categorical menace had its advantages. Dougal rubbed his hands together. “I'm...sorry, what was your question, Princess Sparkle?”

“Just call me Twilight, please,” Twilight said. “And I asked if you had theater in your world.”

“Oh yes, of course we do,” Dougal said. “It's been supplanted as the medium of popular entertainment as of late, but it has hardly disappeared...I was never a particular fan of theater, understand. The most I ever saw was in high school, when we studied the plays of Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Said to be the greatest writer in the English language,” Dougal said. “He wrote many plays, most of which are so famous as to be ubiquitous. For most, Shakespeare IS theater, and his plays are always being performed.”

“What were his plays like?”

“Tragedies, mostly, back when people had a taste for tragedies. Comedies as well, but his tragedies are known best. In school we read Hamlet, Julius Caesar, Romeo And Juliet...but there was only one I really remember. It wasn't one of his really famous works. It was, rather, one of his last. It was called The Tempest.”

“What was that about?” Twilight said, leaning in to listen intently.

“The Tempest is about the Duke of Milan, a man named Prospero.” Dougal raised his hand. “He was a great scholar...kind of like you, Twilight Sparkle. He loved his books...esoteric books, of mysticism and theurgy.”

“Oooh!” Twilight said, now in rapt attention.

“But the Duke had his duties, running Milan. As he sequestered himself in his library, his brother Antonio stepped in more and more, running things as he saw fit. For most men, being de facto ruler would be sufficient, but for Antonio it was simply not enough. So he usurped the throne in full, forcing Prospero and his baby daughter Miranda onto a boat, set out to sea.”

“That's horrible.”

“Indeed,” Dougal said, nodding.

“What happened next?”

“Prospero came upon an island uninhabited by humans,” Dougal said. “But Prospero, a mighty sorcerer, used his magic to bend the local spirits to his will, as servants. He had many umbrood under his command, but two were greatest: the beastial Caliban, primal child of the island, and wind sprite Ariel. The one labored under Prospero with discontent, rebelling in every way he could, while the other served dutifully, though he longed to have his service over and done with.”

“...he forced them into compliance?” Twilight said. “That seems...kind of evil...”

“Perhaps,” Dougal said, splaying his hands and shrugging. “Eventually, Prospero's brother Antonio, and number of noblemen of Milan, the young Ferdinand, and Ferdinand's father the King of Naples, were passing by the island by ship. By Prospero's orders, Ariel whipped up a storm and forced the ship to crash on the island. Then...shenanigans happened, I don't quite remember.”

Twilight frowned.

“What? It's been decades since I read The Tempest,” Dougal said. “Be glad I remember so much as it is...anyway, it ends with Prospero having his brother Antonio at his mercy...but forgiving him. Ferdinand and the adult Miranda are to be married. Ariel is freed of his duty, just as his master promised. And Prospero himself regained his Dukedom once more, snapping his wand and renouncing magic forever.”

Twilight gaped. “He...gave up magic forever? I...why?” Twilight clutched her head, face contorted in confusion. “I get forgiving his brother and reclaiming his throne, but...he gave up magic? How is that a happy ending?”

“It is a happy ending,” Dougal said, lacing his fingers, “to an audience of Catholics.” He fished his crucifix from his pocket. “You must understand that magic is a rare, hidden thing in my world. So hidden that most do not even believe it exists.”

Twilight's jaw dropped.

Dougal continued. “And in Shakespeare's day, his audience were devout in their religious devotion. A devotion that does not look kindly on magic, seeing it as an affront to God, a perversion of his designs. Shakespeare himself was, I think, secretly Catholic – the country of England made Catholicism illegal during that time – and no Catholic could in good conscience abide a sorcerer as their ruler. Could not be a party to magic in general...”

He looked gravely at his crucifix. “...that is...no 'good' Catholic...” He frowned.

February 1955

“Here we are.”

Dougal looked up at the tall hotel before him. “This is it?”

“It's where I'm staying,” said the man, continuing his walk to the door. “And where I have a room set up for you, too. Come along. The night will not last forever.”

“Ah! Coming!” Dougal jogged along after the man, glancing one last time at the glowing sign above the entrance. He noted its Art Deco design.

Inside, the lobby was fairly well lit, though one or two bulbs flared and sputtered randomly. The Deco design from out front was reflected in the ornate, angular wall designs, and the metal grates on various doors.

The man passed the front desk, merely casting a glance at the man behind. The clerk looked at the man wearily, leaning back and gulping. The clerk looked from the man in the overcoat to Dougal.

“He's with me,” said Dougal's guide, not even pausing.

Dougal followed behind, nodding to the clerk as he went. He noted how the clerk merely frowned, fingering his collar.

The two walk through a narrow corridor to the elevator doors. The man pressed the button.

Dougal looked at the man. Despite the light in the room – irregular as it was – the man's face was still wreathed in shadow. Dougal could make out his neck, though, and noted how both it and the man's hands were unusually pale. Contrasted harshly with the man's pitch black hair.

The man's hand lay on the cane. His fingers, white and body, drummed nervously on the silver handle.

Dougal gulped. “...I'm sorry, but I don't think I ever got your name.”

“Huh?” grunted the man, jerking his head to the side. Still, his features were obscured by shadow. The barest outline of an upturned, sneering lip could be made out. “Oh...right...”

Ping. The elevator door opened. The inside was rather poorly lit. Practically dark.

“My name is Espinosa,” the man said. He stepped inside. “Antonio Espinosa.” He motioned for Dougal to enter.

Dougal gulped. He felt a great, inescapable dread, that left his mouth dry as a bone. As if passing into the elevator meant crossing a threshold he could never return from.

How much did he really want to know?

…

...what did he truly have left to lose?

…

He got on, taking his place beside the man.

Antonio Espinosa reached out and thumbed the seventeenth floor button.

The door began to close.

“...you, however..”

The two metal sheets closed in, the glow from outside the elevator fading.

“...may call me...master!”

The lights dimmed to nothing.

The man was at Dougal's throat the moment the doors closed shut.

10 - ...Remove The Veil

Ch. 10 - ...Remove The Veil

Present

“So tell me, how did they get those prop squid to fly around like that?”

Ponies filed out the theater doors, though more than a few lingered around. They lingered to get a glimpse of the princesses leaving. Their eyes were bright, their smiles broad with anticipation.

Dougal turned upon the onlookers, catching their eyes. Towering over their heads, he regarded them with cool disinterest.

Several of the ponies assembled there cringed or flinched, breaking out into a cool sweat. Their hearts raced. Most averted their eyes, then broke off to leave.

The vampire shrugged, turning back to his companions. “...where were we?”

“The prop squids?” said Luna, eying the fleeing ponies uneasily. She frowned, feeling just slightly hurt that interaction with the common citizens was denied her.

“Oh, ho!” Twilight said, bouncing up and down. “I read all about the production on my way here. Those floating figures were suspended by specialized parts on the back called Levitation Hooks. Unicorn technicians backstage would grab the props by those hooks and use them for simple puppetry. Some theaters have more advanced levitation controls that can be manipulated to open and close mouths or move individual limbs. But unless the technician is really talented, it usually takes a couple unicorns to pull that off.”

“Hmm...” Dougal said, stroking his chin.

“Ah, your royal highnesses!”

When the party looked around, they spotted the approach of a very dapper unicorn in a vest, well coiffed mane, and monocle. Draped on his back was a very slender mare. These two were followed by a number of admirers and hangers-on, all dressed in their finest.

The stallion smiled, chin held slightly aloft. “I was informed Princesses Luna and Twilight Sparkle were in attendance. What a lovely show, was it not?”

“Ah, good evening magnificently coiffed pony,” Luna said, smiling. “I have not seen you since our riveting living chess match in the Canterlot gardens.”

“Nor have I seen you since Cadence and Shining Armor's wedding, Mr. Fancy Pants,” Twilight said, approaching.

“Yes, it has been a long time,” said the stallion, “Princess Sparkle, you should attend more of the Canterlot parties. I remember when you and your friends livened up the last one, that one instance. Back before your ascension, as it were, was it not?” The stallion brushed a lock of hair into place. “Say, how is Miss Rarity these days?”

“She's doing great, sir,” Twilight said. “She's actually here in Baltimare for the culture festival. She's going to visit the art gallery tomorrow, followed by the fashion show.”

“Then I suppose I shall see her tomorrow night, because that's where Fleur and I will be attending,” the stallion said, turning his head and nuzzling the slender mare affectionately, which she returned. The stallion adjusted his monocle. “...say, who is your unusual friend, here?”

“Ah!” Twilight said, turning to the vampire. “Dougal, this is Fancy Pants, who my friend Rarity says is the most important pony in Canterlot. Fancy Pants, this is Dougal Dempsey.”

Dougal stepped forward and bowed to the stallion. After researching pony names as much as he did, he was no longer surprised that “Mr. Fancy Pants” was not a derogatory term. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Dougal said, extending a hand.

Fancy Pants looked curiously at the offered, strange appendage, then extended his hoof politely, allowing it to be shaken. “Likewise, Mr. Dougal Dempsey. And don't let the Princess fool you, I am not nearly as important as everypony makes me out to be.”

Dougal extended his hand to the mare. “Ma'am.”

Fleur allowed her hoof to be taken. “Ooh!” she gasped as Dougal bent over and kissed her hoof. She giggled, “cheeky. And so...cold...”

“I say, old chap,” Fancy Pants said, “would it be out of bounds for me to inquire as to what sort of creature you are?”

“Dougal Dempsey is a 'Human Vampire',” said Luna, looking unhappily sidelong at the whole exchange.

“A vampire?” Fancy Pants said, one eye widening just a fraction.

“Of the Human variety, but yes,” Dougal said, bowing, “I am.”

Fancy Pants' entourage, previously content to watch and gossip among themselves, grew dead silent. They all stared at Dougal.

The stallion himself merely shook his head. “I do so hope we won't end up on the menu, right old chap?” He chuckled a little, though Fleur Dis Lee frowned a bit.

“An unfortunate affliction of mine, sir,” Dougal said, shutting his eyes and smiling. “But my own affairs are in order, thanks to our dear Princesses.”

“How so?” said Fancy Pants, genuinely curious.

“All of my...donors...have given of their own volition,” said Dougal, “I have a clinic that draws...previous vitae...in exchange for money. The citizens of Equestria have nothing to fear from me. I am merely now a businessman.”

“A business MAN...how quaint,” Fancy Pants said, whistling once. He smiled. “And what exactly is your business, Mr. Dempsey?”

“Currently shipping,” Dougal said, straightening his jacket. “Though I have been aiming to move into the technology sector.”

“Really?” Luna asked, piping up from behind. “Technology?”

“My...homeland,” Dougal said, “has in common with Equestria a number of technologies. But it has a number of others that I cannot find in evidence within this wonderful country. I see opportunity, and have ideas about where to start.” Dougal smiled, fishing a pen from his shirt pocket. “I've recently contracted an engineer, who has produced this first prototype. A pen with a completely self-contained ink supply. This is the least of the things I can bring to market, given enough time and enough brilliant minds.”

“How novel!” Fancy Pants said, looking upon the pen with wide wonder. He held his hoof against his monocle and leaned in for a closer look. The mare on his back leaned in too, prior unease replaced with rapt attention.

“Amazing!” Twilight Sparkle said, leaning in from the side to gaze at it too. “A pen that doesn't require an ink bottle. This could increase my writing speed by an order of magnitude, if I didn't have to re-ink my quill every few seconds!”

“I shall see to it that your highness is the first to receive one,” Dougal said, pocketing the device again. “That is, once I can drum up enough funds for manufacturing.”

“We...if you need any help on that front, old sport,” Fancy Pants said, straightening up, “write me up in Canterlot.”

“I appreciate the understanding and interest, Mr. Fancy Pants,” Dougal said, suppressing the urge to giggle at saying the name. “Such a pen, however, is the least of the devices I aim to produce.”

“Tell me all about it when you write, then,” Fancy Pants said. He turned to the Princesses. “It was lovely meeting you here, your highnesses. I'll be here all festival long, so don't hesitate to find me. And send Miss Rarity my regards, will you Princess Sparkle?”

“I will, sir,” Twilight said, nodding.

As the celebrities walked away, assorted hangers-on looking back and gossiping in a more positive light towards the “human vampire” that had so impressed the important pony, Luna stepped up to Dougal. “What was that, Dougal Dempsey?”

“That, your highness,” said Dougal, turning to Luna and grinning with eyes shut, “is called networking. You would be amazed – or perhaps not at all – how many business-ponies simply will not have anything to do with a strange bipedal creature they've never seen before, that is rumored to drink blood.” Dougal began walking. “Moreover, he was a very pleasant, understanding stallion, by the looks of it.”

“Mr. Fancy Pants has a certain, well, fancy for rustic sorts,” Twilight said, following him. “He liked my friends and I for that reason, though he likes my friend Rarity for her fashion sense and high class taste.”

“He likes the rustics, hmm?” Dougal said, clapping his hands behind his back. “Then do I have stories he might like. Stories of growing up in Missouri, and all that.” He walked a few steps before his grin disappeared. “...or do I have stories...?”

“What's that?” Luna asked, trotting to catch up.

“...I wonder, sometimes, how much I really remember, from my living days,” Dougal said. He looked out over the landscape, visible from their vantage point at the edge of a ridge, where the theater was built. He could see the city lights glowing in the darkness. Not nearly as dark as his world, he was sure of it. “It was forty five years ago, now. How much of it will I remember in detail next year? Next decade? Next...”

“LOOK OUT!”

Screech. Crash.

High up the hill, a carriage careened downhill towards them. Ponies jumped out of the way in panic, the vehicle bouncing and skidding backwards over cobblestone. As it swerved and bounced, the front briefly came into view, showing the wooden bars that would normally be attached to the ponies leading it were broken off and leaderless.

Inside were the silhouettes of ponies trapped within.

“Sweet Celestia!” Twilight cried, aghast.

Luna took to the air in a single motion, while Twilight leaped to the side.

Dougal jumped, though a second too late. His pants were caught on the rushing carriage and tore at the leg. “Gaah!” he screamed, yanking his leg away. The fabric came off, rendering his lower leg naked, though uninjured. He stumbled, rolling so as to return to his feet. His eyes jerked to the carriage as it rolled towards the cliff face.

“No!” Twilight yelled, half running and half flying after it. Her horn lit up a violet, shining like a beacon in the darkness.

Crash.

The carriage smashed through the railing and went sailing through open air. It tumbled end over end.

Violet aura surrounded the carriage, and the vehicle stopped in mid-air.

“Huff...puff...phew!” Twilight said, straining under the effort. Her horn glowed bright, waxing and waning in intensity.

Suspended in air, the carriage vibrated. Then the carriage doors flew open, oriented down. Two adult ponies slipped out, screaming.

“AAAAAAh!” they cried. “Aaaaaa...oh!”

The two were enveloped in a deep blue aura, flailing their legs in air for several seconds and craning their heads in search of proper orientation. Finally, they looked back to the ledge.

“G-got them!” Luna said, her prodigious horn alight. She stood next to Twilight Sparkle, the two concentrating on maintaining their hold upon the heavy loads.

Dougal ran up beside them, flanked on all side by a crowd of ponies. The vampire looked upon them, then waved his arm back at the throng. “Get back! Clear the way! Can't you see they need room for-”

“H-h-help! Help!”

All eyes turned back to the carriage, its open door flapping free in the chill night wind. A small figure wriggled and writhed from the mouth of the door. It was a young colt, clutching the door frame for dear life. Hind legs kicking at the open air.

“My baby!” said the mare suspended in the air. She waved her legs towards the carriage, but could get no closer.

“Oh no!” Twilight cringed, straining under the weight of the carriage. Could she afford to move or shift the carriage, for fear of jostling the suspended child?

Luna gritted her teeth, eyes wide in horror. “Can't...”

“Heeeeeeelp!” the colt cried, muscles straining in his forward body. His front legs slid a little. “I'm slipping! I'm-”

He dropped. “Ah!”

“Nooooo!” said the suspended stallion, jerking in the air and reaching out fruitlessly.

“My baby!”

“Aaaaaah!” cried the colt...

...who suddenly stopped mid-fall. “Oof!” He looked around.

He was born aloft by a black tentacle, leading off from the shadow of the cliff's edge.

“Wha-?” he said, looking at the arm that wrapped itself around his midsection. It was dark. Not even dark like any material, but absolutely black. As if a hole in space broke off and elongated itself into a great limb. The boy shook, feeling an utter coldness at the tentacle's touch. “Ah! Ah!” he cried, struggling in vain against the arm.

Then the tentacle retracted, carrying the colt to the cliff edge.

The crowd of ponies gasped in mixed relief and horror. They whispered amongst themselves. At least one pony fainted at the sight.

Looking about in confusion, the colt eventually looked to the oncoming land.

He stopped just in front of Princess Luna.

The lunar diarch blinked in shock, her horn still alight. Then, she reservedly extended her forelegs, allowing the disembodied limb to drop the child into her care. “...what?” she whispered, looking back and forth from the child to the parents to the tentacle, which retracted swiftly into the darkness.

Clap.

Luna spared precious attention to look to her side. Twilight Sparkle did too, mouth agape.

Dougal Dempsey stood at the front of the crowd, clapping his hands slowly. “Nice catch, your highness,” he said, his upper face cast in shadow against the lights behind him. “That is our night princess! Everyone cheer for our Princess Luna!” He began clapping harder.

The ponies all around him looked to each other, and at Luna. Slowly, their frightened expressions changed, and they started laughing and cheering.

“Hurray for the Princesses!”

“Whoohoo!”

“Yay!”

Luna, remembering herself, turned back to the space beyond the cliff and pulled the suspended ponies back to land. In her peripheral vision, she noticed the carriage being hauled away telekinetically to the ground as well, away from the assembled bystanders.

The two adult ponies touched down on the ground, freed from their blue aura. They rushed over to Luna.

“Oh thank you, Princess!”

“Come here, sweetie!” said the mare, letting Luna hand her the colt. She hugged the shaking child close to her. “Mommy is here. Don't worry. We've got you.”

The stallion wrapped his forelimbs around his wife, then looked at Luna. “Princess, I can't thank you enough. Just...thank you!”

“You are...welcome, citizens,” Luna said, blinking. She turned and walked into the crowd, letting them part and sling excited words of praise at her. She mumbled and nodded, but didn't really hear the words.

She found her way out of the crowd, seeing burly ponies approach with first aid kits and caution tape in their mouths. As she continued walking, she found Twilight Sparkle resting by the overturned carriage.

With a little concentration, Twilight levitated the down carriage again, turning it over and planting it firmly on its wheels. Or at least as firm as it could, its back wheels smashed in the collision. “Luna! How is the family?”

“...huh? Sorry, they are together again,” Luna said, shaking her head. “They will be fine.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Dougal Dempsey walk up to the side of the carriage. His eyes looked over the body, then spotted black fabric whipping in the wind. He grabbed hold of the attached piece, yanking at it until it tore free.

He studied the ruined cloth, then pocketed it. He sighed. “Well, I suppose that's that crisis finished. Perhaps we ought to head home, hmm?” Dougal grinned at them, then began walking towards the spot where the guards were waiting with their conveyance.

“...yes...I suppose so,” Luna said, following.

“Princess Luna, that was amazing!” Twilight said, running up beside. “I haven't actually seen you use something quite like that.”

“What?” Luna said, blinking at Twilight. Then she frowned. “Oh...that...”

“It really was a close save,” Twilight said, smiling. “You did well.”

“I did nothing, Twilight,” Luna said.

“Oh, you're just being mode-”

“No. Really.” Luna frowned, but did not look at Twilight. “I was not the one who summoned that...thing...” He eyes were focused forward.

Meters ahead, Dougal Dempsey walked nonchalantly towards their ride, hands clasped behind his back. The Keeper whistled as he walked, his exposed right leg displaying an inverted ankh in black tattoo ink.

February 1955

“Ugh...”

He felt something against his face. Something soft, draped over his face...his whole body. His eyes fluttered open. He saw light filtering through thick fabric. He shut his eyes and wormed his hand up to his face beneath the sheet.

Gripping the fabric, he pulled the sheet away. Instantly his eyes were bathed in intense light from above him. “Ah!” he grunted, shielding his eyes. He tried to lift his head, and found it hurt like hell. He hissed, blinking rapidly and clutching his scalp. It was if he experienced the worst hangover in his life. The hangover that stood crowned and throned over all other hangovers as the uncontested king. “...gah...shit...”

Sitting up, he realized he lay within a hard white dish. He shook his head, brushed hair from his face. He looked down on himself. First he noticed that the dish he was in was in fact a bathtub. “...what...the fuck...?” he grunted, tugging at the sheet that was draped over him. It was a floral print shower curtain, unmoored from its curtain pole.

Next he noticed his jacket and shirt were missing, leaving his chest bare. “...ugh...the hell...”

Dragging himself to his feet, Dougal examined his surroundings. He was situated in a hotel bathroom. He knew it not to be any bathroom he'd ever been in before, but it took a moment to realize why he thought it was a hotel bathroom.

That...guy...

The door was closed. Dougal trained his ears, but was too disorientated to hear what lay outside the room.

He stepped forward, turned towards the mirror. Saw the ornate wallpaper reflected there, as well as the towels hung from the rack opposite the sink. Saw the reflection of the sink top. Saw even the reflection of the bathroom door.

What he did not see was his own reflection.

“What...what the fuck...?” he said, staring at the mirror that did not reflect him. He stepped forward, face scrunched in confusion and pain. His head hurt. His mouth felt...very dry. He smacked his lips, drawing closer. He reached a hand out towards the glass.

His fingers banged against the polished surface. “Ah!” he cried, drawing his fingers back. His hands shook, his eyes wide. Dougal jerked backwards, watching the mirror vibrate entirely as he struck the wall. It wasn't a window to an identical room on the other side, but an actual reflection. As he jammed against the wall, he saw the image of the towel racked get disturbed.

“Ah! Aaaaah!” He turned around, grasping at the rack and towels both. He tore them off the wall, feeling them come easily from the plaster. Too easily. As he clutched the towel and rack together, his head whipped back to the mirror, and saw both floating in the reflection. “Agh!” he cried, dropping the items and watching their doubles plummet to the ground.

“It's difficult getting used to, I know.”

“Agh!” Dougal yelled, looking sideways.

The door was open. Standing in the doorway was that suited man, cane in one hand, bowler hat in another. His face was no longer wreathed in impenetrable shadows. Revealed fully was the man's well-kept mustache and beard, that grew down to his neck. His nose was a little long, and his face gaunt. He had piercing green eyes. He had a toothy, predatory smile. That man – Antonio Espinosa.

“...hah...hah...you...” Dougal said, eyes darting from mirror to man. “What the hell is going on?”

Antonio chuckled a bit to himself.

“Answer me!”

“Oh, don't play dumb, Dougal,” Antonio said, tilting his head. “Use your eyes...you know what this is, don't tell me otherwise.” He shook his head, clicking his tongue.

Dougal turned to the mirror, clutching his head. It was patently absurd. It had to be. He gritted his teeth, then stepped forward. His fist smacked into the mirror. A spiderweb of cracks formed over the mirror's surface. As he pulled his fist away, shards of mirror fell to the sink top.

He studied his hand. Tiny fragments of mirror protruded from his knuckles. “Aaaagh!” he screamed, flailing his arm. Shards flew from his wound, and he clutched his wrist again. Despite the lacerations, he did not bleed. On another point of fact, his hands were pale.

Then he realized, despite the exertion, he wasn't breathing hard, nor could he feel his heart beating despite his mounting panic.

Dougal clutched his chest, feeling for a heartbeat that wasn't there. He turned to that man – Antonio Espinosa. “...w-what the hell did you do to me?”

Antonio stepped forward, his smile dropping a bit. From the corner of his eye, Dougal saw this man had no reflection either.

“I have set you free,” Antonio said. “I saw you...laboring under all those...burdens you had. The ones holding you back. Career, girlfriend, possessions, homes...even your family.” He stopped before Dougal. They were about the same height, yet somehow this man stood so much taller. “For five years, I watched you...and took from you. I took everything you had, just to see how you'd react.” Antonio looked to the side, into space. “There were others I watched, of course, but...they didn't have what it took. They let the loss of such...petty things as jobs and affection destroy them. Until there was nothing left but a...” He sneered. “...pathetic waste of space.” He looked to Dougal, his sneer dropping. “But you, Dougal...oh you...”

Dougal shook his head. “No...no you're lying...no one could do all that.”

The man wagged his finger. “Tsk, tsk. If you have the right power, you can do anything,” Antonio said. “And believe me, I have a lot of power. Power developed over many years, through ruthless dealings and...other things. With the kind of power I wield, the will of men is like putty. It's a simple thing to make a man siphon funds, while others focus hawk-eyed towards one man in particular. Even easier to get a man evicted, or to make a woman hate her fiance.

“Simulating the onset of cancer in an old woman is more difficult, but I have other people for that...people with talent in...working directly with flesh...”

Eyes grew wide. Memories of the previous hours stirred.

Dougal lunged at him, seizing the man by the shirt. “You bastard!” he screamed, pushing the man back against the wall. “You bastard! You killed Tony!” He pulled back his fist, striking the man's face. Felt the impact of Antonio's jaw through his knuckle bones. “You destroyed my career!” Dougal backhanded the man. “You killed my mother! Drove Rebecca away!”

He pushed the man out the bathroom door to the hotel room entryway. Dougal pulled his fist back for another punch. “You ruined my life!”

As the fist flew, Antonio caught it in his palm, clasping his fingers around the knuckles and squeezed. “No.”

“Ah!” Dougal said, watching – feeling – his fist get effortlessly twisted back at the wrist. “Agh!” He pushed back, but to no avail.

With one final shove, the man toppled Dougal over. He sprawled on the floor, nursing his aching wrist.

Antonio flexed his fingers, twisting his neck until it popped softly. He wiped at his lip, collecting drops of blood on his fingers. These he licked, smacking his lips. “No, we'll have none of that, boy.” He looked down to the ground and retrieved his fallen bowler hat and cane. “...no, I did not ruin your life. Because there was nothing there worth ruining. Your life as a...simple human was worth nothing. Humans are nothing.” He plopped the hat on his head, adjusting it carefully. “Dougal, I made you so much more.”

“Hey, is everything okay in there?”

Thump. Thump.

Dougal looked up, seeing a scantily dressed woman walk into view. She had a considerable amount of makeup on her face. That face had a mole under her left eye, and she had a short stock of blond hair. She looked down at Dougal, throwing him a pitying look. “Is...he going to be okay?”

Thump. Thump.

“Absolutely,” Antonio said, sizing up the obvious prostitute. “He's the one I hired you for. He'll be right with you. I'll see to it you get paid for your services, if you'll just wait a little longer.”

“...okay...” the woman said, looking unsure at Dougal. She walked out of view of the bathroom. From the next room, the sound of a mattress being disturbed.

Thump. Thump.

Antonio reached down and grabbed Dougal by the arm. With one motion – one handed – he pulled the young man to his feet. “Now...enough of this petulance. There will be plenty of time to talk later.”

Dougal smacked his dry lips. He didn't resist as Antonio pushed him out of the bathroom and into the large hotel room proper.

“You have a date with a...little morsel.”

Thump. Thump.

Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump.

As Dougal lumbered into the room, he could hear it. That sound. That sound that called to him like a siren.

He looked at the woman, sitting on the bed, looking bored. She caught him approaching, giving him an indifferent look, though she soon tried to hide it behind a fake smile.

Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump.

She said something, but Dougal couldn't hear her. His eyes played over her face, over the mole under her eye. Down past her chin. Dougal stared at her neck. As he inhaled through his nose, the most...intoxicating aroma washed into him.

He knew what he wanted to do. Knew he couldn't stop himself.

Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump.

But why would he want to, anyway?

The prostitute blinked, her faux smile – her affect – fading. “Hey, are you feeling oka-”

Dougal pounced on her. Fangs elongated in his mouth. They closed over warm, inviting flesh.

“EEEEEEE-”

The woman had enough time for a single shriek before the weight atop her and the pressure at her throat killed the breath in her lungs.

Nearby, Antonio stepped forward, fingers stroking his cane excitedly. He was smiling, fangs bared. “Yes! Do it! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

As he watched un-nature take its course, Antonio spread his arms out wide. “Welcome to Clan Lasombra, Dougal! Welcome to the Sabbat!”

11 - Lamb In The Wolf Den

Ch. 11 - Lamb In The Wolf Den

March 1955

“Kneel.”

He was already dropping to one knee before he realized what he was doing. “Ugh!” Dougal said, slipping down. He clutched at his leg and tried to rise, but could not. One foot was firmly planted on the ground.

The childe looked up at his sire.

“With both knees.”

He tried to resist. But he saw those eyes. Saw an absolute authority in them.

Dougal sank lower, to both knees. His body shook all over.

Antonio smiled. “That,” he said, waving his hand absentmindedly, staring still into Dougal's eyes, “is the second art I gave to you. The power to Dominate.” He stroked his beard. Behind him lay the crumbling pile of marble that had previously been a fine and well-crafted statue. All that remained of the first demonstration. “When you have met the eyes of another, you may command them. And they will obey, as you've just experienced.” He beckoned at Dougal. “Now rise. Let's see you do it.”

As Dougal rose to his feet, Antonio clapped his hands.

The chamber door opened, an an old servant shuffled in. “Master,” the man sighed, standing absolutely straight.

Dougal studied the manservant. The bushy white mustache and wrinkles were to be expected. But he noted the many scars upon his face, including a prominent one across his eye, which was milky white. The man had his attention completely upon the elder vampire.

“My childe,” Antonio said, gesturing to Dougal. “He is learning. Try – as hard as you can – not to do what he tells you.”

“Uh...of course,” the man said, a single bead of sweat rolling down his cheek. Servant turned to childe. “Master Dempsey?”

Dougal looked the man in the eyes. They were so tired.

His sire shuffled up behind him, placing his hands on the fledgling's shoulders. “Right in the eyes, that's a good boy. Order him to do whatever you like. Exercise your will. Make the order clear and concise. Above all else...” Antonio squeezed firmly, making Dougal nearly wince. “...know that when you speak, it is an order that must be obeyed.”

Dougal gulped, studying the manservant. Saw him blink, eyebrows dropping just a moment in trepidation.

Finally, Dougal croaked out, “Dance.”

The manservant's eyes widened in surprise. Then he grimaced. He gritted his teeth, but his shoulders buckled and swayed.

Just like that, the old man began to shuffle back and forth, hopping from one foot to the other. “Uuhh...” he groaned, hips swaying. They popped audibly, the man wincing. It was a slow, creaky, pathetic display. But he danced.

“...uh...you can stop now,” Dougal said, raising a hand. He was as relieved as the servant was when he stopped.

“Again,” Antonio said, stepping back.

“Yes master,” the man said, rubbing his back. He looked back at Dougal.

Dougal paused. He turned on his sire, meeting his eyes. “Die!”

Antonio blinked, then laughed. “Ha ha ha!” he chuckled, and began clapping.

Dougal frowned in shock.

Antonio smiled. “Nice try,” he said. Then he stepped forward and punched Dougal in the gut.

“Gah!” Dougal said, doubling over. Clutching his belly, he staggered back, nearly walking into the manservant. Dougal gasped, and looked up at his sire.

“Yes, that was a nice try. I like a childe who seizes an opportunity.” Antonio grinned maliciously at the fledgling. “Three problems, however. First, one of greater will than your own can resist your commands. Victor here understands his place, but my will is far harder than yours.

“Second, Dominate cannot be used to simply order someone to die,” Antonio said. “They cannot be made to do anything with certain chance of killing them. Self preservation is too strong to subvert so easily. They can be made to undertake a task that is suicidally risky, such as to attack a clearly stronger opponent. But they cannot be made to slit their own throats, let alone to drop dead on the spot.

“And thirdly...” Antonio walked up to Dougal and grabbed the front of his shirt, lifting up. Their faces met close up, Dougal's contorted in terror and frustration. Antonio smiled, their eyes meeting. “...you cannot Dominate one closer to Caine than you are. Period. I am your sire, so I am automatically stronger in blood than you. Understand?”

Dougal nodded, and the elder let his go. Her staggered away, biting his lip. He looked up at the manservant, who seemed intent on remaining out of the matter entirely.

“You may go, Victor,” Antonio said.

“Thank you sir,” said the mortal, bowing deeply. He shuffled away, rubbing his hip. The doors he shut behind him.

“You'll practice more on your next vessel,” Antonio said, walking to the set of two chairs facing each other. “Sit.”

Dougal complied, taking the seat opposite. Rubbing his sore belly, he looked at his sire. But he didn't meet his eyes.

“I see you avert your eyes,” Antonio said, smiling. “Good. Just as other clans have enhanced strength, so too do other clans possess the mind bending powers we do. So be careful whose eyes you meet, boy.”

He raised his hand, into a fist. “But there is one discipline denied the other, lesser children of Caine. A power unique to Clan Lasombra. It is not merely a gift. It is our legacy, and your deathright.” His fingers opened, palm raised upwards.

The lights overhead flickered. The shadows all around the room quivered, then began to dance. Finally, the darkness broke off of the surfaces of the walls, the floor, the ceiling, even from Antonio's body. They broke away into lines of smoke that whipped through the air.

Finally, the shadowy smoke traveled to the elder's hand, meeting and mixing over his palm. Lines like ink trailing in, coalescing and shifting. They formed a sphere dark as night. A rolling ball of obsidian, as if the old vampire had ripped a hole in world and held it.

Antonio smiled, utterly unconcerned. He merely stared at his childe. “Darkness itself is our eternal ally. The greatest boon I can offer you. Our crowning glory. Obtenebration.”

Dougal stared at it, too terrified to move or speak.

Present

“...Stop here.”

The carriage ground to a halt.

“Uh...Princess Luna?” Twilight asked, looking out the window. Neon lights bathed the street crimson and gold, advertising a quaint drinking establishment called the Withered Willow. “Why are we stopping here?”

Luna gazed out the window at the bar, hearing the low beat of music coming from inside. Her eyes traveled to the vampire. Then to Twilight. “Despite my earlier hopes, this simply can't wait,” she said. She opened the door. “We're going in.”

In the seat across from her, Dougal cocked and eyebrow, then shrugged, following.

The bar was bustling, packed by weekend revelers. Dozens of ponies – and a table of rowdy minotaurs – filled the air with discordant noise. Bitter barking, chipper chatting, slurred soliloquies. The clatter of mugs and sloshing of cider – and harder drinks besides. An apparent somnambulist teetered back and forth at the bar, the tending stallion attempting in vain to pierce the haze of sleep and convince the guest to depart. A rousing bar ballad started up in the back, propagated by tipsy office workers that held together on their hind legs and swayed in step with the brass band in the corner.

Dougal surveyed the scene from behind the princesses. It reminded him of the bars back home, where inhibitions fled and loose women – and men too – permitted dark strangers to venture close and nibble at their necks. How often no one noticed the drawing of blood, or the patrons left giddy and unconscious at their tables or on the dance floor.

An excitable mare in uniform hopped up and addressed the party. “Welcome to The Withered Willow! I think we might have a table in-OH MY GOSH PRINCESS LUNA!”

Luna did her best to smile, but she was hardly in the mood. “Yes, can I...?”

“And Princess Twilight Sparkle too!” The waitress jumped up and down, giddy with excitement. “This is a huge honor!”

“Nice to meet you,” Twilight said.

“And...who's your...friend...?” the mare said, looking back to Dougal.

Dougal merely looked away, taking in the (suddenly very interesting) impromptu line dance the tipplers were engaged in.

“Miss, if you please,” Luna said, stepping forward. “My party have need of your storeroom. May we use it?” She wasn't smiling.

“...uh...I don't...” The waitress scratched her head, ears going flat. “I'll have to ask the owner. Give me one second.”

The mare made her way to the bar, ducking around the sleepwalker and speaking to the bartender. She pointed to the Princesses, which drew the stallion's attention. His eyes grew wide. The two spoke for a minute, the bartender growing increasingly concerned.

Finally, the mare returned. “Owner says it's okay if it's for royalty...but what exactly do you need it for?”

“Talking.” Luna walked forward, letting the mare lead their party through the crowded establishment. With every table they approached, the patrons ceased talking. Then, when the party had passed, conversations erupted anew.

Finally, the waitress led them into a small hallway, past a pair of restrooms. At the end of the hall, next to the back exit, was a door marked Employees Only.

“Here it is!” the mare said, gesturing to the door. “Will you be needing anything, your highnesses?”

“I need nothing, but thank you,” Luna said, nodding politely to the mare. She pushed open the door and filed in.

Dougal ducked his head to fit under the low entryway. “I will require no refreshments, thank you.” He smiled at the mare with shut eyes, though in his wake the mare was left disconcerted.

“Um, I could go for a glass of cider, if it's not too much trouble,” said Twilight, grinning forcefully in response to the mare's disquiet.

“Oh...uh, right away, Princess!” the mare said, tension fading. “I know your guards are on duty, but I'll get them some water.”

One of the guards muttered thanks, then the two took their place guarding the door.

The keeper found a spot next to a cabinet to stand. His brushed his fingers over a crate. “So, your highness,” said Dougal, “you wished to talk. What are we talking about?” He flashed her a smile.

“What was that back there?” Luna said, glaring at the vampire intently.

“Mr. Dempsey,” asked Twilight, looking back and forth between the lunar diarch and the undead, “did you make that...extrusion of darkness? The one that saved that child?”

“...yes.” Dougal clasped his hands together in front of him. “It's unfortunate I had to do that, it frightened the crowd so. But...I couldn't very well allow the boy to fall to his death. No?”

“You have control over shadows?” Luna said.

“Yes.”

“And you were going to mention this when?”

“I was scarcely interested in using the power of Obtenebration in the first place,” Dougal said, raising his hand. “It is a costly discipline, fueled by blood, and has no purpose in the mundane existence I wish to lead. Ergo, I didn't think it worth mentioning.”

“You also failed to mention your mind control ability,” Luna said, frowning deeply. “That is two powers – disturbing, dangerous powers – that you kept from us. What else have you been hiding?”

Dougal coughed. “Well...”

“Dammit, I want the truth!” Luna barked, stamping her hoof.

But, Dougal thought, can you handle the truth? He sighed, shaking his head. “Very well,” he said, “I have been less than forthcoming. Allow me to start again.” He spread his hands out in front of him, grinning affably. “My name is Dougal Dempsey. I'm a Lasombra and a Sabbat.”

The keeper saw just enough of the Princess's expression change before he was slammed hard into the wall.

“FOUL VILLAIN! DECEIVING DEMON!” Luna bellowed with the full might of the Royal Canterlot Voice. “I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THY TRUE NATURE!”

“Princess! Stop!” Twilight cried, pressing herself against Luna's side.

“Gah!” Dougal grunted, pressed against cold walls by the pressure of a navy blue aura. “W-what? I don't-”

Wham.

“Oof!” Dougal said, slammed again and held against the wall. The entire room shook. Cans fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Twilight Sparkle,” Luna said, not taking her glowing eyes off the vampire. “Thou heard what this foul villain said! You bloodsucking fiend! You are allied directly with King Sombra!”

Grunting, grasping at the plaster he was pressed to, Dougal choked out, “...ack...w-who?” His feet dangled, kicking, one pant leg torn. Exposing corpse white flesh and oil black ink.

“Do not play play us for a fool, Dougal Dempsey!” Luna barked moving in close and jutting into the vampire's face. “Thou just said as much! Thou said the name of King Sombra.”

“...La...sombra...”

“What?” Luna said.

“What?” Twilight said, standing still, unsure of how to handle the escalated situation.

“I...I s-said 'Lasombra', not 'King Sombra',” Dougal said weakly, hand reaching to his chest and clutching at it. “'Lasombra' is my Clan. Who is this King you speak of? I do not...know...him...”

Luna studied his face. Finally she stepped back, cutting off the aura.

“Ack!” Dougal cried, falling to his hands and knees. “Shit.”

“Thou...you...really claim no knowledge of King Sombra?” Luna said. “You have studied Equestrian history.”

“Cultural history...b-broad strokes...” Dougal said, trying to stand up. “Technology. Law. Business. Metaphysics and biology. I can't be expected to know everything. And the farther you go back, the more your books sound like legend and folk tales than actual historical accounts.”

“...yeah...they do that, don't they?” Twilight said, looking at the floor and scratching her neck. “I was always pressing Princess Celestia to help me create an authoritative account of Equestria's history. Make it a lot easier to handle inexplicably hidden threats from long ago.”

“Who are we talking about?” Dougal said, climbing to one knee, leaning against the wall.

“King Sombra,” Luna said, “a unicorn who dabbled in the blackest sorcery. A thousand years ago, he used his dark magic to conquer and enslave the Crystal Empire. It was only by luck that my sister and I sealed his threat, and only recently that the efforts of Princess Cadence and Twilight Sparkle and her friends that he was destroyed permanently.”

“...oh...” Dougal looked to Twilight Sparkle. The young royal just became much more interesting. “The Crystal Empire...I've only heard vaguely of it, and the books made no mention of it.”

“The empire was sealed along with Sombra,” Luna said, “some part of his vindictive revenge. It only reappeared recently, with the release of Sombra himself. You...truly know nothing of this?”

“Heh heh,” Dougal said, putting his weight on his knee. “I told you, your highness. I am not of this world, completely foreign. What I can say...” He hauled himself to his feet, leaning hard against the wall. “...is that I've seen enough coincidences in my time here between your world and mine that the similar naming is, at best, thematic only. I have nothing to do with him.”

“Then your powers of...'Obtenebration'?”

“Some vampiric powers are shared among the many descendents of Caine,” Dougal said, “but others are native to and jealously guarded by single Clans alone.” Standing up straight, Dougal adjusted his coat. Finally, he held out a hand, palm up. A ball of dancing shadows erupted in his hand, a small bundle of smoke-like darkness. “For the vampires of Lasombra, ours is Obtenebration, the ability to manipulate shadows. A talent passed down through our line since our Clan's progenitor.”

“Wooo!” Twilight whistled, staring at the ball with not an ounce of fear. Rather, she studied it intensely, already forming theories and questions.

Luna gulped, but stood firm. “Before, you said you were of Clan Ventrue,” she said. “That was a lie?”

“It was. I apologize.” Dougal, curious at the younger Princess's interest, manipulated the shadows into little figures, and set them dancing on his palm. “It was a safety precaution. I did not know if other...Kindred had or would appear in this world, and wished to hide my true nature. The Lasombra are feared and distrusted, because of the shadows we command. That...and because most of us are...not good people.”

“Because of your power?”

“It is not a power that is inherently evil, though it looks...and probably is unnatural,” Dougal said. “I like to think that the only evil a user of elemental darkness finds in it is what his brings there himself. Nothing requires a Lasombra to use their powers in any more vile a way as a vampire uses any power. It's just...my clan in general sees the question of corruption and answers in the affirmative. They embrace what they feel to be our superiority over mortals, and treat them...poorly.”

“That is not reassuring,” Luna said.

“No, it isn't.”

“Though you've given me little reason to suppose 'Kindred' are nice, as a rule,” said Luna.

“True.” Dougal clapped his hand closed, snuffing out the shadows.

Twilight Sparkle looked disappointed, though she began – or continued – listening closely. “Is that the only reason why you hid your true Clan? Because of distrust? Because that seems pretty horrible, being judged just because of accident of...turning, I guess?”

“Well no, there is another reason,” Dougal said. “But do you want to hear it?”

“Why would we not?” said Luna, narrowing one eye. “I said I wanted the truth.”

“Oh, because the truth isn't very nice,” said Dougal. He looked behind him, and spotted a crate. He brushed his fingers over the wood yet again. “I get the feeling you won't sleep well, knowing.”

“I can handle anything, Dempsey,” Luna said, rising to full height. “If there is some foul secret, I must know it. I want the full truth. Only then will I be able to properly judge you.”

So I'm still on trial even now, he thought. He shrugged, then sat down on the crate. “Very well, though it is a long story, and a hard one. You will want to take a seat.”

Luna and Twilight remained standing, full attention on the vampire.

He felt like a storyteller. “No? Alright.” Dougal cleared his throat, weaving his fingers together. “The Lasombra are not trusted for political reasons as well.”

Dougal crossed his legs, letting the exposed one dangle. The tattoo of the inverted, thorny ankh was displayed prominently.

“The Lasombra are the founders of the Sabbat.”

October 1956

“Dougal Dempsey?”

Dougal stood at attention. “Uh...” Then the car door shut behind him, the vehicle driving off in a hurry. “Ah!” he said, watching his last chance to back out speed away. “Um, yes! Yes I am!” He stiffly stared, frowning nervously.

A man stood near the cracked brick wall, arms crossed, eying the fledgling. He wore a dark brown long coat, tattered at the bottom edge, and his head was topped by a mop of dirty blond hair. “Right,” he said, studying Dougal with dispassionate interest. He stepped forward, brown leather boots thudding against the rain-slick concrete sidewalk. “Well met, Dougal Dempsey.” He bowed at the waist.

“...thank you?” Dougal said, looking to either side.

“This way,” the man said, turning around and opening the nearby door.

Dougal noticed as they entered the building that a cavalry saber hung at the man's belt. Saber and sheath shined in the light.

Dark and dank was the hallway, wallpaper cracked and peeling. Wooden floors creaked with every step, and the few electric light bulbs flickered and hummed overhead every few meters.

“...um...your group...lives here?” asked Dougal, silently wondering if “lives” was ever a good word in this context.

“Temporary haven,” the man said, eyes forward. “We won't stay entirely too long, before we're on the road again.”

“Then whose place is...?”

The two passed an open door. Dougal peeked inside briefly.

Saw man-sized bundles of sheets, lying in rows on the floor of a blood-splattered apartment. The sweet scent of blood wafted across his nose, mingling with the first stages of decomposition.

Dougal stared forward, doubling his pace. He caught up to the man. “So! W-what's your name?” he said, voice quivering.

“Lance,” said the man, briefly pausing to look the fledgling in the eyes. “Lance Elliot.” He continued walking, turning them around a corner. “I'll warn you now that the others have no patience for untested recruits. They won't care to learn your name. Not until you've proven yourself capable of surviving long enough that your name is worth remembering.” He thought a moment, then added, “I'm sorry.”

The fledgling almost tried asking how long that would take, but gulped, wringing his hands together. “...how many new people...um, die? If you don't mind me asking...”

The two stopped before a door. Moonlight poured in from the windows. Lance looked over his shoulder. “You have a twenty percent chance, at least, of dying in the next few nights.”

“...oh...” Dougal's shoulders sagged.

“The Ductus will explain in more detail,” Lance said, gripping the doorknob. “We're here.”

Moving through the threshold, they came into a small outdoor clearing. Checking around proved that they were actually in a walled off garden, enclosed by the apartment building that circled it like a square donut. Cramped was the space, crowded as it was by a half-dozen figures standing or sitting around.

Made all the more cramped by the mound of dirt in one corner, heaped high from the large hole being dug at that moment.

“Well, well, well,” said a man on the floor, hoisting himself to his feet. He wore a leather jacket, and a thick pair of sunglasses. “If it isn't Espinosa's baby.” He grinned, flashing fangs. “How's the old bastard doing?”

“...uh...fine,” said Dougal. He kept his arms glued to his sides. “N-nice to meet you.” He bowed at the waist.

All around, the assembled predators started laughing.

“Oh stop with that crap,” Sunglasses said, pointing at him. “Or did Lance lead you to believe we do that whole bowing shit around here? Only he does that.”

Dougal blinked, looking around self-consciously before rising to his full height again.

Lance leaned against the wall behind Dougal. He coughed for effect.

Sunglasses continued. “You wanna bow like some prig, that's your prerogative. Don't know whether that Elder daddy of yours taught you anything from this century, but here in the Sabbat we do what we want to do, when we want to do it.”

The digger in the hole clambered out of it, shovel in hand. Dougal noted the “man” looked positively hideous.

“Now, we agreed to take you under our 'benevolent wing...” Sunglasses paused to let the others chuckle, his eyebrows dancing up and down. “...as a favor to Espinosa. Because WE wanted to. We're not like those weak fools in the Camarilla, who all do everything someone else says because he happens to have a week of seniority.”

“Yeah!” said a burly looking man from the side, pumping his fist. He leaned in from where he stood. “So don't go thinking because you're daddy's favorite, that you'll get any special treatment. You try that...” He smacked his fist into the palm of his hand, then jerked his thumb across his throat. “...and I'll beat you until you're a smear on my fist. Get it?”

“Hear hear!” someone cheered. It was the...woman-like abomination standing behind and to the side of the large gentleman.

Dougal shuddered, averting his gaze from the woman's distorted face. Instead he studied her four gangly arms, memories of that thing – that “Tzimisce” - from the night at the warehouse.

“Yes, yes, well said Barry,” said Sunglasses, clapping his hands lightly. “Name's Vick. I'm what we call the Ductus – first among equals, on account of me being the most badass.”

“Oh fuck you, Vick!” said Barry, though he was grinning like an idiot, fangs shamelessly displayed.

“And you, little lick,” said Vick, stepping forward and jutting his face into Dougal's personal space. “You aren't even Sabbat. Not yet.”

Dougal blinked, averting his eyes from the ones hidden behind tinted glass. All around him, he could feel eyes burning into his flesh. Heard the chuckles and snickers. “...I...I'm w-willing to do what it takes to fit in.”

“That's the spirit!” said Vick, spreading his arms wide. He motioned Dougal to follow. “That's what I love to hear. But words mean nothing. You've got to prove you have what it takes to roll with us. We'll be engaging in a little ritual, then head off on a...special mission.”

Dougal stepped forward. He looked around, and thought one of the people were missing. “...Mission?”

“A cutting of the teeth,” Vick said, adjusting his sunglasses. “We'll throw you at our enemies, to soften them up. Nothing personal, you understand?”

“...what?”

Lance coughed. “It will not be too many adversaries,” he said. “So take courage.”

“Yes, take courage,” Vick said, patting Dougal on the back...hard. As the fledgling winced, Vick said, “it'll just be a few blood bags. Normal human wastes of space; security guards, who just happen to have a couple guns. Nothing you can't handle now that you're dead.”

Dougal blinked, dreading the idea of murdering innocent people. “...why are we...?”

“If you live long enough, we'll tell you.” Vick stepped back, gripping the flaps of his jacket. “Live through that, and you'll be True Sabbat. Afforded all the rights due a badass vampire of the Sword of Caine.

“...but before any of that, there's still one last thing we need to do.” Vick clapped his hands together. “Creation rites!” He motioned to the large hole in the ground.

Fledgling Lasombra looked to the hole. Then he turned bewildered to the pack leader. “...what?”

Which was when the Nosferatu's shovel struck Dougal in the back of the head.

Present

“No, we're quite alright.”

The waitress, head stuck through the doorway, looked around the room. “Are you sure, Princess?”

“Yes, we very much are, thank you,” Luna said, nodding her head.

“...okay, well,” the waitress said, putting on a smile and stepping inside, a wood plate with mugs on it balanced atop her hoof, “I brought drinks. Here you are, Princess Twilight.”

“Thank you!” Twilight said, taking her mug of bubbly cider with levitation. She sipped greedily. “Mmm...yum!”

“Water, Princess Luna?”

“...yes, thank you...” Luna said, taking the glass of water.

“And uh...would you like water...sir?”

“None for me, thank you,” Dougal said, sitting comfortably on the wooden crate. He smiled.

The waitress shuddered slightly, but gave a nervous smile. “Just tell me if you need anything!”

When the door closed, Luna took a sip from her water glass and turned back to Dougal. “You were saying, Dempsey?”

“Of course,” Dougal said. He cleared his throat. “Millennia ago, the childer of Caine – the first murderer – knew only one organization: loyalty to Clan and Sire. Caine had long ago abandoned his wayward progeny, leaving the clan founders to rule theirs with varying degrees of control. For all, power was held by aged, and sought by the younger.

“Over herds of mortals, resources, and prestige, or simply for bitterness and hate, vampires waged war and hatched plots,” Dougal said. “This was and is the Jyhad, the eternal struggle. Elders born in bygone ages used their childer as agents, tools, and expendable resources in their petty rivalries and power plays. Those embraced only to be used in turn embraced and used others, jockeying for status and their own advantages. Only the eldest held any real power.

“A few hundred years ago, some resentful neonates chaffed more than ever against their servitude, and rebelled. This lead to the Anarch Revolt.”

“Does this have a point, Dougal Dempsey?” Luna asked, though she looked with puzzlement as she spied Twilight Sparkle already taking notes with rapt attention.

“Everything must be told in its proper order, Princess,” said Dougal. “The Anarch Revolt was a bloodbath. Childer rising up and slaughtering – even slaking their thirst upon – their elders. Elders fleeing, leaving their still loyal Ancillae and ghouls to die in their place. Atrocities were committed on both sides. Youngsters drunk on rage and power, the aged mad with fear at an unprecedented wave of unthinkable betrayal. The blood bond, long the sanguine means of ultimate control, found a reliable and total counter in a special Rite. And all the while, mortal institutions took notice of the parasites in their midst, and waged a campaign to purge them. The Inquisition accused people of being witches and blood-drinking monsters. Some of the ones they tried, tortured, and burned were even what they were accused of being...”

“Ghastly...” Luna muttered, growing pale. Was senseless violence and disharmony ubiquitous, even among the mortals of the human species? “...are you trying to offend me, Dempsey?”

“All of it is true, your highness. I tell it as it happened,” Dougal said, waving a hand. “There are plenty of elders now who still remember, and would most like to forget.” He rubbed his hands together, looking at the ceiling. At the lightbulb swinging on a wire. “As for the Lasombra, they saw opportunity. Many of them, even elders, wished to move out from under the thumb of our Founder...”

“Name?”

“Hmm?”

Twilight had a pencil poised over her notepad. “Your founder's name?”

“We do not give him...It...a name...” Dougal said. “I was told it is because by that point, such a creature strong and pure in the blood and married to the shadows could no longer truly be called a man. Not even close. Neither It nor any other of the Antediluvians could approach human.”

“Antediluvians?”

“We call them that because they came from before the Flood,” Dougal said. “The great deluge thousands of years ago that swept the world clean. It is said that God flooded the world as punishment for creating so many vampiric progeny.”

“And this...Caine...didn't merit that?” Twilight asked, using the pencil to scratch her ear.

“He was already punished for his own misdeeds. Vampirism was his punishment. It is said that Caine used his own powers to curse his progeny and all descendents with their respective Clan weaknesses.”

“Weaknesses?” Luna said, ears visibly perking up.

“You have noticed my lack of reflection, no?”

“Of course,” Luna said. “It's impossible to miss. I merely assumed it to be some...quirk of your kind, and didn't mention it.”

“Quirk it is, of my Clan,” said Dougal. “All Clans have their own weaknesses, punishing their members for the faults or crimes their Antediluvians committed.” He shook his head. “But we're getting off topic...certain members of Clan Lasombra, including one of the Founder's own progeny – Grantiano – stormed It's estate while It lay torpid. They slew Its guards, and then slew It.”

“And it was a monster even by the standards of vampires?” Luna asked, covering her mouth with a hoof.

“Undoubtedly, though not as much as the Antediluvian founder of another Clan,” Dougal said, smiling. “Following our example, members of Clan Tzimisce entered the ancient home of their own Founder and slew It too. From there, the Revolt continued...but the tides turned.” He leaned back, twiddling his thumbs. “It was inevitable really. The older a vampire gets, and the closer in generation they are to Caine, the more powerful they are. In a surprising move for ones so obsessed with their own power, the Elders joined forces eventually to repel their wayward progeny. And so they did. The Revolt had born the group known as the Anarchs, and the response was the formation of the Camarilla. A sect by elders, for elders.”

“The one you told me about back on the train,” Luna said.

“Yes,” Dougal said.

“This is the first I'm hearing of this,” Twilight said.

“The truncated version is that seven Clans of thirteen joined forces, creating a loose but gentricratic government. These Clans were Ventrue, Toreador, Malkavian, Brujah, Tremere, Nosferatu, and Gangrel.”

“So...many...names...” Twilight muttered, furiously scribbling.

“And that is literally only half, plus point five,” Dougal chuckled. “Anyway, the Anarchs began to lose. Lose hard. Turns out you...ha ha...you really can't base a winning strategy on a bunch of anarchists performing raids in a slapdash fashion against an organized group older and more powerful than you.” He paused, considering the irony. “Rather than fight until ground to nothing, the Anarchs agreed to sign a peace agreement. But the agreement was at once lenient and massively one-sided. The Conventions of Thorns as it was called merely agreed that all but the gravest atrocities would be pardoned, and the Anarchs would be absorbed into the Camarilla, with everything returning to the old ways. It did nothing to address the legitimate grievances the young vampires had against the old system. The old system that gave all power and consideration to the old, because they were old. Moreover, while the nominal leaders of the Anarchs agreed to the peace, many vampires were far too bitter and far too war-hungry to agree to it.

“So when the first draft of the Convention of Thorns was passed to the Lasombra delegation, they took one look and immediately stormed out, taking the most radical elements with them. The Lasombra and the Tzimisce and the scattered members of other clans declared eternal war against the Camarilla and the Antediluvians who ruled them, albeit secretly now. Thus was born the Sabbat as an institution.”

“That was altogether a long and informative tale,” said Luna, “but what exactly does that have to do with you or perceptions of this 'Sabbat'?”

Dougal crossed his legs. “Because the Sabbat is evil.”

“Evil?”

“Very evil,” Dougal said, narrowing his eyes. “I mentioned the first night we met that the Camarilla desires to live in secret and pretend to be human.” His eyes wandered to Twilight Sparkle. “Their laws and culture emphasize the maintenance of their Humanity...that is, their rationality, morality, and sanity. All vampires are monsters with a Beast inside that compels them towards slavery to their baser urges. That and the alienation from the species proper by their nature, and the many centuries a successful vampire can expect to live, combine to lead vampires towards degeneration, and ultimately reduction to a primal animal. This is tied to moral degradation and anti-social tendencies. To avert this, and to maintain the Masquerade of secrecy that protects vampire-kind from discovery following the fires of the Inquisition, the Camarilla seeks order and the preservation of their Humanity. They pretend to be human, so human they will remain.”

“I am with you thus far,” said Luna.

“Sounds sensible enough,” said Twilight.

“Indeed it probably is,” Dougal said. “A pity that the Sabbat does the exact opposite.”

The Princesses blinked, then looked at each other.

“The Sabbat do not believe in Humanity,” Dougal said, leaning forward. “They believe that they are above it. Above humans, who are seen as little more than livestock and prey, to be hunted and devoured. No more of value than as sustenance and breeding stock. The Sabbat holds as its party line that a vampire – and the Sabbat calls them 'vampires', not 'Kindred' – should not be held back by humans, or by the presumption of being human. This is reflected further in their so-called 'Paths of Enlightenment'. Alternate systems of morality supposedly designed to fit more with the vampiric condition as predators and transcendants. Apparently the practice was common before the Revolt, and many refused to adapt to the new, Humanity-centric model. Could not be bothered to act decently.”

“What kind of alternate morality systems?” Twilight asked, though she noticed how Luna looked gravely at her. “...um...”

“Perhaps I'm not being clear,” Dougal said, shaking his head. “Let me describe the Sabbat this way: it is a mob of psychotic, bloodthirsty monsters who glorify their monstrous nature. They attack innocents. They feed and kill as one might blink. The deplore humans and civilization, and have as little to do with them as possible. Only because of grudging pragmatism and self-service do they uphold the Masquerade, and then just barely. The Sabbat rolls in packs, fights against the Camarilla with suicidal zeal, and commits casual atrocities because it amuses them. They value freedom so highly that there is barely organization; they fight against each other as much as the Camarilla. And the only thing they like as much as freedom is absolute loyalty to the sect.”

The Princesses said nothing, gaping open mouthed.

“Hypocrisy, I know,” Dougal said, looking away. “But loyalty they demand, and they maintain it with a dogma and peer pressure. They wish every vampire to be like them, and deplore 'weakness'. Whether that be a meek demeanor, a focus on non-violent things, or a reluctance to take up barbarism. They would have all vampires wild and free, barking mad...or psychopathic...or coldly indifferent to suffering...or else malevolently alien.

“The Camarilla may be led by corrupt elders,” Dougal said, “but their worst pales in comparison to what a given pack will accomplish on a lark.”

“And...you are a part of this...wicked group?”

“Hmm?” Dougal said, peeking back to his audience.

Luna was scowling, shaking bodily. “You describe evil I cannot even believe,” she said, shaking her head. “Yet you describe it so easily...and you claim to be a member of this foul menagerie.” She looked to the floor, searching for the words.

Twilight Sparkle said nothing, sitting on the ground and staring in quiet, mounting horror into her mug of cider.

“You speak of the Sabbat as evil, Dougal Dempsey,” Luna continued, “So I know you understand the gravity of evil you describe, and do not like it. But then...how can you possibly claim membership? How can you call yourself a Sabbat?”

Dougal remained silent, for a moment. Then he said, “...one does not simply...leave...the Sabbat...”

“Why not?” Luna said. “And why join in the first place?”

“I didn't join the Sabbat,” said the Keeper. “I am a Lasombra. I was embraced into it, because the Lasombra ARE the Sabbat.” He rubbed his hands together. “It is possible to leave, certainly, but I would be marking myself for death. Traitors are not tolerated, and defections are responded with great and furious reprisal. One begins so weak, and options so few. For my own survival, I had to stay. I had to obey...no matter how many awful things I would have to be party to.”

Luna was breathing heavily now. Forcing back tears, perhaps. Or simply trying to stop herself from throttling him. “...this...you realize this does not help your case, correct?”

“No. It doesn't.”

“How long have you been a Sabbat?”

“...forty five years...”

“Then how are you not a monster?” Luna asked. “Forty five years, and you didn't succumb? Forty five years of pressure to give in, and become a monster, and you sit here claiming moral superiority?”

“Not superiority...”

“But you say the Sabbat is evil, the Sabbat are monsters,” said Luna, seething out forcefully. She sniffed. “What about you? Are you a monster?”

“...I don't think so...”

“How?”

Dougal fished into his pocket and pulled out the Rosary.

Twilight Sparkle, peeking her head up, stared at the beaded string and the glistening silver cross.

The keeper coiled the rosary around his fingers. “Two things,” he said. “The first...is because I...found my faith again...”

October 1956

“...yawn...sorry...speak child. The Lord and I listen.”

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

Dougal hugged himself, rocking back and forth. He ought to have smelled the old wood varnish of the confession booth. All he really could smell was the pungent stench of blood. The red liquid stained his jacket.

It was the dark of night, of course. It was a miracle the priest happened to be around. The old man grunted in acknowledgment.

“It has been...it has been sixteen years...since my last confession...” Blood ran from Dougal's mouth, and from his eyes.

The confession took a very long time.

“...I am sorry...for these and all of my sins...”

The priest said nothing. Behind the grated screen, Dougal could hear the poor old man shaking.

“Father?” Dougal choked out, covering his mouth.

“...ah...” the man said. He began muttering under his breath very quickly. “...the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside the still waters...”

“Father?”

“He restores my soul; he leads me in the paths of righteousness, for His name's sake...”

Dougal doubled over, hiding his face in his hands. “...I'm sorry, Father. I shouldn't have come here...I...I shouldn't have expected G-God to...to forgive a...a monster...

“A monster...like me...”

The old man stopped praying. “...my son...”

“Well, well, well, look what we have here.”

Footsteps from outside the booth. Dougal's cold, dead heart sank.

“...who...who is there?” said the priest in a shaky voice.

Dougal heard the other confessional door open, flooding the opposite booth with light that filtered through the grate. “Oh would you look at that?”

“What are you...ah!”

Dougal burst out the door, finding his pack all there. They too sported the stains of the night's violence. But they stood with a smile.

The priest struggled in Barry's meaty hands. “For God's sake, unhand me! This is a house of God!”

“No!” Dougal gasped, but Vick stepped in front of him.

“Oh there you are, Dougie,” Vick said, looking down at the sobbing wreck. “So this is where you ran off to.” He stepped back, shaking his head. “Tsk, tsk. You need to learn to man up, Dougie. Things are only going to get worse from here.”

“Weak Bible-thumping pansy,” Barry said, smiling malevolently over his prize. “Gonna have to teach you a lesson, aren't I?”

“No! Stop!” Dougal said, reaching his hand out. “He didn't do anything!”

The priest had his eyes shut and his hands clasped together, shaking like a leaf. “Yea, though I walk...I walk through the v-valley of death,” he whispered, “I...I will f-fear no...no evil...”

“You should fear me, old man,” Barry said, leaning close to the priest's face and blowing a cold, pungent blood breath at him.

“...for...ack...cough cough...for You are...with me...”

“I'm gonna waste him!”

“Go ahead, I won't stop you,” said Vick. The other pack members chuckled, standing back to watch it.

“I...said...”

Dougal jumped. “LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

“Wh-AH!”

The two tumbled, the priest let go during the impact.

Barry looked up from the ground. “Ah! What the he-OOF!”

Dougal began punching the Brujah. Over, and over, and over. “Aaaaaah!” he cried, fresh blood tears flowing down his face.

Some of the others made to move, but a saber whipped in front of them.

Lance looked at them, shaking his head. “This is his fight. Don't interfere.”

“I'm inclined to agree,” said Vick, crossing his arms. “Let him work his anger out.”

“...uuuuhhh...” Barry gurgled, bruised eyes rolling.

Dougal just kept hitting him, fangs barred, fists so tight his palms bled. Barry's vitae mingled with his own with every savage strike.

After another minute, Vick motioned to Lance. “Alright, alright, that's enough. Get him off.”

Lance sheathed his blade and stooped over the two, seizing Dougal in a headlock. “Enough, enough!” he muttered, dragging the enraged neonate to his feet.

“Rah! Let...go of me!”

“Calm down, Dougal,” Lance said, dragging him back to keep his off balance. “You've done enough.”

Dougal flailed towards the Brujah some more, but eventually went limp.

“Uh...fucking...bastard...” Barry struggled to his feet, clutching his face. “Piece of shit...I'll tear your head off...”

“Give it a rest, Barry,” Vick said, making towards the door. “Kid beat your ass. Get over it. Come on, we'll find you some blood bag to munch on. You'll feel good as new.” He waved to the rest. “Come on, let's leave Dougie to his pet mortal. Old fart is dead walking anyway.”

Lance let Dougal go, patting him on the back. “Are you alright?”

“...uh...fuck...” Dougal said, finally unclenching his fists. He winced as they stung. “...yeah...I'm okay.”

“Good,” Lance said, nodding. “I applaud your honor. See you later.” He left.

The priest watched as the others left, muttering his prayers. “...surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life...and I will dwell in the house of the Lord...forever...Amen...”

Dougal, eyes downcast, began walking towards the door. He was trying not to cry.

“My son.”

The neonate looked back.

Old as he was, a badly shaken, the priest rose to his feet. He wore his night gown and sleeping cap and fuzzy slippers, yet stood proudly. “My son, your...your sins are grave, and your curse graver still. But the Lord is good, and forgives all crimes, so long as you keep faith in your heart.” He searched his pocket, and fished out a rosary chain.

He hobbled forward and reached out. Taking Dougal's bloody hands, he placed the beads in them.

“As penance, perform the Hail Mary every night, and do good in this world. Fasting is also...appropriate,” said the priest, looking slightly troubled, but he nodded. “And remember the act of contrition.”

Dougal stared at the man, then nodded slowly, taking the beads.

“Go now, and sin no more.”

Dougal walked slowly away. He knew it would be impossible for him to avoid sinning again in the future. But he bowed his head, muttering, “God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you...”

Present

“...and the second,” said Dougal, looking to Princess Luna, “is because I was very, very lucky.”

“Lucky?” Luna said, cocking an eyebrow. “How so?”

Dougal smiled. “Most of my original pack died.”

12 - Fire And Fellowship

Ch. 12 - Fire And Fellowship

June 1958

“Sorry about this.”

Dougal dropped the rolled rug into the hole. It plopped at the bottom, a cold, bloodless hand spilling out of the end.

The vampire sighed, crossing himself. He took up the shovel and began piling dirt on top of the bundle. The hole was a grave repurposed from the previous night's creation rites. Enough “potential recruits” were assembled for all of them, but Vick decided he wanted to give them a chance. Asked if anyone wanted to leave. When one of them immediately spoke up, he was promptly freed and sent on his way (albeit with memory erased and made to wander in a daze).

The second one who asked for freedom, Dougal was presently burying. How enough nerve was worked up to ask for release after that, Dougal hadn't the faintest idea. For his part, Vick merely congratulated them on their courage, but stated they would still participate. Then Vick laughed.

Dougal sighed again. Another heap of soil landed in the grave. He watched dance shadows of tree branches overhead, cast by moonlight. For the thousandth time, he focused his attention on those shadows, and on moving the earth. It was easier that way.

“Almost done?”

Lance ambled forward, ducking under a low-hanging branch. He surveyed the unmarked grave, and then the other graves planted between the trees.

“Almost,” Dougal said. Another scoop of earth, in the hole.

“The body in there?”

“...sigh...yes...” Dougal paused, then started shoveling again. “Was this one supposed to be mine? Or was it the one that got away?”

“It doesn't matter,” Lance said. “One is dead, the other gone. You don't have to take responsibility for them either way.”

“Maybe you're right,” Dougal said, pushing the last mound of earth onto the grave. “And maybe it's better this way. Better than the alternative.”

“Why would him not being blooded be better?” Lance asked, tapping the hilt of his blade. “He could have become greater than he ever would in life.”

“He could also have lived longer,” Dougal said, planting the shovel in the ground. “You think he had much chance in the coming fight?”

“He was a coward,” Lance said, shaking his head. “So I suppose not. As it stands, he suffered a coward's fate.” He looked up at the moon through the leaves. “Anyway, let's go in.”

“Sure.” Dougal glanced at the moon as well, then took up the shovel and carried it on his shoulder. He followed.

The two Cainites traced their way through the twisted woods. All around them, trees groaned softly as the summer heat settled into chill night.

The winding path led them up to a hill overlooking the city. A dilapidated shack stood at the crest, a stolen pick-up parked haphazardly in front. A light was on in the window. Muffled voices came from inside.

“No! Don't touch me!”

The young woman backed away, arms held close to her chest. She shook violently.

Four slender arms spread out from the Tzimisce in front of her. “Come on, come on,” the woman with a crone's voice crooned, “I don't want to hurt you, deary.” She extended one of her hands, reaching out with long fingers. The pale flesh of her arm had ringlets sculpted into them, as if wearing jewelry that was fused into it. “We're just going to help you change your face. You won't be needing it anymore.”

The girl's frightened eyes darted around the room. They settled – not for the first time that night – on the man on the floor in the corner. She watched him shiver and groan, clutching at a head distending, clumps of hair coming loose with every grasp. A hideous individual stood over him, watching, with quiet interest, the transformation.

“Tsk, tsk, don't fret, deary,” the Tzimisce said, motioning towards herself. “He's getting all the changes he'll ever get all at once. Pity the poor soul.”

The Nosferatu standing glanced briefly at the Tzimisce, then turned back to his progeny.

“Now, you and I, we're different,” said the crone, stepping forward.

“S-stay back!” said the girl, retreating still further. “I don't want to be different! I don't want to be like you, or him, or anybody!” Her fangs were extended, but she only grit her teeth and shook. “I just want to go home!”

“Home? Oh, you're not going home,” said the Tzimisce sire, shaking her head. “You've changed too much already. That home won't fit you at all.” She brought two hands together and tapped fingers together. “Like a caterpillar came from his chrysalis, you're no longer what you were. You're something better now. Something...beautiful.” She looked at the fledgling, four eyes watching her intently. “Or you can be. You can be anything you want now, save what you were. But why would you want to be that?”

“Please...p-please,” said the girl, “I don't want this...” Scarlet tears began rolling down her face. “...I-I don't want...to be like him...”

“But it won't be like him, sweetie,” said the crone, waving her hand absentmindedly at the wretched creature on the ground. “It's not going to hurt, I promise. See?” She brought two hands to her face. They began kneading her skin like dough, rolling and pinching until the structure of her face was twisted more than it already had. When those fingers had excised bone and began sculpting them into miniature horns, she said, “See? See? Doesn't hurt a bit, no no.”

“Oh god!” the girl said, clapping a hand over her mouth. She backed up still further, followed close after by the advancing crone. In short order, she retreated into the back of the couch, and jumped a little in surprise. “Ah!” she said, looking frantically at what her bottom had hit. Then she focused back on the crone. “Ugh!”

“Now don't fret so much, deary,” said the Tzimisce sire to her childe. “Come here, and I'll teach you how to do it too. Oh!” Struck by an idea, she began playing with her face in earnest. Flattening the new horns, smoothing the cheeks, rebuilding the nose from scratch.

“Ah!” the childe screeched.

“What's going on in here?”

Lance and Dougal moved from the tiny entryway into the main room. They looked at the scene.

The crone didn't look like a crone anymore, at least not in the face. She looked, instead, like a mirror image of her childe...except for the extra set of eyes, of course. They were simply too valuable to lose. “See? See, deary? We're twins! Twins! Doesn't this give you ideas? You can look like anyone you want. How about we help you look like Marilyn Monroe? Wouldn't you like to look like her? Or how about Audrey Hepburn, since she matches your hair?” The Tzimisce stepped forward, extending a hand again. “I'll show you a Funny Face, eh?”

“N-no...no!” Finally, as the hand inched within a foot, the girl slapped it away. “No!”

Without warning, she bolted away from her sire. She ran for the exit, meaning to get around Dougal.

The Lasombra, wide eyed, stepped to the side and let the girl slip by. He craned his neck to watch her duck out the door, dripping blood tears on the floor as she went.

“Oh Dougie, why didn't you stop her?” said the Tzimisce, pouting.

Dougal found the effect disconcerting and surreal. “...well, maybe if you didn't scare her so much, contorting your face like a weirdo,” he said, “she wouldn't have run away.”

“Oh pish tosh, you don't know a thing,” she said, moving past Dougal into the tiny entry hall. “Come on, let's after her before she hurts herself.”

“We're after who now?”

Vick descended the stairs, a phone clutched in his hands and trailing cord upstairs. Barry followed after, leading more of the newly embraced fledglings along nervously.

“Dougal let my girl go,” said the crone, hands on the doorknob. “And right when I was just trying to teach her how to be a proper Tzimisce. Now I've got to go find where she's run off to.”

“No, you're not,” Vick said, holding up the phone receiver. As Dougal could see, the receiver had been broken in the center, as if crushed with potent strength. “We don't have the time. Mission's moved up, and we need to move now.”

“Why?” asked Lance looking up at the Ductus.

“Yeah, what's this about moving it up?” said the crone, wagging her finger. “It was supposed to be tomorrow night, right?”

“Was. Not anymore,” Vick said. He dropped the broken phone parts to the ground. “Just got word from the Bishop that our Archon is moving now, rather than tomorrow. Everybody grab your shit, because we're now on the clock.”

“But the girl...” said the crone.

“No time,” Vick said. “We'll find her later, once the Archon is dead. Move people, we don't have all night!”

Present

“It was a trap, of course.”

Dougal's hands played nervously with his pen. “When we found the Archon and his underlings, we sent the fledglings in first,” he said, “as is regrettably standard in the Sabbat. They didn't stand a chance, but they weren't supposed to. They ate enough lead to line a bomb shelter...”

“They...ate lead?” Luna asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Bomb shelter?” said Twilight Sparkle.

“...the weapons with which war is waged, in my world, are guns,” Dougal said. “Hollow metal cylinders that explosive powder is discharged in, sending small hunks of metal flying at high speeds towards the target.”

“Fascinating...” Twilight said, though her face took on a slight green hue. “And the bomb shelter? Why would one need to be lined with lead? And how often do bombs go off that...?”

“On second thought, I don't want to talk about the Bombs,” Dougal said, raising a hand to bid silence. “It alone is a story of my world you don't need to know.”

Twilight closed her mouth, staring at Dougal. The vampire was willing to talk about the gruesome nature of vampire existence. Why be silent on this topic?

“So, Dempsey, you are saying your pack sacrificed their youngest members,” Luna said. “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Dougal said. “None that we brought along survived that first charge.” Dougal juggled the pen between his fingers. He noted Twilight Sparkle watching the display. “Once the fledglings died for a war they neither knew nor cared about until that night, we ran in. I stuck to the roofs, trying to flank from the shadows. The defenders, however, likely expected us – the Sabbat loves its Shovelhead charges. They retreated into a warehouse, and Vick ordered we follow.”

June 1958

“Where the hell did they go?”

Dougal peered in from a sky light, looking down at his assembled pack. The warehouse floor was pitch black, save for dimly lit patches of overhead moonlight. Cainite hunted Kindred among the stacks and stacks of crates. But from his vantage on high, Dougal couldn't see any Kindred.

“Hey Dougie!” Vick cried towards the ceiling, searching until he found Dougal. “Do you see any-?”

Wham. The front doors of the warehouse shut hard.

“What the fuck? Who the hell closed the doors?”

“Sure as hell wasn't me.”

Dougal stepped away from the sky light, creeping over the roof. He drew shadows from around him, obscuring him. When he reached the ledge, he peered over.

Two large, burly Nosferatu busied themselves chaining the doors closed. Perhaps a hundred feet of clinking metal crossed over the steel doors. Suddenly, a smaller Nosferatu appeared from thin air and began jamming wooden boards between the steel and the ground. The larger ones began seizing huge wooden beams in a similar fashion.

The Lasombra blinked, sizing up the probably-not-new arrivals. He retreated, making his way back towards the sky light.

He was halfway there when he heard several simultaneous explosions below him. The force rocked the roof, causing Dougal to fall over.

Shit, shit, shit, Dougal thought, whipping his head around. Finally looking at the shadowed floor, he increased his pace towards the now-shattered sky light. An orange glow filtered out the hole.

Looking down, Dougal saw a raging inferno of Alighierian proportions. Crates once standing tall were now decimated from the inside, their timber blown in every direction and covering the ground. It had all become as firewood.

A sudden urge struck Dougal, feeling the heat, hearing the roar and crackle and pop, smelling the smoke, and seeing the flames dance before his eyes. It was an urge – a clawing, savage fear – to run. Fire. Fire! Dougal Dempsey cringed and contorted his face in horror, feeling the talons of the Beast scraping into his spine.

His legs prepared to kick off, sending him to a mad dash. Anywhere but here. Anything but the fire. He felt that crimson fear, and would obey.

“Aah! Fuck! Someone find a way out, now!”

Dougal's eyes, adjusted to the terrible flame, spied Vick on the floor. He was beating on his arm, trying to put out an flame. One of the lenses on his round sunglasses were blown out, the other cracked. His fangs were digging visibly into his lower lip, drawing blood. “Nnnnagh! Get your asses in gear, you...fff...fucks!”

In another corner, Barry – face contorted in terror – leapt up from the floor towards a high window. His fingers latched to the edge and he hauled himself up. He flung a beefy fist glass-ward, shattering it. He looked out.

Bang.

Barry lurched backwards, an arc of blood erupting from his head. Completely limp, he hurtled down, landing with a crash into a burning wood pile. Glass shards rained down upon him, twinkling orange in the light.

“Fuck! Snipers!” Vick shouted in alarm, looking at the window. He looked down at the immolated heap. “Fuck! Barry!”

Dougal spotted the crone along the rubble. Or at least her four-armed form, stuck beneath a rapidly burning mass of wooden shrapnel poking from her torso. He didn't see her head anywhere.

Lance was at the front doors, hacking uselessly at the solid, reinforced steel. “Hah!” he exclaimed with a hearty swing, but only succeeded in snapping his saber in half against the impregnable edifice. Lance looked at the broken weapon for several seconds.

Vick, meanwhile, ran through the burning building, looking for survivors.

“...ssss...ssss...ssssir...rr...”

The Nosferatu – for he had no name, at least none that he ever told the pack – lay pinned beneath an entire stack of burning boxes. His large, bug eyes were widened in horror. His mangled hand outstretched towards his Ductus. The Nosferatu was mouthing something, but his voice was too weak or too damaged to render more than a paltry few sounds. Admittedly, they were more than Dougal had ever heard him say. But as the fire grew greater, the sound of burning drowned out the ugly son of a bitch's voice.

As Vick frantically clawed at the pile, trying to dislodged the burning refuse, Lance wandered into the center of the warehouse. He stood beneath a sparse patch of cool moonlight, barely visible in a sea of blazing heat. He looked down at the floor, covering his face, but standing upright. He had re-sheathed his sword, and waited for the fire to take him.

Dougal didn't really know what he did. It was a feat he'd never done before, nor did he quite see it done by other Lasombra, like Vick or his sire.

He reached his hand down, as far as it could go. From the shadow of his sleeves and the shadows coiled around himself, a hand stretched down further. A dark hand, obsidian black, stretched down, attached to an arm that bridged the seemingly insurmountable distance. Just barely, the abyssal fingers wrapped around Lance's arm and tugged.

“Wha-?” Lance said, looking at his seized limb.

Gritting his teeth, Dougal pulled, willing the black appendage towards him with his prize in hand.

“Ah! Dougal!” Lance said, feet dangling as he was hoisted through the air. He looked down at the burning rubble expanding away from him. Through the cloud of smoke, he was born up.

When the Ventrue came in reach, Dougal seized him by the shoulders with his hands – his hands of meat – and pulled him through the sky light. “Ugh!” he grunted, tossing Lance to the ground.

Lance sprawled on the ground, rubbing his sides. “Ugh...Dougal?” He made to get up.

“Stay down,” Dougal said. “There are snipers.” He crawled back to the sky light, and studied the scene again. The fires were getting higher. He could feel the warmth through the metal roof.

Crouching walking, Lance wandered to the edge of the building and looked out. He could see another set of snipers in the alley opposite the one Barry was shot from. He walked back. “Can you save any of the others?” he whispered.

Dougal stared down at the warehouse floor. Vick was dragging the burning Nosferatu, but quickly abandoned him as the flames began to lick his own hands. The Ductus started shouting, but the roar of the fire was built to such a degree that he could not be heard.

He looked up at Dougal.

Dougal looked down at him. In his blood he felt an urge – an urge he swallowed from the bottom of a ceremonial cup – to help that man. Dougal also felt the urge – deeper and more primal – to flee the burning hell.

He agreed more with the Beast, for once. Dougal shrank from the edge of the broken sky light. “No,” he whispered flatly, “they're all gone. There's no saving any of them.” He shook his head.

Perchance he heard angry, desperate screams, but he shut them out. Dougal felt a little bad. Then, he heard a crack and a crash from below. The creaking of charred wood. Then he felt nothing, as if the connection had never existed.

“Damn.” Lance balled his fist. “We need to strike back at them. Now, while we have a chance.”

“...Lance,” Dougal said, blinking, “Lance, that's suicidal. There's too many of them. We need to get out of here.”

“I can't run.”

“You have legs, right?” Dougal said, looking at Lance's scorched slacks. “We can and should run.”

“No, Dougal,” Lance said. He looked the Lasombra in the eyes. “I. Can't. Run. It would be cowardice of the highest order to flee from battle.”

“It's not a battle anymore, Lance,” Dougal said, struggling to keep his voice low. “We've been decimated. The Camarilla won. We'll just be slaughtered if we attack them now. We don't stand a chance.”

“I know. I know full well...that I'll die fighting them.” Lance gripped the saber hilt and pulled out the shortened, hobbled blade. “But I can't retreat. I just can't.”

“Yes you can!” Dougal said, whispering as loudly as he could. His voice was breathy and strained.

“Dougal...dammit, Dougal.” Lance looked at the ground, the roof beneath his boots. “You don't understand. You're...”

“I'm what, Lance?” Dougal asked. “What don't I understand?”

“You're too...human,” Lance said. He looked over at Dougal. “I've seen you, how you act. You cling to your humanity. I won't judge you for that. But that's not the path I walk. I'm a soldier. To run away now...would be a dishonor I can't bear.” Lance looked towards the edge of the roof, crouch walking towards it.

Dougal planted a hand on Lance's shoulder. The Ventrue paused. “Lance, I won't say I understand. But now's not the time. There will be other battles. Other chances to get them. But Vick...but Vick and the others won't be avenged if you or I throw our lives...our unlives away on a fruitless attack.”

Lance stood there, squatting. He hesitated.

“You're the oldest of us now, Lance,” Dougal said. “You have to be Ductus of the pack. And the pack needs to be rebuilt. I can't do that alone.”

Somewhere in the distance, sirens were blaring. Drawing closer. Far below, dozens of stamping feet scuffled and stomped. They fled, scattering in all directions. The fire roared beneath them, smoke billowed from the shattered sky light.

“Hear that, Lance?” Dougal said. “They're the ones fleeing. Now it's not a retreat. It's a regrouping.”

Lance looked over his shoulder.

Dougal put on a fake grin, beads of blood sweat rolling down his face. He let the uneasy expression drop, frowning.

The Ventrue looked away, then sheathed his broken blade. “Fine. We're regrouping back at the shack.” He rose to his full height. “But this isn't over. The Archon is going to die.”

Dougal Dempsey smiled. “Of course. But we'll need more people first.”

Present

“You just...left him to die?”

Luna stared uncomfortably at Dougal. “Is that not heartless?”

“Heartless? For a monster like Vick?” Dougal said, raising an eyebrow. “...it was very cold of me, I suppose.” The vampire laced his fingers together. “I didn't like Vick much. He was as heartless as they came.”

“Does that justify leaving him to die?” Luna said.

“...no, it probably doesn't,” Dougal said. His hand crept to his pocket, fingering the rosary. “Forgiveness is...of paramount importance to my faith. Revenge...” Dougal looked away. “...revenge is certainly a sin. Although, one could also argue that I was doing the world a favor.”

“A favor...?” Luna said. She paused, considering. “You perhaps mean that, as great monsters as Vick and your fellow pack members were, the world was better off with their demise?”

“Exactly.”

“...I can certainly see your reasoning,” Luna said, gazing into her water glass. “Perhaps I may even empathize. That there are...evils in this world...better off destroyed. But regardless, that is not how things are done here in Equestria.”

“Oh?” Dougal said. “How so?”

“Most of the gravest villains of this world,” Luna said, “Tirak, Discord, Queen Chrysalis...Nightmare Moon...are usually sealed away, where they cannot do harm to ponykind, or anyone else.”

“...interesting...” Dougal said. “And how well did that turn out?”

“Uh...”

“Well...” Twilight said, hissing nervously through her teeth. “...Tirak came back...and Discord...and Queen Chrysalis...and, uh, Nightmare...Moon...” She glanced guiltily towards Luna.

“Hmm...” said Dougal, tapping a finger against the wooden crate. “...seems the standard operating procedure is not without its flaws.”

“But we reformed Discord!” Twilight chimed in, sitting up slightly. “And the evil influence on Luna was dispelled! So it's not all bad.”

“And this...Tirak? And Queen Chrysalis?”

“...um...resealed,” said Twilight. “...and caught, respectively.*”

“After she was allowed to roam free a while,” Luna said.

“Well yes, there's that...”

“And there's no guarantee that the prison will hold the Changelings...” Luna continued.

“...uh...yeah...”

Dougal's eyebrow rose. “...and this...King Sombra?”

“He was locked away for a thousand years...” Twilight said.

“Until he returned,” said Luna.

“And now he's blown up!”

“He's dead then?” said Dougal.

“Um...I suppose...” Twilight said, sweat running down her brow.

“Did you kill him?”

“Well there was the Crystal Heart and the love magic...” Twilight drifted off. “It's an entire thing. The point is that we tried to stop him and he got blown up...We certainly didn't mean to kill him, as such...”

“It just turned out that way,” Dougal supplied.

“Yep,” Twilight said, popping her lips and looking to the ceiling.

“Then I suppose in this instance we're not so different,” Dougal said. “You opted to use a level of force to defeat a grave threat, that turned out to be lethal. I chose not to intervene in a foolish monster meeting his end in fire. By our actions and inactions, the innocent populous lost two monsters.”

“Be that as it may, did you use this chance to leave the Sabbat?” Luna asked. “Did you use this opportunity to leave this...Jyhad...and pledge your unlife to goodness, such as you could being a vampire?”

“...there's the rub, isn't it?” Dougal said. “I probably should have. I probably should have left Lance to die as well, and retire to solitude. I should have turned my back on Crusades, and Clan Lasombra, and the Sword of Caine. I should have fled the war, and had done with all of it.

“I shouldn't have waited until recently to do what I should have done then.”

“Recently?” Luna asked.

Dougal leaned back, weaving his fingers together again, in front of his chest. “Princess Luna, on the night we first met, I told you I had, before coming to Equestria, been hounded by vampires who wanted me dead.”

“You did?” Twilight said, ears perking up.

“That's right, you did,” Luna said.

“These vampires who wanted me dead were not Kindred,” said Dougal. “They were very much Caine's childer. I was being hunted because, not too long ago, I did what I should have done. I ran. I cut the remaining ties I had with the sect. I broke the greatest rule the Sword of Caine had.

“I betrayed the Sabbat.”

Author's Note

* This chapter takes place before the events of Fiendship is Magic: Chrysalis.

Not that I take the canon written in Fiendship Is Magic all that seriously.

14 - Business As Usual

Ch. 14 - Business As Usual

October 1958

“So, what do you lot want?”

Dougal Dempsey coughed, looking away. He focused his gaze on the sparsely lit trees all around them. Ears perked at the whistling of wind through the warm orange leaves. They were more tuned to the sounds he hoped not to hear. Sounds of stamping feet and primal howls.

Nora stared, wide-eyed, mouth open slightly.

The figure's hood had two long cuts, reaching from the lip to half-way back. These cuts were then held closed by two sets of shoe lacing, strung through hand-punched holes. Obvious was their purpose, really, given the woman's set of large stag antlers that rose roughly a foot above her head.

The figure's eyes, barely visible under the hood, drifted to the Tzimisce. “See somethin' you like, lassie?”

“Mih!” Nora squeaked, jumping behind Dougal. Her hands rested on his shoulders, and she ducked down. Admittedly she didn't need to duck that low. She peeked warily around his arm. “...I-I'm sorry...”

“He he,” the Gangrel chuckled, leaning a bit on the long walking stick in her hand. “I'm just jokin', lass. Havin' a wee laugh.” She turned to the other two. “But for serious, what are you doin' here? You lot of the Inquisition?” She looked down at Nora, then smiled. “I suppose not, unless they're hirin' wee babbies to hunt devil-worshippers.”

“Hmm...” Nora whined.

“We are not of the Inquisition,” Lance said, stepping forward. “How did you know we were Sabbat?”

“A wee birdy told me you were comin',” the woman said. She chirped towards the sky, and a small Mockingbird flew down at her. It landed on her raised hand, and they began singing to each other. The woman's pursed lips emitted a tone to perfectly match the bird's.

Nora watched from behind Dougal with mounting amazement.

The woman raised her hand to the branches of her antlers, and the bird hopped onto them. She turned to the others again. “Anyway, you lot don't look like my kind. And since it was obvious to my friends you weren't alive, you had to have the curse as well. Moreover, only Sabbat would have the brass balls to come runnin' out here. This place is Garou country.”

“Garou?” Dougal said, blinking. “Do you mean lupines?” He looked left and right rapidly. “Are they around?”

“Oh, don't fret, boyo,” the woman said. She gestured behind her. “This spot isn't even really the woods yet. Five miles that way, though, is where the local wolves make their den. Always have, since before I first came through this area decades ago. Give them a wide berth and keep yer head down, and they'll leave you be. So don't look so much like a fretful mother hen. You'll embarrass your pack.”

“That is actually what we have come here for,” Lance said. “We've heard from the local bishop that a priest without a pack was in this area. I take it that is you?”

“Aye, I've presided o'er the rites a few times,” the woman said. “Haven't done since the last pack I met, down in Kentucky, what needed my skills. Why? You need a pack priest?”

“We very much do,” Lance said, bowing at the hip. “We would be honored if you would join us.”

“Would you now?” the woman said. She had the voice of an older woman, and indeed what could be seen of her face had the first signs of wrinkles. “And what does the rest of your pack think of this?”

The other vampires said nothing.

“Oh dear, it's just you lot, is it?” she said, tilting her head. “Seems to me you lot ought to be joinin' an established pack. Be easier than convincing a solitary Gangrel who hadn't served in the Jyhad for years to join you. A more recalcitrant outlander than I would have bit your heads clean off for troubling her. What are you doin' here, lookin' for me?”

Dougal stepped forward. “Because we don't want to join another pack,” he said. “We'd rather retain our autonomy, including the freedom to choose what sort of Sabbat we want to be.”

“Freedom is all important to the Sabbat, is it not?” Lance added. “We find the methods and preoccupations of our fellow Cainites to be not to our liking. Needlessly, pointlessly brutal, and unproductive.” He pointed towards the woman. “We have heard your own ways alienated you from other Sabbat in the same way, for being less deliberately wicked. On this, we have something in common.”

The hooded woman tilted her head even farther, and the bird on her horns flapped wildly for a moment to keep its balance. “...do we now?” She passed her staff from one hand to the other. “Are you planning on cutting ties with the Sabbat?”

“Absolutely not!” Lance said, standing firm. He frowned, brushing a dirty blond lock from his face. “Our goals and allegiance have not wavered. It's our methods that are our own.” He straightened up. “Now, are we to depart alone, or will you join us?”

For a moment, the woman pondered this in silence. Tilting her head down until the hood obscured her eyes. Then she began...laughing. A shallow chuckle at first, then a more hearty cackle. She gripped her staff with both hands and leaned heavily on it, chortling. “Ha ha ha ha!” She shook her head, then looked up. “Oh, you kids! Never thought I'd see the night!”

“...so, what is your answer?” Lance said, but he blinked as the woman just laughed further.

“Oh ho ho! Look at you, boyo,” the woman said, pointing at him. “I take it you're the Ductus of this outfit, aye? The way you stand at attention like a proper soldier! And you!”

“Me?” Dougal said, leaning back and frowning, perplexed.

“Aye, you!” the woman said. “You've been a-checkin' every which way since you got here. And how you let that wee lass use you as a shield! You're a right gentleman, aren't you?”

“Um...” Dougal looked at the ground, mouth agape. He looked over his shoulder, seeing Nora still attached to him like a stone wall.

“And as for the wee lass herself...” The woman stepped around Dougal, standing beside the Tzimisce.

“Ah!” Nora said, cringing.

“And what are you, little one?”

“...I-I...” Nora shrank. “M-my name is...N-Nora...I'm a...Tzimisce...” She looked away shyly.

“Oh, don't fret little 'un,” the woman said. “Call me Siobhan.” She reached above her head and presented her finger to the bird on her antlers. It dutifully hopped one, riding it as the woman lowered it to eye level. “Do you know how to talk to animals? You can, you know.”

Nora looked at the bird, meeting its eyes. She examined the bird's plumage. “...really?” Nora said, blinking.

“Aye, lass,” Siobhan said. “Gangrel and Tzimisce have somethin' in common: the gift of speakin' to the beasts of the land an' sky.” She tilted her head, smiling sadly. “It's one of the pleasures I can enjoy, just like in the old days...”

She shook her head. “Ah, but that was a long time ago,” Siobhan said. She gently took Nora's hand in her own and placed the bird into it.

“Oh!” Nora said, eyes brightening as she came face to face with the bird. She studied it, not daring to move while she held its warm body.

“Alright, alright,” Siobhan said, turning to the men. “I'll join your little group, then.”

“Ah!” Lance said. He bowed at the waist. “Thank you!”

“Yes, thank you,” Dougal said, taking the woman's hand and shaking it.

“Oh, you are a fresh one,” Siobhan said, letting the shaking go on. She chuckled. “I suppose none of you lot have had a proper Vaulderie in quite some time? Oh that won't do.” She shook her head. “Tell you what, boys. What are your names?”

“My name is Lance,” Lance said, bowing his head.

“And I'm Dougal.”

“Dougal, aye?” Siobhan said, studying him a second. “A good Irish name, that is. Well, you boys head off into town and pinch us a bowl. A sturdy bowl, what can hold the blood. It's been so long that I haven't a ritual bowl with me anymore.”

“Uh...right!” Lance said, standing at attention.

She turned back to Nora. “And while you do that, I'll be here teachin' the little one how to talk to the animals. How's that sounds?”

Nora gasped, then smiled. “I'd love that.”

Present

“Sir, your hair looks a little...”

“Hmm?” Dougal said, playing fingers over his obsidian hair. “Thought I combed everything out.”

“In the back, sir,” said Knot Seaward, indicating with his ash-gray foreleg.

“Thank you, Seaward,” Dougal said, retrieving the comb from his breast pocket and straightening the tangled locks. “The onerous curse of my lineage, unable to use a mirror. Makes cleaning up a royal pain.”

“How does you...uh...lineage handle it?” Seaward asked. “If you don't mind me asking.”

“Some handle it better than others,” Dougal said, pocketing his comb. “Most Lasombra – those that care for appearance – get people to tend to them.”

“Peo...ple, sir?” Seaward said, then shook his head. “Maybe you ought to procure the service of a stylist, Mr. Dempsey.”

“Hmm, I probably should,” Dougal said, taking a seat behind his desk.

The office around them was sparsely decorated. Much of the possessions belonging to the warehouse's previous owner had been either seized by the authorities in their investigations or promptly sold. The office, with its little window overlooking the warehouse floor, once played host to shelves of cheap nick-nacks and novelty posters, as well as the odd calender sporting pictures of what Dougal could only surmise were attractive mares.

There was also a higher than normal amount of garbage strewn about when Dougal first entered the room months ago. Fast food bags stuffed with paper cups, candy wrappers crinkled lazily, boxes of Chineighs take-out, etc. The company's former boss was not merely an embezzler, he was also a tacky slob.

Almost all of these things were disposed of. Dougal personally spent an entire night filling garbage bags, relocating various objects out of the way, and then meticulously cleaning the entire room. Even now, after so many cleaning products and time, the room still retained the faint odor of stale soy sauce. Dougal couldn't enhance his sense of smell while in the room without being distracted by it, and by deeper, undefinable stenches lingering beneath the threshold of normal scent.

Now the room was clean and orderly, as well as sparse. His desk, some chairs, a filing cabinet. He'd set out a spot in one corner for a bookshelf. As it was, the space only contained a fold-able table stacked with a few books and a few machine parts. On the other side of the room was the only other remnant of the office's prior owner besides the smell. A cardboard box, sat against the wall and pushed aside its neighboring filing cabinet.

One night early in Dougal's ownership of the shipping business, when all the employees had gone home and only he and the guards remained, he began itemizing the former owner's junk. Surprising, there was a viable market for kitsch, and Dougal soon sold off most of the stallion's collection. The cardboard box in the corner contained what was left. Items that could hardly even approach being “antiques”, and that despite his best efforts Dougal was unable to find buyers for. He couldn't even guess what half of them were, let alone who could want them.

So there they sat, taking up space in his office, for no other reason than because Dougal didn't consider it sporting to inflict such poor taste on the ponies in his employ. That and because the storage rooms in the building were for shippable items that afforded the company value, not value-less items that were nonetheless not technically garbage.

Dougal caught himself staring at the box again. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I suppose I should hire a stylist. Thing is, I have no where to go most nights. It's not like the staff are eager to meet me, and my social life is nonexistent.”

“Bright Spot has a birthday coming up, Mr. Dempsey,” Seaward supplied. “Some of the staff wanted to throw a party.”

“Right, allow it,” Dougal said, tapping the desk absentmindedly. “Make a note to hire a caterer.”

“Of course,” Seaward said, “but I was actually suggesting you make an appearance.”

Dougal rubbed his head, cocking an eyebrow.

“I get the impression they see you, sir, as this enigmatic dark master,” Seaward said. He smiled faintly. “It makes them...uneasy, if you don't mind me saying.”

The vampire sighed. “I suppose. Then again, I AM their dark, enigmatic master. And it's not like my presence will make them any less uneasy. I have that effect on the living.”

“I haven't noticed, sir,” Seaward said, looking down at a clip board. Flipping through the pages, he said, “There is also the Summer Sun Celebration coming up in two weeks.”

“The...Summer Sun Celebration?”

“A yearly event commemorating the defeat of Nightmare Moon, Mr. Dempsey,” Seaward said. “Everypony gathers together to watch the sunrise, and in certain towns Celestia herself is part of the ceremony.”

“Well, you'll forgive me if I elect not to attend the raising of the sun,” Dougal said. He paused, eyes drifting to the middle distance. “It celebrates the defeat of Nightmare Moon?”

“That's the reason it was started in the first place. Most ponies celebrate it like any holiday, not thinking too hard about it.”

“Hmm...” Dougal tapped the desk with a finger. Tap, tap, tap. “Remind me to draft a letter to Princess Luna.”

“Sir?”

“I have a feeling our lunar diarch finds the Celebration as...uncomfortable as I do.” Dougal shuffled a stack of papers. “Keep my schedule open during that period.”

“Yes sir,” Seaward said, levitating a pen and scribbling notes.

“Good.” Dougal examined the papers handed to him earlier. “Everything seems to be in order here. All deliveries on time. Any pressing business?”

“Ah,” Seaward said, flipping pages over. “Early this morning, a message came from the Baltimare Public School System PTA. It's a notice that you – sir – are banned from school grounds effective immediately.” Seaward slipped the note out and handed it to his boss. “Apparently they circled a petition, and got fifty signatures.”

Dougal frowned, pouring over the letter. He cocked his head to the side. “They think that I am a threat to the children of Baltimare?”

“It would appear so, sir.” Seaward stared at the letter uneasily. “Shall I contact Civil Suit?”

“...no, a lawyer is unnecessary,” Dougal said, dropping the letter. “I'm not going to contest this decision. Why would I? I have no interest in children.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“Might this adversely affect your reputation, Mr. Dempsey?”

“Oh, my reputation can hardly sink any lower,” Dougal said. “These ponies are just scared. Why wouldn't they be? A bloodsucking undead in their midst? Anyone would be. They're scared, and they're scared in a vague way beyond their control. This ban is meant more to ease their minds. Make them feel they are in control again, that I am subject to the powers of municipal authority they have hooves in.” He shook his head. “They believe they've somehow accomplished something. Believe they've achieved a victory. Now that they have that, they'll forget their fear soon enough. All I have to do is keep quiet. Combating an edict that means nothing to me will only serve to drag things out.”

“...if you say so, sir.” Seaward shrugged.

“Oh, we should probably still contact Civil Suit,” Dougal considered, looking at the wall. He stroked his chin. “Not to have anything done, but just to keep a record. Make sure everything is legitimate. But it's certainly a low priority.” He shuffled his papers again. “How are we on the research team?”

“We've been circulating news through the local colleges,” said Seaward, flipping through the papers again. “A few science students have got back to us. The University of Baltimare is willing to add us to the intern program, as soon as we procure the lab space and funds.”

“Funds, yes...” Dougal weaved his hands together. “We'll need investors for that. One shipping company, even if it's getting bigger, just won't cut it.”

He shut his eyes, thinking. “...perhaps I am going to have to start meeting with people after all.” Passing a hand over his breast pocket, his traced the bulge of the comb. “Yes, I think I really do need a stylist...”

“Good morning, Dahlia!”

The unicorn mare approached the counter, savoring the scent of roasted coffee beans. She smiled at the barista. “Hey Connie,” she said, brushing back her black mane with purple-maroon highlights, “can I get the usual?”

“One mocha venti half-frap double shot expresso with mint, coming right up,” said the barista, taking up a cup.

“Hey Connie, anything new on the bulletin board?” said Dahlia, pointing just to the side of the coffee counter.

“Not that I remember...” The mare mixing coffee looked at the ceiling suddenly, saying, “Oh, there was this one guy who came along earlier, right as I was starting my shift. Posted some stuff.”

“Thanks!” said Dahlia, grinning.

She wandered over to the campus bulletin. It was a sizable edifice of cork board and haphazardly posted papers. Most of the sheets advertized the usual: announcements for university events, furniture on sale, notices of academic studies of various sorts, and of course regular advertisement fliers.

All clumped in a row by the corner, three new sheets were affixed that Dahlia knew hadn't been there the day before.

The first was a notice for an internship, looking for engineering students. Dahlia got two lines in before losing interest. Science and Technology were not her major.

The second notice made her look twice. “We Buy Blood,” the notice said. Dahlia blinked, though she didn't look away for a few seconds. Was this a scam? Was it even legal? Could she use the money that badly?

Then she remembered what it was going to cost her for that morning's coffee.

Dahlia shook her head, looking away. “Maybe some other time,” she muttered. Finally, she looked at the third new notice.

“Looking for hair stylist.”

“Ooh!” Dahlia said, eyes lighting up. She seized the page in a maroon aura, ripping it from the board. “I'm keeping you!”

“Hey Dahlia!” Connie called. “Your usual is ready!”

“Coming!” Dahlia said without looking. She began walking towards the counter again. “Hey Connie, guess what I found...”

If she had looked closer, she might have noticed all the new fliers were printed on the same size paper, printed in the same font, and carried the same contact information.

“Commissioner!”

The mustached police-pony turned to the young officer. “What do you got for me?”

“Another disappearance, sir,” the uniformed mare said, saluting. She handed in the leafs of paper. “Not just one this time, though. An entire family of four, gone without a trace.”

Studying the pages, the commissioner said, “any connection to the previous ones?”

“None that we can surmise at present, sir,” said the officer.

The old stallion sighed. Picking up the pages, he rose from his desk. Wandering over to the window, he looked out on the sunny Manehattan skyline. Wily, tired eyes peered from behind thick glasses. “What's this world coming to? Ah well...anypony been to their house yet?”

“Yes, Commissioner,” said the mare. “We think the back door lock was unlocked using some kind of magic.”

“What kind of magic?”

“That's the thing, sir. It's not like anything the officers could identify.”

“I'll send a specialist over there.” The commissioner looked down at the pictures of the missing persons. “If it's kidnapping, I want to know for...hmm?”

“What is it, sir?”

The stallion flipped back and forth through the pages, studying the photos. He wandered back to his desk and took up other manila folders. Began studying the portraits of other missing persons reported in the last month. “Hmm...uh, that'll be all, officer.”

When the mare left, the commissioner called over to his secretary. “Delilah! Take a letter!”

“Your highness! W-what can we do for you?”

Princess Twilight Sparkle stepped into the Canterlot University anthropology department. “Hi,” she said cheerfully. Her eyes wandered to the many items on display. “I was wondering if you- IS THAT A DRAGON SKULL?”

She dashed over to a huge skull in the corner. So large was it that it dominated the examination table it was placed on.

“Ah, yes, it is!” The surprised anthropology professor wandered over, adjusting his glasses with a push of a hoof. “This fossil was dug up from a site down in the badlands, two hundred years ago. We've got it on loan from the Canterlot Museum of Natural History.”

“Wow!” Twilight said, looking the bones up and down with wide, sparkling eyes. “Isn't this an adult dragon skull? I ask because I've seen a couple adult dragons, and the scale seems right.”

“Ooh, you've seen adult dragons, Princess?” said the professor. Then he coughed, shaking his head. “I mean yes, we think so. We brought the Skull over as a part of a series of lectures about dragon biology.”

“I should have brought Spike,” Twilight whispered under her breath, eyes locked in fascination on the skull. “Wait, or maybe I shouldn't have. Would Spike be offended? Or would he be interested in learning more about his own...” Twilight shook her head violently. “Sorry, but this isn't why I came.” She turned to the stallion. “Professor, about why I'm here. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Certainly!” the stallion said, smiling. His messy, curly hear bounced as he nodded. “It's an honor to help a Princess, especially one so interested in learning.”

“Oh you have no idea,” Twilight muttered, making a mental note to take the professor's contact information. And to peruse the University library. “Anyway, what can you tell me about vampires?”

“Vampires?” the professor said, scratching his head. “Hmm...not exactly my area of expertise, but I've studied them in passing.” He tapped his chin. “I do know that there have been no recorded cases of pony vampirism in...oh, about a hundred years. The library has more information on them. I recommend a series of monograms on the subject published a few years ago. Skimmed them I did, researching an unrelated topic.”

Out came Twilight's notepad. “Oh that would be lovely.” When the professor had told her of the author and academic journey, she continued. “The University wouldn't happen to have samples of vampire remains, would it?”

“Remains? Well...” The stallion looked deeper into the room, towards row upon row of cases. Thousands of drawers and shelves of jars. “If we do, this is the place to find them. This room is where we keep all the anatomical samples. Bones, preserved tissues, that sort of thing. I'll take a look at the registry, and see if we've got anything squirreled away. Though from what I remember, vamponies turn to dust soon after destruction. If we have anything, it's probably ashes.” He turned to the Princess. “If I may ask, why the sudden interest in the undead?”

“Well if it's the undead, it's another matter entirely, I suppose,” Twilight said, giggling a bit to herself and looking sideways nervously. “But as for vampires specifically, have you heard of the news recently...?”

“Ah, those rumors of a strange, bloodsucking creature,” said the professor. “I'm certain that it's not...”

Twilight blinked.

“...oh, they aren't rumors, are they?” said the stallion, his previously jocularity dissolving. “There really is a vampire in our midst?”

“Yep,” said Twilight, “a foreign strain, at that. I've had the chance to meet him. He's...quite a reasonable fellow. And very fascinating.”

“A foreign strain, eh?” muttered the professor, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Fascinating! Any observable differences you've noticed?”

“Well for one he was originally of a different species,” Twilight said. “Not a pony. Or of any species native to Equestria. Second, he's not a mindless beast. That's actually another thing I wanted to ask about. You wouldn't happen to know if there were any records of intelligent vamponies?”

“Not that I know of,” said the stallion. “You'd need to scour some books for that.”

“That's what I was planning to do anyway,” Twilight said with a sigh. “Problem is a lot of the sources I've looked into thus far are mired in legend and hearsay. Not a lot of scholarly sources on the matter where I come from. I mean, Princess Luna used to hunt them, but that was a thousand years ago. She didn't know of any cases of intelligent vamponies. What I really want is other primary sources. First-hand accounts. Maybe even someone else who knew of them.”

“For that last part, and I mean no offense, but good luck,” said the stallion. “As I mentioned, it's been about a hundred years since anypony has heard of vampires. Old vampony hunters might know, but the last of those is probably dead by now...”

Creak.

Dougal's eyes opened. Day's oppressive weight bore down on his back, but he was alert.

Creak.

Footsteps.

Intruder.

As he saw a shaft of (artificial) light fall over him, Dougal sat up. “Who goes there?” he said, shielding his heavy lids with his arm. Squinting, he peeked over his arm.

A pony's silhouette was in the doorway.

A voice cried out. “In the name of Celestia and the sun, I have come to slay you, foul demon of Tartarus!”

15 - True Faith

Ch. 15 - True Faith

February 1959

“Oh God noAAGH!”

Dougal Dempsey barely heard the screams, eyes locked on the man in his grip.

The hunter choked, clawing at the Keeper's arm. His feet dangled and kicked, suspended above asphalt littered with spent shells and fresh-splattered blood. Pitiful mortal, gasping for air. Eyes whipping frantically about, seeking anything but to meet those of the monster. Sweat drops flowed over pot-marked skin, salty body odor mingling with pungent blood and the acrid smell of gunsmoke.

The Keeper raised the hunter in his grasp a fraction, occluding the moon behind his frazzled hair. Holes dotted Dougal's suit, evidence of fruitless gun-play. It stung only slightly, and hobbled him not at all.

Nora's prone, staked form lay splayed on the ground not far from Dougal's feet. She stared out at a sky stricken of stars by urban light pollution, unmoving.

“Ack...” the hunter choked. His hand groped frantically at his neck. Then it traveled down. He jammed his fingers into a shirt pocket, gripping a small object. The hand yanked free, brandishing a wooden cross.

Dougal looked at the cross, eyebrows rising.

Marking the vampire's surprise, the hunter jammed the cross forward, almost into Dougal's face.

Dougal flinched, head jerking back. He blinked. Then he frowned.

It would be so easy to just let him go.

Snap.

The hunter's body crumpled to the ground, eyes wide and neck twisted in an incorrect angle. The wooden cross fell from his slack fingers, clattering on the asphalt.

Dougal sighed, gazing sadly down at the cadaver. “Damn...” he mumbled.

Stooping low, he turned the man over. The vampire lifted his chin, seeing the neck flushing a deep purple where Dougal held him. Pulling at the collar, Dougal found a chain. A silver cross dangled from it, glinting in the moonlight.

“Damn...damn...” Dougal rubbed his face with his hand, covering his eyes. He shook his head. Breathing deep – exhaling – he looked again, down at the body. His free hand traced the bulge of the crucifix in his own pocket.

“...Nora!”

Dougal looked over his shoulder, then crouch walked over. He loomed over the girl, hand hovering over her heart, impaled as it was with a wooden spike.

“Damn!” he said, wiggling his hand under her neck. Tilting her up at a forty five degree angle, Dougal seized the protruding oak shaft. Gripped it firmly. He wrenched it free with one swift motion.

“GAHhhh!” Nora gasped, head lurching back in pain. She snapped her eyes close, hissing, and clutched at her sucking chest wound. “Aah! Fuck!”

“It's okay, I've got you,” Dougal said, patting her on the shoulder. Looking backwards, he spotted the downed hunter's body. He looked back towards the girl, then back to the body. “...hold on,” he said, getting up.

A hand patted onto the body's chest. “Sorry,” Dougal said, before hooking his hands under the man's arms and dragging him over to Nora.

“Here, drink,” Dougal said, pulling the sleeve down on one of the man's arms and extending it in front of her face.

Nora, clutching her chest, looked at the limb offered her. She cringed, frowning uncomfortably. “Ugh...” she groaned, looking horrified at the body. This despite her extended fangs, and the unconscious way she breathed heavily.

“Nora...he's already dead,” Dougal said, not dropping the arm. “And you need to feed.” He pushed the hand into her arms.

She held the arm – still warm – frowning further. She shuddered, then leaned forward. Bringing the wrist to her lips, Nora opened wide her jaws. Her teeth clamped down quickly, and her eyes closed. “Mmm...”

“There you are.”

Lance and Siobhan walked up from behind, each bearing signs of their previous fight.

Siobhan's hooded cloak – normally dove white – was stained red down the front. One side of the hood was torn away, her exposed cheek marred by a thick cut. This however quickly knitted itself before their eyes.

The left side of Lance's body displayed signs of flame, the coat sleeve and shoulder charred. His left cheek was burned slightly, giving off a a smokey odor, but was otherwise more intact than it had any right to be. He held his saber in his right hand, dripping scarlet. “You took care of yours?”

“...yes, we did,” Dougal said, looking towards the Tzimisce, still engrossed in feeding. He turned back to Lance, staring at his marred cheek and singed golden hair. “Are you okay?” he said, pointing to the leader's face.

“It's nothing,” Lance said, patting his face. His face twitched at the touch, almost imperceptibly. “I need to find a cook,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “There was a diner, a mile in that direction. When you've all fed, we'll...”

“You bastards!”

From behind a stack of garbage, a figure jumped out. His face locked into a furious scowl, his skin glistened. His hair whipped about, leaden with the weight of sweat. “Aaaagh!” he bellowed, charging full bore towards the undead creatures.

A fire burned in his heart, and atop the bottle in his hand.

Dougal could scarcely comprehend the sight, save by the sudden fear that entered his heart. He stared in horror at the Molotov cocktail.

“Kill you!” the hunter screamed, a trickle of liquid welling from his eyes. “You killed my friends!” His flame-bearing arm arched back, investing his full weight into the throw.

Bang.

An ear-splitting sound cut from the distance. The bottle shattered in a dozen pieces. Soaked rag and alcohol rained over the hunter along with jagged dark glass. Liquid ignited in the air as it fell, cascading over the mortal's body.

“Ah! Ah! AH!” the hunter screamed, skidding to a stop, almost falling. Flailing his arms around as his dull brown coat and graying brown hair erupted in flame. His body soon blazed orange, his face turned down as his confusion turned to agony. “AAAAAAHHH!”

Bang, bang, bang.

His body convulsed, crimson sprays firing off from his body, glittering in the orange light. The hunter staggered, his cries cut short, replaced with a slight gurgle. Swayed a little to the left, to the right, then the body went utterly limp.

He collapsed to ground, stone dead.

On fire.

The group stared at the smoldering heap a moment.

Click. “Hey, over here!”

A rather shabby man with a long mane of disheveled hair and aviator sunglasses sauntered over. He wore a stained, brown leather coat over a dirty denim jacket. His cargo pants looked very old, pockets sagging with their heavy loads. From his shoulder was slung an army service rifle*, smoke drifting lazily from the muzzle.

He smiled broadly. “Hey, name's Mason,” the man said, patting his armament affectionately. “I was in the neighborhood, heard the commotion. Thought I'd step in. Hunters?”

Dougal, Lance, Nora, and Siobhan stared at him.

“...um...” Lance said, looking from the strange man to the many corpses on the ground. His facial burn scars stood out against his pale face and blond hair.

“Oh, don't worry,” Mason said, pulling down his sunglasses. They shown a brilliant blue. “I'm a vampire, like you. Not...entirely sure what kind, but I am. Hope that's okay.”

He looked down towards Nora. “Hey, uh, you gonna finish that?”

Nora stared nervously at the gun-toting man, the last mouth-full of scarlet fluid having long dribbled down her neck.

Dougal remained silent, looking back and forth between the two.

To his surprise, they would all be sharing the cup, later that night.

Present

Oh God damn it!

Dougal Dempsey sat up in his bed, staring at the door with bleary eyes. He gritted his teeth. “How did you get in here?” he barked, squinting in the hallway light, “Where are my guards?”

The silhouette in the doorway paused, then said, “Your minions are not here. They have gone away, and left you vulnerable. It's just you and I, demon!”

Crossing the threshold, the figure entered the room. Light fell upon his body, revealing more his features. An earth pony stallion, a dusty brown overcoat was draped over his withers, a wreath of garlic hung from his neck. His head was topped by a battered brown hat, wrinkled and darkened from use, the brim eaten through by insects. He had the most prominent mutton-chops, and scattered locks of graying mane-hair poked from beneath his hat.

The stallion was old. His face was creased by prominent wrinkles.

Sweat drops trickled down his brow, soaking his ash-tinted coat, once the color of cinnamon.

Dougal blinked, eyelids heavy. He sighed. “Fine.”

Pale, cold fingers seized the blanket, violently throwing the covering off. Dougal's nearly naked body rose to standing position, dropping the blanket to the bed.

“Fine, old man,” Dougal said, looking across the room at the intruder. He noted to himself vaguely that, withered as the stallion was, they were probably roughly the same age. Difference was, of course, Dougal's body betrayed none of it. “You want to do this? Fine.”

The stallion flinched, stepping back. He sucked air, and knit his brow together, frowning. More sweat broke out on his face. “I am Glog Hawthorne, son of Simon Dee, son of Svetocher...”

“Let me guess...” Dougal said, taking a step forward, causing the stallion to flinch again. To watch the vampire's bare legs, one adorned with a black, foreign tattoo. The vampire took another step, keeping his eyes locked on the venerable earth pony. “...you are the heir to a long, distinguished line of vampire hunters. Right?”

Dougal looked lower. Saw the pony's legs shake.

He sighed. “Tell me, have you ever done this before?” he said, cocking his head to the side.

“I-I'm not afraid of you!” said Glog Hawthorne, though he bent lower. He was looking up at the approaching figure. His right hoof fished through a coat pocket, then came out slotted into a metal ring. One side of the ring had a clamp, fastened in it a foot-long shaft of wood. It stuck out perpendicular to his leg, pointed out and away from his body to the right.

“A stake! Wonderful!” Dougal said, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly. He sighed, shaking his head. Took a step. “How...nostalgic...”

“Take another step,” the stallion said, raising his stake-leg and pointing the sharp end forward, “and I'll...”

“Oh yes, be my guest,” Dougal said, another step closer. “Charge me, 'hunter'. Pierce this cold, withered heart!” He stretched his arms out wide, standing now halfway towards the pony. Despite the sun high in the sky above the roof, Dougal smiled tiredly. “Assuming you can find it!”

Glog Hawthorne stared at the tall, gangly figure. His eyes traveled over the vampire's chest, his abdomen, his pale shoulders and neck. Glog shook all over, desperately searching the marble-like edifice in confusion. He clutched the stake close to his chest, breathing rapidly.

Dougal turned his head. “No? Alright...” He lowered his arms, then began walking again.

“S-stop!” the stallion cried. His left foreleg shot up, pawing clumsily at his neck. In the effort, the wreath of garlic bulbs snapped and tumbled to the ground. Glog stumbled backwards, retreating to the door frame. “Stay back!”

“No, I don't think I will,” Dougal said, continuing his march. He purposely found a garlic bulb that had rolled forward, and stamped on it with his naked foot. It crunched in a satisfying way, the herbal scent wafting up to his nose.

He breathed deep, bitter-sweet memories stirring in his mind. Of discussing business with Tony over pasta and garlic bread. Of a romantic dinner with Rebecca.

Dougal's smile faded. “This is my home, old man,” the Keeper said, letting his feet fall again on the fallen garland as he walked. “You are the one trespassing.”

The stallion bumbed into the door frame, gasping. He groped blindly at the wood barring his retreat, daring not take his eyes away. His free hoof grabbed at his white shirt. “...Celestia preserve me...” he whispered.

“And if you have no intention of making your attempt to murder me...” Dougal said, stopping short. He towered over the hunter now, his eerily stiff body contrasting with the pony's quivering form. As like a field mouse before a mountain. He dipped his head forward. “...then I'm going to kindly ask you to leave.”

“S-s-stop!” A lump in his throat, sweat-soaked locks of hair poking from beneath his hat, the stallion took purchase of an object at his neck. He whipped it out, a medallion hung from a golden chain. He thrust it forward and up, displaying the shape of a shining sun, crossed diagonally with an X of thorny vines. “G-GET BACK! BACK I SAY!”

The vampire started backwards, blinking at the item.

It glittered invitingly in the light from the doorway. The item was clearly, largely composed of gold.

He frowned. “I'm sorry, old man.”

A pale hand clasped over the medallion as it swung from its chain.

“GAH!” the stallion cried, the hoof holding the pendent up jerking away. Glog tried to pull away, but only found the chain around his neck grow taut.

“But I'm afraid...” Dougal said, face twitching slightly at the corner. He yanked back, the chain snapping effortlessly from the hunter's neck. Not even pausing, he held the double-sided medallion up to the pony. “...your Faith was insufficiently strong to make this work.”

The earth pony gaped incredulously at the medallion. At the vampire. His heart thundered in his chest. “Sweet...Celestia...” Glog Hawthorne clapped his eyes closed for a moment, shaking his head. Finally, he gritted his teeth. “Aaaaah!” he cried, voice hoarse. His right foreleg rearing back, he thrust for the monster's flesh.

The Lasombra's free fist, pale as the moon, caught the shaft of wood easily. All forward momentum ceased.

Dougal sighed. His fist closed tighter, and the wood snapped loudly, cleanly.

The stallion fell back against the door frame, his hat popping up and settling again, askew. He looked at his foreleg, and the few splinters yet held by the metal clasp, with horror.

“You know...”

Glog Hawthorne looked up to the voice, skin paling visibly. His mouth was agape, his chest too winded to utter a cry.

“...if I may make a suggestion...” Dougal said, his left fist crushing the stolen stake to splinters. He allowed the shattered pieces fall to the floor in a cloud of wood dust. The Keeper stared intently at the pony.

He leaned far forward, so his face hovered mere inches from the stallion's. Dougal Dempsey smelled the equine's breath. He looked him straight in the eyes.

“Run.”

“What'd you get in with your hayburger?”

Two white, gold-clad soldiers marched up the apartment building stairs. In their hooves were white paper bags, laden with precious victuals. At the top of the flight, they walked on, passing a window.

One guard fished through his bag, pulling a little bundle up and holding it up to the sunlight – the last bit of sunlight they'd likely see for the rest of the day, before the evening shift change.

Unwrapping the paper pouch revealed a tiny plastic figure of a colt in mask and cape.

“Ah shucks,” the guard said, frowning. “Got another Hum Drum.”

“I got a Fili-Second,” said the other guard, smiling.

“Wanna trade?”

“Can't, I've already got a Hum Drum, and I'm one away from a complete set.”

Sigh. “Swell. Come on, we've been gone long enough as it is.”

“It's not my fault they took so long fixing the soft serve machine.”

The guards rounded the corner, approaching the apartment.

“You know we're not supposed to leave Dempsey.”

“Oh, we were only gone for a few minutes.” The second guard waved his hoof. “He sleeps all day, anyway. What could possibly happen?”

The door flew open, crashing loudly against the wall. Glog Hawthorne, drenched in sweat and panting profusely, dove out the opening and took off running. “Ah! Ah! AAAAAAAAGH!” he screamed, gasping.

He bolted past the startled guards, falling over on the ground as he ran. The would-be vampire hunter scrambled to his hooves, clutching his hat to his head and continuing the sprint. He disappeared around the corner, and soon his hooves clattered loudly and frantically on the stairs.

The two guards looked at each other, then at the corner where the old stallion had retreated to, then to the apartment door.

They rushed inside the door.

“Mr. Dempsey?” the first guard called.

“Uh, sir?” said the second guard.

“Ugh...where were you two?”

Dougal Dempsey stood at the mouth of the hallway leading to his bedroom, leaning heavily against the wall. His eyes were half-shut, long locks of jet-black hair hanging limping in front of his face. He clutched a golden bauble shakily in his hand.

“I mean, it's not like a pay you, or anything,” Dougal croaked, rubbing an eye, “let alone retain you to protect my person. But...” He raised his free hand up, palm up. “...I would think it was your job to stop ponies from sneaking in here in the middle of the day, for multiple reasons.”

The guards stared at the vampire. One looked hard to the side, lips turning up guiltily. The other guard looked to the ground, coughing into his hoof.

“...whatever, I'm not in the mood,” Dougal said, turning around. He swayed as he walked. “I'm going to back to bed.” He paused only briefly to drop the medallion into a clay bowl that sat on a decorative hall table.

“It's too early for this shit,” he mumbled, rubbing his numb right hand.

February 1959

It was quiet. Unusually quiet.

The man exited the alley, ears peeled for potential witnesses. His hands busied themselves with adjusting his brown smoking jacket. A heavy leather messenger bag was slung at his hip. He looked left, then right, wiping fresh blood from his chin.

After a moment, he started walking, satisfied that the only sound around was that of the vagrant dozing behind him, left paler for the experience.

The Warlock got a dozen paces before he thought he heard the sound of crunching concrete. He looked above, straining his vision against the high moon.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Ach!” he cried, convulsing as warm gore sprayed from his body. He staggered towards a brick wall.

“Surprise, motherfucker!”

Mason ran suddenly from the shadows, lining his rifle for another burst.

“Haauuch!” gasped the Warlock, fangs bared reflexively. He scowled, turning to face the Caitiff.

His fingers went to work, gesturing expertly despite the pain. “By coelestis exercitus...gubernantes aer,” he muttered under his breath, “spirant ventus sub me!”

The Warlock spread his hands towards the ground, palms down. His jacket flaps flared as a gust of wind rushed under his feet. So great was the force, it buoyed the man up like a balloon. Feet leaving the ground, he rose dramatically into the air.

“What the hell?” Mason said, rifle dropping below his eye line as he watched the ascending vampire. “You've gotta be kidding me!”

The Warlock kept his eyes on the man with the gun, muttering a chant beneath his breath. Soon he crested the ground level, hovering near the second floor windows of the building behind him.

“Caw, caw!”

Three or four crows flew into Warlock's face, wings flapping as they swarmed over him.

“Ack!” grunted the Warlock, arms flailing at the airborne assailants. Chanting still, he desperately attempted to float higher.

Then an obsidian hand stretched out from beneath a brick ledge, seizing the man by the foot.

“Ah! Ah-” The Warlock was jerked from the air, pulled down rapidly. “Ack!”

Like a rag doll, he was slammed bodily against the hard concrete. The shadowy arm extended from the high ledge, black fist gripped tight around the vampire's ankle.

“Yeah! Keep 'em down!” Mason called. Taking aim, he squeezed the trigger thrice.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Yaaagh!” gasped the Warlock, arms grasping impotently at the ground. His legs kicked, but he could not budge the dark limb binding him. His back was perforated by another set of holes.

Weakly, he rolled onto his back, blood welling from his mouth. “...you...maniacs!” he choked, spying shadowed figures approaching behind Mason. “Do you...ack...know who you're...you are dealing with?”

“Yes.”

The Warlock looked to the sky, eyes widening. A black figure was reflected in them, a silhouette against the full moon.

Feet clattered hard to the ground, a saber arching downward. It sliced clean, cleaving meat and bone, spraying a gout of blood to the air.

Lance rose from his crouch. “A Camarilla rat,” he said, “justly exterminated.” He flicked his blade, drops of blood flying off and splashing against the wall.

Mason approached, lowering his rifle. “Damn, Lance,” he said, shaking his head. He flashed a fang-filled toothy smile. “That's one smooth maneuver.” He leaned down, taking up the decapitated head that had rolled to a stop at his feet.

“Is it him?” Lance said, raising his blade and licking at the trail of cooling blood.

“Yep! That it is,” Mason said, studying the face. He noted how blood dripped from the stump, and tipped the neck up. “This is definitely the guy I saw, talking to those hunters the other night.”

“Then it's true,” Lance said, sheathing his saber, “this was a Tremere plot. How risky of this man, however, to trick hunters into fighting the Jyhad for him.”

“A Tremere?” said Mason, wiping his finger over the neck stump and licking the blood.

“A House of mortal sorcerers, once,” said Siobhan, walking up from behind. She held out a hand, and the quartet of crows landed on her. She nudged them into resting on her shoulders. “Until their fear of death pushed them ta pursue the agelessness of unlife. Fools. Twas a curse stolen, as well.” She looked sidelong at Nora. “And made an enemy of yer kin, wee lass, so many years ago.”

Nora averted her eyes from the head in Mason's hands, instead kneeling at the fallen Tremere's body. Already she could see the flesh begin to break up and dwindle, turning to ash. She averted her eyes from the man's neck, instead, grabbing his bag.

Her eyes lit up in curiosity, hands probing the bag's contents. She pulled out a set of notebooks. “What are these?” she said, beginning to open one.

“No doubt his tomes of sorceries,” Lance said.

“Magic?” Mason said, looking at the corpse. “That stuff's real?”

“Vampires are real,” Lance said flatly, turning away and looking up to the roof.

“Fair enough,” Mason said, shrugging. He raised the head in his hands and tipped the neck down, letting scarlet fluid drain into his open mouth.

Dougal descended to the concrete street, lowered by the shadowy arm he summoned. As he touched down, the arm retreated into the dark spot from whence it spawned. “So what do we do now?” he asked, joining the others.

“No one else around?” Lance asked.

“None that I could see,” Dougal said. He inclined his head behind and to the side. “A few lights went on a few doors down, but there doesn't appear to be anyone coming. Yet.”

“Then let's move,” Lance said. “Once we've regrouped at the house, we'll set about finding this city's Tremere Chantry. And we must be quick about it. Best we strike again in the next few nights. The other sorcerers will note this one's absence.” He started marching away. “Let's go!”

Mason shook his head. “Magic,” he said, smiling, “shit. Well I'll be.” He left too, followed by Siobhan.

Dougal looked down at Nora. “Coming?”

“Yes,” Nora nodded, though she didn't look up. Her hands leafed through the pages, her eyes playing over packed, tiny handwritten script and arcane diagrams. Finally, with a sigh, she closed the book, piling it back in the bag. She pulled it off the rapidly decaying corpse with some difficulty.

Dougal began walking, smiling as the Tzimisce ran to catch up, the blood-splattered bag slung from her shoulder.

Present

“What can you tell me about this?”

Princess Luna extended her hoof, allowing the vampire to drop the cloth-covered object onto it. Her horn flared up, projecting an aura around the cloth folds. The bundle opened like a blossoming flower.

The golden medallion of the sun glittered in the artificial light.

“This...is the seal of the Sunlit Thorns,” Luna said, staring at the pendent. “My sister told me of them, back when I first returned to the world.” She leaned back in the chair, sitting across from Dougal. The vampire's coffee table divided them, guards milling about in the nearby kitchen. The Princess sighed. “A thousand years ago...before I became Nightmare Moon, I was the primary hunter of vampires. It was a responsibility I took up with...some relish.” She looked uneasily at Dougal.

The Keeper said nothing. He merely sat, one leg cross over the other, and sipped precious vitae from a wine glass.

“...when I was banished, my sister was left without a means of handling the vampire problem.” Luna looked down at the medallion. “Celestia was ruling Equestria by herself then, and had neither the time nor, I think, the desire to hunt the undead. Moreover, she did not feel comfortable allowing ponies to form militia groups to fight them. They would be untrained, prone to panic, and potentially in danger. And...well...”

Dougal swirled his glass. “A mob of frightened citizens, armed with pitchforks and fire,” Dougal said flatly, “can get out of hoof, as the saying goes. Jumpy, and prone to attacking anything different or strange. Believe me, I understand. Remind me not to tell you about my own world's lynch mobs.”

Luna frowned, then nodded. “Correct. Instead, Celestia founded the Sunlit Thorns, an order of vampony hunters. They were trained to correctly identify signs of vampirism, seek them where they hid, and eliminate them. They were also given the authority to raise and lead hunting parties of common ponies, should the need be dire enough. It was hoped that by having an institution that could fight vampires, and lead ponies where appropriate, it would bring stability and reassurance to Equestria.”

She held up the medallion. “Each member of the Sunlit Thorns was given this symbol, as proof of their authority and as a weapon against the creatures of the night.” She looked at the trinket, tapping her chin. “You took this off the pony who attacked you?”

“That I did,” Dougal said, swirling his glass. “You sound surprised.”

“The Seal of the Sunlit Thorns is supposed to turn the undead,” Luna said, holding it up. “This did not happen to you?”

“It did not,” Dougal said, waving his hand. “If you ask me, the old horse didn't have the faith.”

“Faith?”

“In my world,” said Dougal, taking a sip of blood, “there are stories. Stories of mortals who could do as you suggest. Bear a cross, and by its holiness cow vampires. As you know already, I have no allergy to crosses – I carry one with me. Nor have I ever personally encountered anyone who raised a cross to me, and have it work as intended.”

He sipped again. “But...I have met Cainites across the land, over my decades of activity, who swore up and down that there are some mortals who could do it. That it was not the symbol, but the faith of those men and women that turn the dead. Individuals so pious their very presence was anathema to our kind. There are tales of hardened Sabbat warriors fleeing like frightened, sobbing children, from mere mortal men. Among Cainite and Kindred alike, it is called True Faith. There are even rumors of Cainites with sufficient faith to turn their own kind. But there's never specifics, and most agree that such a vampire would need to be saint in order to wield such power.

“So I think it's not that the Seal is magic,” Dougal continued, tapping his knee. “Perhaps is has some hidden enchantment, or had it sometime long in the past. Rather, I think that those hunters of long ago truly believed in the righteousness of their cause, and in the holiness of their seemingly divine Princess. It is, after all, a symbol of the sun.”

Luna frowned. “Hmm...I will need to speak to my sister about that...and about this power of faith.” She placed the medallion and cloth on the table. “You speak of Cainites with this...True Faith...you do not claim to be one of them?”

“Oh no,” Dougal said, shaking his head. “I have faith, but True Faith is something far greater, and far more rare. The modern world is a bleak place, and those with any sort of faith grow rarer each day. Even among mortals, such resolve is rare. And as I said, it would take a saint for a Cainite to bear True Faith.” He frowned slightly, then sipped his blood. “I am not a saint.”

“You used your mind control on that hunter, did you not?” Luna asked, raising an eyebrow. But she frowned sadly, rather than glaring angrily. “You know the rules.”

“Yes I did,” Dougal said, nodding. “I ordered him to run. At that point the old man was frightened out of his wits. Unfortunately, terrified individuals have a habit of acting erratically. I wanted him to run, but I feared he might curl up into a little ball, or else do something really stupid: attack me further.” Dougal swirled his glass. “Understand, I didn't want to hurt the old fool. But I was afraid he would hurt himself, or force me to take more drastic measures to stop him. I could have, you know. Stopped him. This, by my estimation at the time, was the easiest method.

“That, and because I just wanted to go back to bed. It was such an awful hour.”

Luna sighed, pressing a hoof against her forehead. “Very well, I suppose it couldn't be helped. The stallion has been detained, only a little worse for wear. It's the best that could be hoped for.”

“Who was he?” Dougal said. “The old man...was he really a hunter?”

“His name is Glog Hawthorne,” Luna said, “a resident of Vanhoover. He's a retired patent clerk who lives with his daughter and grandchildren. Or at least he did, until his daughter and her husband reported him missing a week ago.”

“He's not a hunter?”

“No, but his grandfather apparently was,” Luna said. “One of the last, as it turns out. The Order of the Sunlit Thorns didn't so much disband as dissolve. Their concerted efforts over nine hundred years succeeded in wiping out Equestria's vampony population...”

“Or at least the ones that could be found,” Dougal said, raising a finger. “Vampires, in my experience, are notoriously difficult to exterminate.”

“I suppose,” Luna said, looking uneasily at the floor. “What matters is that they had fewer and fewer jobs to investigate, and so took fewer and fewer apprentices. The last known vampony was put down about a hundred years ago, and the Order eventually died out.”

“Meaning our Mr. Hawthorne was heir to an outdated lifestyle,” Dougal said, tapping the arm of his easy chair. “I got the impression this was a stallion who desperately wanted to live up to his legacy, but never could.” Dougal smiled slightly. “Until now that is, when he finds there's a vampire in Equestria. A vampire no one seems to want to do anything about. Was it moral outrage? Was it a desire to live up to the family legacy? Or was it an old man, desperate to make something of a life he feels was dull and unrewarding? Who knows?”

“We'll be looking into that soon, once I've had a chance to talk to him,” Luna said. “And I would appreciate you not belittle the poor stallion. You've done enough.”

“...yes, well put,” Dougal said, frowning. He gazed into the scarlet liquid in his glass. “I apologize, your highness.”

“Oh, it's alright,” Luna sighed, rubbing her brow. “It's been a long day, and now a long night.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“We're not sure,” Luna said. “Are you pressing charges?”

“I hadn't planned on it,” Dougal said, shrugging. “I already put the fear of God into him. I think he's learned his lesson.” He down the last of the glass's scarlet contents. “Ah. I would, however, like my guard to be reminded of their duty. This only happened because they wandered off on the job.”

“Oh don't worry,” Luna said sternly. “Those two soldiers will get a thorough reprimand. This will not happen again.”

“All's well that ends well, then.” Dougal sat the empty wine glass on the table. “On an unrelated topic, your highness, do you have plans for the Summer Sun Celebration?”

Author's Note

* For those who care, the rifle Mason carried was this model.

01 - Dark Refugee

Ch. 01 – Dark Refugee

July 1999

“You can't escape!”

A puddle splashed under a dress shoe, water scattering about. The reflection of a street light hanging overhead warping with the ripples. The shoe's owner rushed out of the curtain of light, desperately seeking the cover of shadows once more.

He cast a fervid look over his shoulder. He could not see the figures approaching beyond the glare of the lamp. But he heard them.

“Rrragh!”

“He's over here!”

“Don't let the lick get away!”

“Woof! Rrrrragh Woof!”

“Rape his eyes! Gouge them out and fill their sockets with flowers!”

The figure pressed on, scanning the environment. The streets were filthy. Trash lay scattered on the ground or brushed against walls, or else clogging drains. The figure gave the drains a wide berth; no clue what could be lurking there. A used needle crunched beneath his shoe, mashing bits of glass and metal against oil-stained concrete. He looked to the buildings, four stories tall on average. Windows were either shattered, or boarded up with uneven, rotting wood. What glass could be seen was jagged, or so fogged with dust as to be translucent. The brick walls dripped with slime, peppered hither and thither with bullet holes or scraps of paper.

He almost stumbled to avoid kicking an aluminum can in his path. He thanked heaven he didn't need to breathe.

The undead fugitive rounded a corner, hugging the wall as dear as he could. The alley was stuffed with refuse, of both the inanimate and human variety. A filthy vagrant lay huddled against a wall, bloated and weathered sacks of garbage held close as if they were the finest gold.

The bum sputtered awake, looking bleary eyed at the figure approaching. “S-spare change, mister?”

Saying nothing, the figure rushed past, sparing only a single frightened glance down. Slowing not even a little, he gripped a plastic garbage bag from a pile and threw it down behind him.

He passed the lip of the alley onto another street when he heard the crashing of refuse and the pattering of feet.

“I ain't lookin' for no trou- AAGH! NO, STOP!”

“Keep on 'im! I'll catch up!” came an excited voice. It snarled.

“AAAAAAHHH!” The screams were accompanied – and then snuffed out – by the sound of wet smacking.

I'm so sorry, the fugitive thought, crossing himself reflexively. Eyes shut, he redoubled his pace.

Onto another street, the fugitive tried to duck around another curtain of lamp light, this one flickering in fits and starts. His eyes flitted around, looking for an avenue to evade. His brow glistened scarlet. The sounds of stomping feet and the taps of claws on concrete grew louder. As did the hoots and hollers.

“Come on! Come on!”

“Quit running! All we want to do is kill you! Ha ha ha!”

“Woof woof!”

“I want his blood! It's mine, I can smell it! I'll drink every drop!”

“But I wanted his blood!”

“It'll be mine, you prick! I've waited so long for blood that rich!”

“Enough! You know all know the rules. You make the kill, you drink the spill!”

“Send him to whatever hell his other side resides! Blanket the world in his ashes!”

“For the Sabbat!”

Reflexively, the running figure gulped. His throat was dry. Ached to be drowned in that delicious, salty brine.

He ran on. Muscles, long proofed against the passage of time, ached for the effort. Looking over his shoulder, his eyes could make out his tormenters through the smothering darkness.

A half dozen strong at the head, with perhaps a few more trailing behind in the distance. They snarled and scowled like animals, clad in cast-off clothes, fished from charity boxes or peeled off bodies. A patchwork of soiled trousers, fraying jeans, faded leather jackets, and shirts stained every conceivable hue. The first and foremost of those hues, of course, was dingy scarlet-brown, focused predominantly down their shirts where it had dripped and splashed messily.

Some went without shirts, especially one female, doubtless either an attempt at being provocative, or to attest to her complete abandonment of human values. Exemplified were these effects by her mohawk, a style also shared by her fellows. Others' heads were topped with disheveled locks, or else shaven completely. Many wore chains and chokers, or wrapped bandages haphazardly over clothes or flesh. The one true outlier was an extremely messy individual, with the most unkempt hair of all, clad in an unbound strait jacket. Colorful scarves – a dozen of them – hung from his neck. Some scarves trailed away, threads coming undone, while all reflected the stained, filthy nature of the pack's collective wardrobe.

Most carried baseball bats, or tire irons, or boards with nails in, or other similar cudgels. Some merely displayed prominently their elongated claws, and all bore their teeth.

Beside the humanoids – none could even come close to being human – loped a great, mangy dog, yipping and barking incessantly. It brought back memories to the fleeing undead's mind. Of jutting fur and slavering jaws; of blood shot eyes and foot-long claws. Of a foul, suffocating odor, and a broad, oppressive height. An aura as bright as the sun, and presence equally as frightening.

How fortunate it was merely a leech chasing him. How unfortunate it had so many friends.

The figure ran on. He kept his eyes on the street. Spotting another alley, he pushed ahead. Rounding a corner, he considered his options.

He wasn't fast. There was no way of knowing, but likely the pack contained more than a few fast ones. It was likely only for their desire to remain together with their bondmates – and perhaps the thrill of the chase – that prevented him from being run down thus far. He had to keep moving then, and evade where he could. He hugged another turn, sliding on gravel and pushing off against the far wall.

If he could continue evading, he might be able to shake them off. Might put distance between himself and them. Then he could hole up somewhere for the day.

His greatest hope was the power of day. As it shone, it hung oppressively upon all children of Caine. Drew them into sleep. But those closer to the Beast – like that Sabbat pack – suffered all the more for it. Harder by far to rise in the evening. If he had any chance to fleeing the city – which naturally would present its own difficulties – it would be during those precious hours before the packs awoke, and set out searching for him again.

If he was really lucky, the approaching sun would force them to back off early, giving him precious minutes to find a good hiding place. All he had to do was keep running. Just keep running.

He rounded a corner and saw he was approaching a dead end.

Not quite slowing enough, he slammed into the back wall hands first. Body shaking all over, face slick with scarlet sweat, he grit his teeth, flashing fangs instinctively extended towards the rain-splattered bricks.

“He's right there! I can sense him just ahead! He's trapped!”

Casting a momentary glance behind him, the weary bloodsucker cursed under his breath. He looked around, seeing no door or window to get through. He looked straight up towards the sky. A blood-red hunters moon smiled hungrily down upon him. No, scratch that. It wasn't a taunt, but a clue. The walls ran up maybe four stories, with the building wall dotted with jutting ledges and loose bricks. He prepared to scale the wall.

And saw the silhouette of two more shabbily dressed figures pop out from the edge of the roof.

The man's cold, unbeating heart sank. He wiped his face, fingers coming away slick with blood. Absentmindedly, he licked his digits for their precious fluid. That exquisite, metallic taste was almost calming. Almost.

“There you are!”

He turned around, fangs barred in a grimace. He saw them all there, the writhing and tensed mass of undead. They stared at him, paused all of them, standing by the only escape. Their lips smacked. A baser Cainite than the fugitive would make some colorful, euphemistic comment about their fangs being fully erect or some such nonsense.

“Nowhere to run now, cocksucker,” said the one who could only be the pack's Ductus. “Time to pay the piper.”

The Freak in the straightjacket snickered, long sleeves billowing out beneath him. “The last shall be first, and the first shall be worst. The gods make a plaything of you. Hihihi ha ha!”

“So what will you do, scum?” asked the Ductus, eyebrow cocked. “Will you perish like a dog? Beg, like the worthless kine? Or fight...like a real monster?”

The man frowned deeply. The fear in him was palpable, but he pushed it down. Swallowed it. He sensed the other cainites looming far above, waiting for the moment when the lot would charge. He swallowed again, shut his eyes. He inhaled audibly, then exhaled, more for comfort than any need.

I'm sorry, Lord. I suppose this was my inevitable end, after all.

Hands rose to his head, and he slicked his jet black hair back. He opened his eyes. The Beast rumbled inside him. He barred his teeth. “Well come on then! What are you waiting for?” He raised his fists, assuming more stable footing. “Let's go! Come at me, you cowards!”

With such prompting, the pack charged with glee, roaring wildly. The two parasites on the roof jumped down, falling expectantly.

“RRRRRRAAAGH!” yelled the lone vampire, letting the dark battlefield envelop him.

…

“Oh, we can't have that, now can we? You're my toy, Mister Dougal. Mine and mine alone.”

Present

“I think I found it!”

A heavily clothed figure stood up from where it stooped. Goggled eyes swept over the discomfiting, bleak landscape. Too...bright. “Where?”

“Over here!” said another figure, waving from some distance away. “I found another one!”

The first figure trudged over, knee deep in arctic snow. It ambled to its compatriot.

Said other figure brushed snow away from the ground, and picked up the object. “See? It is just so.”

“Yes, it most certainly is. That's another one.” The figure whipped out a bag. “Quickly, hide it from the light, lest it lose its potency.” When the object was safely pocketed, the figure shot a wary glance to the sky. “I think we've done enough for one day. Place a marker down, then let's you and I go.

“All this brightness gives me a headache.”

Dougal Dempsey woke to utter darkness. He couldn't move.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

He tried to move his arm, but it remained stationary. He tried to tilt his head – lift it up – and found no results. By great effort, he could shift his eyes, a bit at a time. But that was it. Dougal attempted to call upon the power of his blood, and instead of sensing it happen, all he felt was a sharp twinge in his chest, at his left breast.

It was true. Dougal was staked in the heart.

Damnation, he thought, unmoving face failing to betray the whirlwind of emotions inside him.

Did the Sabbat leave him so? It was certainly possible, but why? Their intentions were quite clear – the dread Diablerie. Why, then, would they simply stake him and leave him...where was he anyway?

It was too dark to see normally. That was alright, though. Well no, it was the farthest from alright short of having been diablerized outright...or being at the mercy of an inquisitive Tzimisce. But while his mobility and most of his vampiric powers were locked, his perceptions were open.

He focused, and his sight expanded.

Directly above him, he could see two things: a rocky ceiling – must be a cave – and...string.

String? String. Black string...no, white string, crossing over him. With effort, he panned his eyes around, tracing the string suspended above him. Slowly...slowly...there!

The string attached to a pulley, itself suspended from a strip of leather or cord or something, and bolted to the stone ceiling. Passing over the pulley, he followed the length of string around to another pulley, and then another. He soon became aware of a complex, redundant system of pulleys and counter-pulleys, all played out above him. Finally, his eyes found a final pulley, with the string leading down...to a quite large stone. The stone hung impossibly from such a little cord...no, a wire.

The wire itself would need to be very strong to not snap under the stone's weight. But where did the other end lead to? Dougal backtracked along the wire, going around and around. And when it reached the end, he found it led off downward again. He racked his brain, judging the angle of descent. The wire dipped down beyond his sight, but it led...around to his side.

He looked back to the rock. It occurred to Dougal that, with how long it took to move his eyes in fits and starts, that much time was already passed. Ignoring this, he found the stone again. On further examination, it had not one, but two wires attached to it. He saw the primary one, while another wire ran off at an angle.

This one was considerably less complex. Only two pulleys, the wire traveling between them and then dipping down...towards his chest.

He looked to the rock. To the pulleys. To the wire leading to his chest. To the one leading to his side.

Going on a hunch – or perhaps a wild, desperate hope – Dougal tested his fingers. It was like sending a call out through mud. His fingers were stiff. With enormous will, he commanded his fingers move. Ordered them.

A twitch. His pinkie finger twitched. Then curled...ever so slightly.

Since his Embrace, Dougal Dempsey had heard many, many stories pertaining to the monstrous night he died into. Of forest witches that made the trees come alive. Of fey beings that abducted youths. Of knights wearing no armor, for weapons broke against their flesh. Of zombies that could wither someone's limbs at a touch. Of foul warlock curses that reduce vampires to eating ash to sustain themselves. Of beings who could stop time.

The wildest of these stories told of patently impossible things, even by the standards of immortal vampires. Those immune to the Blood Bond. Accurate, infallible predictions of the future. Bloodsuckers who could walk around during the day, as if the sun meant nothing. Vampires bearing live children.

And the stories of some – mostly Gangrel – who so master their undead forms as be capable of yet moving, even while staked. Not fully, but enough to crawl away, or to rip the stake from their hearts.

Dougal did not have that ability. But he supposed, with enough effort, prodding, and willpower, anything was theoretically possible.

He wiggled his ring finger. It moved without incident. He moved his middle finger. It budged as easily as the others (so, not very). He tried the index...

It snagged. Like a distant niggling, he felt his finger catch. A pressure around the digit. A loop, tying it.

That was the ticket.

Why build machines? So many take it for granted, as they take for granted just how fundamental machine use is. Simple machines. The wedge. The ramp. The screw. The lever. And the pulley.

Dougal commanded his index finger to move. To pull against the wire he knew was wrapped around it. It flexed weakly, but was stopped.

He commanded it again. Harder, he thought. Harder.

Why make simple machines? To make easy that which is hard. To move the work around, so that less effort must be put into a task. Whether it be by concentrating force into a point, with a wedge...

Move.

Or by using leverage to shift a heavy object, with a lever...

Move!

Or by increasing the amount of distance something must go in another direction, so the distance in the required direction is more easily bridged. Like with a ramp...or with a pulley...

I DEMAND. YOU. MOVE!

The finger curled down, pulling on the string. His whole hand felt as if stung with pins and needles. But finally, the weight working against his finger gave way. Dougal's finger pulled at the wire, and it gave.

If you have a long enough lever, and room to stand, you can move the world, he thought. His eyes drifted to the stone.

Instead of rising, the stone remained stationary. But a sound issued from the top. A slipping sound. Like a knot coming undone.

And if you have enough pulleys, he thought, straining all his willpower, his jaws tightened unexpectedly. You can...support a mountain...with...your...finger!

One wire attached to the stone slipped off with a pop. Dougal felt the upward force acting against his finger disappear. His hand flopped to the ground. The stone, free of one wire, swung over Dougal like a pendulum, the pulleys still acting upon it spinning rapidly. As the stone swung away, the line went taught.

With a sickening squelch, the stake in Dougal's heart popped out of his chest and flew about wildly.

“GAAAAAH!” Dougal gasped, doubling over and clutching his chest. Under those sensations, he barely heard the stone thud to the ground beside him. “Haaaah...ack...”

The vampire turned over, slumping to his stomach. His joints were stiff, popping and cracking loudly with the sudden movement. He grimaced, hand clasped over his heart as it slowly, methodically knit itself whole. After torturous seconds, he felt his capacity to move and use blood return.

He also noticed he possessed almost none.

Pushing himself to his knees, he looked down at his breast. His purple shirt was stained a dingy brown around a sizable hole on his chest. Despite his better judgment, he took a finger and probed the opening, wincing as he studied the extent of the damage. His heart was whole again, but the wound would persist unless he healed it. And he couldn't spare a drop of blood for the task. He pulled the fingers out, then hugged his jacket over the wound protectively.

Rising to his feet, he swayed in place, lightheaded. His vision swam. He clutched his head, steadying himself against the cave wall. “...ugh...fuck...” Dougal examined his surroundings. To his surprise, the spot where he was laid in state had a long blanket, woven in pastel colors of pink and white and yellow.

“Is...ack...is this some kind of...of joke?” he muttered, coughing for his dry throat.

A niggling in the back of his head. He hungered.

Dougal shook his head. Thinking was what was needed now...at least until he found a warm creature somewhere. Then he would feed his ass off.

Where was he? Oh, right, the Sabbat. Did they really lay him on a nursery blanket? Point of fact, did they really stake him, haul him to a cave, and set up an elaborate contraption that would allow him to free himself, no matter how remote the possibility? Why wouldn't they just suck all his blood, steal his power, and be done with it?

For that matter, where even was he? Dougal looked around his new prison. Walking along a winding hall of rock, he found an indentation, and light billowing from a crack. Stepping over, he examined the spot closely, and found there to be a large boulder rolled in front of an opening. The light that filtered through was faint, but a cursory wave of the hand proved it wasn't sunlight.

Stooping low, for the opening was short, Dougal pressed his hand to the boulder and pushed. It was only a little effort before the rock gave way and toppled over, bathing the cave in moonlight. The vampire had to blink a few times in response to the sudden illumination. With nary a glance behind, he ducked under and through the mouth.

Dougal Dempsey craned his stiff neck to the sky. The sky was...unusually bright that night. Stars did not merely twinkle, but gleamed like planets, all. And the moon shone like a great lamp, too close to be real. It felt...weird...

The undead looked left and right. He was in the middle of a forest, thick with trees. Over his shoulder he could see a mountain sloping away from him. His cave was nestled in a crack in the wall. Smaller rocks littered the ground all about his feet.

“...the hell...?” Dougal muttered, confused. Then his mind began working, and anxiety kicked in. “...oh hell.” He looked around rapidly, straining his ears to pick up something – anything – that would betray movement.

If there were trees and a mountain, which meant wilderness. As any kindred, Cainite, or whatever knew full well, wilderness meant shapeshifters. And shapeshifters had no love for the undead.

“Fuck...fuck!” Dougal started walking, trying to put as much distance behind him as possible. Truly, he had no solid idea where he could be, but he wasn't in a city, which meant he was in the wrong part of the world. And anywhere besides there was preferable.

Moreover, there was another pressing concern.

Blood.

Dougal swallowed dry, trekking through the trees. His hands shook, his stomach ached. Ached for that metallic, red liquid.

He trained his ears. Could he hear any animals running around?

That he did. Dougal heard the squeak of a critter to his right. Looking over, he spotted a squirrel, climbing on the trunk of a tree. The scent of blood wafted over his nostrils, the sound of a beating heart playing through his ears. It would hardly do more that wet his tongue – let alone quench his thirst – but every little drop counted.

When Dougal took a step towards it – not having even consciously done so – the squirrel spotted him. It's ears fell back, and it jumped off the tree.

Dougal lunged after it, but the animal had a head start, and quickly outpaced the starving corpse in a ruined suit. In an instant, it disappeared in the undergrowth.

Stopping, Dougal clenched his fist and punched a tree. It crunched a little on impact. He looked around. The noise he produced brought a number of forest critters out of their nests. They looked curiously at the biped.

Then they fled, scattering in all directions. Dougal hadn't even moved that time. A raccoon ran right past him, and hissed as it went. To his chagrin, Dougal wasn't fast enough to swipe at the thing and seize it. He could only watch as it, and every other walking blood pack scampered away.

While in most instances he would paint himself lucky for it not being so, Dougal at that moment wished he could be a Gangrel. Or even a Nosferatu, if only to have their...way with animals. As it was, they could readily sense the unnatural predator in their midst. Dougal scowled, then grunted. Sucking in air, he exhaled. A hand went to his head, slicking back his disheveled hair. He walked on.

As he hiked through the forest, Dougal took note of the temperature. It was quite cool.

“Odd...shouldn't it be warm and muggy?” he muttered to himself. It had been July, last he checked. Had he fallen into Torpor for lack of blood? How much time had he lost? Or was this just unusually cool weather? Summers were not always predictable, after all.

He looked to the foliage around him. Dougal didn't make it out to the woods often because...well...but did the city he was in always have these kinds of trees native?

Wait, was that an elm? “The hell?” Dougal said, looking over his shoulder. “...haven't seen an elm in years*...not since I was a kid.”

Dougal thought of his family home. Swing set. White picket fence...

He shook his head. “What am I thinking about that for?” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “I'm not fully dead yet. No time to have my life flash before my eyes. Hmm?”

The ground sloped upward in the direction he was walking. As the ground rose to a hill, the trees thinned out. When he reached the crest, the trees gave way fully, showing a view of an open plain.

Perhaps a mile away, a cluster of lights shown bright in the sea of darkness.

“Civilization! At last!” Dougal smiled. He clapped his hands together and looked up. “Thank you, God, for having mercy on your cursed child!” He crossed himself, then set off towards the town.

It was a small town, from the looks of it, but it would suit his purposes well.

“First thing, a phone,” he muttered.

The Beast growled inside him.

“No, blood comes first,” he corrected himself, lips smacking. Dougal had to stop himself from running all the way there and jumping the first person he saw. Sure, he'd totally grab the first available person he could corner alone and drink, but that's beside the point.

He'd dominate them first. Command the first person to follow him, and drink. He'd probably need to be careful of killing them, thirsty as he was, but Dougal was generally confident in his self-control.

Dougal wouldn't have gotten as far as he had if he'd given in to every whim.

Then, after perhaps running around and taking a little off the top of...a half dozen people would do, he'd find a phone. “Hmm...” He patted his trouser pocket. His wallet was still there. Fishing it out, he counted the contents. “Heh. Idiot Sabbat,” he chuckled, putting his full wallet back. “Get a hotel...and duct tape for the bathroom door. Get a taxi from the nearest city, get out of this backwater...” ...and away from any lupines that hadn't found him yet.

Or he could dominate some schmuck to drive him to a city, in his trunk in need be, and be done with the countryside forthwith. Whichever.

Approaching the city limits, Dougal was struck first by the sound of merriment.

Party? Festival?

At least finding a willing “donor” would be a simple matter. There were bound to be many able bodied, heavily inebriated persons lying around.

Connecting to a dirt road, Dougal found a few houses...and was truck by the very spooky decorations. Pumpkins, bats, the whole nine yards.

“The hell?” Dougal sputtered, eying the buildings with wide eyes. He scratched his head. “Halloween? But that...” He shut his eyes, frustrated at having to do math. “...three months! Damnit!” He lost three months of his unlife. Granted, he was potentially immortal, so three months was a drop in the bucket. But it was three months that he needed! Three months his affairs were left fallow!

Plus, it's just the principle of the thing.

“This way!”

A chill ran up his spine.

Dougal slunk to the shadows, trying to place where the voice came from. It was a child's voice, coming from a street over. Instinctively, the vampire crouched low, stalking slowly.

“Hahahahaha!”

“Hehe hehe ha!”

“Okay, wait up! I'm coming,” said a deeper, adult voice. The calls drifted as they moved away.

It's a start at least, Dougal thought, slipping into the mode of predator. He could feel the Beast nudging against him, urging him forward.

It would be so easy...and the reward...so delicious...

He frowned, pushing the urge down. Dougal was prepared to feed the Beast, but his way and on his terms. Turning on the spot, he circled around a house. Hopping over a wooden fence, he stalked through one backyard, then two. When he hopped another fence, he was able to creep across a well-kept lawn towards the front. Dougal grew ever closer to those voices.

When the thought of who his targets were came to him, though, he froze in his tracks. Dougal clapped a hand over his mouth.

He was stalking children. Children whose only desire this night was to dress up and play pretend as monsters. Not to meet a monster. They never asked to have a barely animated corpse slake its thirst on their vital fluids.

Dougal clutched his mouth harder. A few trickles of blood sweat rolled down his cheek.

They are not but prey. To be consumed.

He gulped, then dashed across an expanse of lawn to a tree. Hiding behind it, Dougal had his back against the trunk. From where he was positioned, just around the tree was a view of the house's front door. He looked around his side, seeing no one watching. No one was in sight.

“Go on, Summer. You too, Winter.” The adult's voice urged the children on. The kids giggled, their steps clacking loudly on the concrete as they rushed to the door. A doorbell rang.

Dougal, struggling between his feelings and his hunger, resolved to at least check before he committed to either leaving or feeding. As he heard the door swing open, Dougal peeked around the tree.

“Nightmare Night! What a Fright! Give us something sweet to bite!”

Two pony fillies held up pumpkin-shaped buckets expectantly. One of them was warm-colored, and dressed as a cowgirl. The other, shorter one was cool-colored, and wore a fish bowl and tin foil like a primitive astronaut. Both had eyes that glistened and vibrated excitedly. They wore broad, innocent smiles.

“Oh, aren't you both so precious!” said the cream-colored mare in the door. From the candy bowl in her hooves, she poured pieces of brightly wrapped sugary confections into the waiting pumpkins.

“Thank you very much!” the two fillies chimed in unison, their smiles opened even broader. They jumped in place, then turned around. They bounded towards their waiting guardian, who sported a cool-colored mane and a warm-colored coat.

“Alright, girls, save the enthusiasm. We have a bunch more houses to hit.”

“YAAAAAAY!” the fillies cheered, running off ahead, the stallion in tow, grinning all the way.

Behind the tree, Dougal Dempsey slid to the ground, both hands clasped over his mouth. His eyes were bugged out. A single strand of jet-black hair hung over his face. He couldn't move.

For precious moments, not even the Beast made a comment.

“Ha ha...ha ha...ha...”

The first glow of morning illuminated an absolute massacre.

Once merely littered with trash, the filthy alley was now covered in inhuman garbage. Bodies were strewn about, decaying steadily to dust. Some were already unrecognizable. Severed limbs and heads were left where they fell, to be picked from the piles of broken bricks and splintered wood. Precious Vitae – that mystic vampire blood – was splattered everywhere, though that too would eventually decay to nothing.

What would remain were the holes in the walls. At least one hole still had in it a dissolving body, punched through head first. Another body hung from the wall, impaled by a wooden bat. If this one was still alive, it would burn soon. A crack in one wall ran from ground to roof.

Atop the building, rocking gently in the wind, was the Freak in the straightjacket. The sleeves on his jacket were torn off, as were his arms and legs. He was hung with his own scarves from a TV antenna.

Despite grimacing in pain, he was giggling. “Gods...ha ha...gods...found their play thing...ha ha ha...”

He stared off into the distance, giggling like a ninny as the first rays of dawn peaked over the horizon.

Author's Note

Remember, feedback is always appreciated. As is criticism. I will never get better unless I know what I'm doing wrong. Just make sure someone else hasn't already pointed out the typo or plot hole before.

* Elm Trees, owing to a particular genetic trait, are more susceptible to fungal infections that other trees. As such, in most of the western world, their numbers were decimated by such conditions as Dutch Elm Disease and others. To the point where they exist in significantly lower numbers, and are watched diligently for outbreaks.

02 - The Kiss

Ch. 02 - The Kiss

1000 Years Ago

“GLLLAAARGH!”

Stolen blood sprayed out as the shimmering blade stabbed into cold, dead flesh. The emaciated equine kicked around, leathery wings flapping hard. The blade slid deeper and deeper, scraping rib bone as it traveled.

“Gack! Glaa...haaah...ack...” the vampony choked, clasping a hoof over the blade in a vain attempt to stop its ingress. They could gain no traction, however, on the ephemeral sword.

“For Equestria, and all innocent little ponies!”

The sword pierced out the undead Pegasus' back, severing its spine in the process, before digging into the boulder behind. Cold life juices flowed out like a river onto cold stone.

“Graaagh...GLOOOLGH!” With a final, desperate spasm, the stallion went limp, wings ceasing their tireless flaps. Blood welled from the corner of his mouth and dibbled down his chin.

“Huff...huff...puff...” The alicorn combatant eyed its quarry a moment longer, breathing heavily.

“Princess! Thou hast slain the beast!” said a member of the lunar guard, running up to the scene. He gulped at the impaled beast.

“Huff...puff...gulp...aye...aye, tis done.” Princess Luna turned to the guard, brushing a stray lock of flowing hair from her face. “...what of the victim? Yon child?”

The guardspony dipped his head solemnly.

“...we see...” Luna said, frowning. She looked to the vampony. It twitched here and there; she knew it had unlife still. Not for long, though. “Thou...foul beast...thou shalt not consume any more lives. Soldier.”

“Your Highness?”

“Post a guard on this tree until dawn,” she said. “When our sister, Princess Celestia, raises the sun, the foul creature shall be no more.”

“Right away, Your Highness.” The guard saluted, then looked to the East. “Dawn shall come none too soon.”

Luna looked to that horizon. Knew how, when she brought down the moon, Celestia would bring up the sun. How her light would do easily what Luna struggled so to: completely destroy the nightwalker.

Luna scowled. The thought added just a drop more to the growing resentment in her heart. She looked to the moon – her moon. Studied its shadows.

For not the first time, she found those shadows...inviting...

Present Day

Dougal Dempsey sat in the embrace of the shadows. How often had they comforted him on nights past.

They comforted him little tonight. Protected from watchful eyes, but not comforted.

It finally happened, he thought, hand clasped over his face. I've gone completely mad.

With trepidation in his mien, he leaned over and peeked around the corner of his hiding place behind the tree.

Up and down the street, four-legged figures trod. They were clad in varied, fanciful costumes, but their underlying nature was readily apparent. Ponies. Ponies everywhere.

Another set of trick-or-treaters approached leisurely. Dougal ducked back to his hiding place, hand clasped over his mouth. As the giggles drew closer, he could feel his fangs reflexively extend. Dougal could hear their heartbeats. Nonetheless, he forced himself to stay still.

“Let's hit that house next!”

“Sounds great!”

The voices grew more distant, and Dougal peeked around again to study them. On third inspection, appearances remained unchanged: equine creatures – talking equine creatures – dressed in clothes and walking about as if they owned the place.

I just...I don't...fuck, he thought. Can't stay here. Need time to think.

The vampire turned on his heels and slunk away, head bowed low. Glancing over his shoulder, looking left and right, Dougal rushed behind another house. He jumped over a fence, landing softly on well-kept grass. He trained his ear, listening for any commotion from the house. None came to his attention. He continued moving.

Nothing made sense anymore. As a creature of the night, Dougal perhaps held the erroneous impression that he knew all the strange, wondrous, horrible things that existed and remained hidden from the mundane world. In retrospect, an arrogant opinion to be sure. Every year he unlived, since the night he was turned, he had learned something new. Something that surprised him. Something that made him just a little more paranoid of what lay around the next corner.

Dougal jumped over the next fence, then slowly peeked behind a corner. He could see some of the street through the space between houses. A street lamp – decorative bats strung together in a chain wound around the pole – cast light over the cobblestone. Several costumed children – foals – sped past in a group, the smallest of them all tripping over his four little legs and falling to the ground. He scampered to his hooves, an older pair of guardians patting him on the head and telling him to catch up.

When they group had passed, Dougal skulked forward, crouched low.

Explanations. Rational – or at least plausible – explanations. Dougal considered it. He could be dreaming, he supposed. He might never have left torpor, that elaborate mechanism and his miraculous tripping of it merely a wishful thought of his own. While he didn't know very much of the mechanics of torpor, Dougal knew stories. Stories of extended, vivid torpid dreams. Nightmares, really. Now if he could be sure which his situation was.

He stopped at the next corner, looking either direction. The next few pedestrians were far off on either side. Dougal sneaked into the front yard of one of the houses, counting on the glare of the street lamp to mask his movements from distant observers. Ducking into a patch of bushes, he paused, ears and eyes alert.

Next possibility, the whole sequence was an overblown, thorough illusion cast by some particularly demented Ravnos. A Ravnos with...questionable tastes. It would need to be a powerful, experienced one to fool all of his senses so completely. Or it could be a Malkavian, inflicting a mad vision upon Dougal for their own inscrutable reasons.

Dougal remembered the freak from the Sabbat war party. That he was assaulting Dougal's mind so was certainly possible. But did that mean they staked him, then sent the lunatic along to torment him? Or was he still in the battle?

He shook his head. Such speculation was unproductive. Giving room for some sort of mental dialation of time applied to such a vision, the Sabbat pack would in reality have their fangs around his throat right then and there. So that was either not the case, or he was about to die, rendering the point moot. Besides, Dougal could ill afford to constantly question his own perceptions. There was no way of knowing, so his only prudent course of action was to continue thinking and acting under the assumption that what he saw was reality. A bizarre version of reality where horses could talk...and build houses from pastel colors, by the looks of it...but reality nonetheless.

Otherwise, he might as well give up and assume he was a brain in a jar, being lied to. That was unhelpful.

Dougal peeked between leaves, past the bushes. Across the street, he spotted something that was very helpful. Potentially.

Glancing over the hedge row, he inched around the side and dashed across the road. Giving the street light a wide birth, Dougal sped to the opposite lawn. Ducking behind a fence, he looked to the house's front porch. Sticking out of a bush – no doubt cast carelessly by a delivery boy (colt) – was a newspaper.

Mindful of potential witnesses, Dougal crept forward. He cast his eyes to the windows, but they were black as pitch. Deftly he snatched the newspaper, then slunk towards the side of the house. He jumped over a fence.

Somewhere along the street, a voice said, “did you see something over there?”

Dougal clapped a hand over his mouth. The other clutched the newspaper dearly.

“See what?”

“...oh...it was probably nothing. Come one, we'll be late for the party!”

Muscles relaxing, Dougal unfurled the paper and scanned the cover.

Trottleville? Where in the hell was Trottleville?

Trottleville is where sapient horses live, apparently, he thought after a moment. He shook his head ruefully.

Dougal looked up and down the front page. The “Trottleville Times” seemed like a small town paper, except adorned with horse shoes at the upper corners. He turned the paper around several times, scouring for publishing information. The publishing time gave him a date that made no sense to him. But the publishing address pointed him at least to a place: Trottleville, Equestria.

The vampire sat frozen for more than a minute, before shaking his head and reading the front page story.

NIGHTMARE MOON COMES TO TROTTLEVILLE

By Front Page

After a month of labor and preparation, the streets of Trottleville run in a much spookier vein than usual. Yes, Nightmare Night has returned at last! Everypony is trotting about, hanging last minute decorations, scrounging for the last bits of candy, and performing those last costume repair tasks in anticipation. A fun, scary night is expected by all.

But Trottleville citizens are more excited than ever before this year. A treat unseen in our town's history is in store: Princess Luna, the Mare in the Moon herself, has chosen Trottleville for her seasonal visit.

On any other day of the year, Princess Luna holds her position as diarch and ruler of the night, opposite her sister, Princess Celestia. But for one night a year, our Night Princess wears the mantle of her infamous historical persona, Nightmare Moon, in honor of Nightmare Night. And this year, she has chosen Trottleville to visit. So be warned, trick-or-treaters. Nightmare Moon is on the prowl, and she expects offerings of candy...or else!

Later, Princess Luna will be attending the annual Nightmare Night Dance in Trottleville Town Hall. The party starts in...

Dougal let his hands go limp, dropping the paper to his lap.

He didn't even know where to begin. Equestria, Nightmare Night, a Princess – TWO Princesses. “Everypony”.

Dougal shook his head, rubbing his cheek. He brought the paper up again.

Nightmare Night Dance. Town Hall.

He stood up, looking over the fence. The street was growing eerily empty, scattered ponies rushing off out of sight. They were headed deeper into town.

Dougal stroked his chin. He needed blood. His fingers shook for want of blood. It would do little good to dwell on his situation without first slaking his thirst. And if the ponies were the only blood bags around, then there simply wasn't anything for it. But who to go after?

He looked at the houses lining the street. The lights were all off. One house – the one he'd spotted giving out candy earlier – had its front door open, and three pony adults head out. They walked towards the center of town.

It seemed the town hall was the place to be.

Dougal pondered his options. The easiest and fastest solution would be to jump the three ponies there. Combined the three could easily fill his belly. But as much as the Beast inside urged him to attack...the risk was too great. He could stop one, maybe two, but his mere appearance would likely be enough to send them all running and screaming. Then the entire neighborhood would investigate, and everything would spiral out of control.

Dougal simply was not confident in his ability to get them all, weak as he was, and not be found out. It would take only one frightened individual getting away before the entire town was in alert. It would take one corpse for a full manhunt to be on...and making a corpse of one of them was always a possibility.

Unlike among the humans, there was no blending in with these creatures. No Masquerade to shield him.

He could break into houses and look for individuals who decided not to go out that night...but it would take an extremely long time to carefully enter homes without leaving undo evidence of his entrance. Add the silent searching of every room, avoiding detection, getting out, and going to the next house, and he could be all night at the task. Dougal didn't have all night; he needed – wanted – blood immediately. Moreso since he also had to devote time to finding a place to take haven for the day.

There was, additionally, no guarantee that anyone stayed home that night. They could all be at the party. Or so few stayed away that searching houses would be akin to searching for a needle in a haystack.

Dougal jumped over the fence, crouching. He fixed his eyes on the retreating figures of the three ponies. He started tailing them.

A party was large and packed. There was danger of discovery, with so many present. But at the very least, he knew where the prey was. He could do his predator best, and find one that wandered too far from the herd.

It was only a matter of time.

“Princess! It's almost time!”

Princess Luna gazed down from the roof of a building. “Coming, Kibitz!” The lunar diarch leaped from the roof, great wings outstretched. Gliding down, her majestic form cast a shadow upon the ground by the light of the moon.

Several ponies passing through whistled and cheered.

“Princess Luna! Princess Luna!” cheered a filly, clad in a little red bodysuit and topped with a metal helmet, shaped like a dish but with wings on either side. She hopped excitedly. “Can I have your autograph?”

Luna landed, smiling. “Why of course you-”

“Mmhmm!” grunted Kibitz, bushy mustache wiggling impatiently. In truth, he felt rather silly in his flowing black cape, bow tie, and black eyeliner, but bore it with dignity befitting his position. Plus, he would hear no end of it from Princess Celestia if she found out he wasn't in “appropriate costume”. How he suffered for the crown. “Your highness, we do have a schedule to keep.”

“I...well...” Luna said, frowning. She looked back and forth between the royal planner and the child.

“Pllleeeeeeease?” said the filly.

“Oh...oh, we can stop for a moment, can we not, Kibitz?” Luna said, looking expectantly at him.

Kibitz shook his head. “I'm afraid we cannot. We're expected at...I mean to say...uh...” The unicorn stallion looked from his royal highness to the child. They both bore the same pleading expression.

“...botheration...” he finally said, rubbing his brow. “Very well, but we really must hurry. The dance is already begun.” He absentmindedly cleaned his spectacles.

“Thank you, Kibitz,” Luna said, winking at him. She turned to the filly, who smiled broadly. “Now, what is your name...?”

“Hold on, girls. I need to use the washroom!”

A unicorn mare with a fiery red mane ducked into the bathroom. She wore a blue and black jacket, and had a Flamingo stamped on her flank.

Flamingo's hoof pushed at the door, but the locking mechanism didn't engage. She pushed again, then a third time. She shrugged, then approached the mirror. Gazing into it, she removed a tube of lipstick from her jacket pocket and began applying.

“Wait'll the stallions get a load of me,” she said, admiring her handiwork.

From somewhere behind, the sound of a window opening could be heard. Flamingo felt the rush of air against her back. “Huh?”

“You'll do.”

Something grabbed her mane and jerked her head to the side. Flamingo gaped, “Ack! What the-”

She felt a sharp pain in her neck. Two stabbing sensations along a major artery. She gasped. Flamingo tried to struggle, but felt great limbs coil around her front and clutch tight. “Get...get...off...”

Flamingo's head swam. Her eyes wandered to the floor, glancing at the meaty digits caressing her body. Felt how very cold they were. She saw the individual threads of the creature's own jacket sleeves. Felt cold breath against her neck. Felt warm fluid gush from her flesh.

Felt the acute pain transform into the most exquisite pleasure she'd ever felt. “H...haaa...haaaaaa...” she moaned, hooves falling out from under her. But the caressing creature bore her aloft, supporting her with its great, big arms.

Dougal Dempsey tasted the fluids pouring into his mouth. It was the most exquisite thing he'd ever tasted. Such was the taste of a starving man.

He began to suck. Swallowed. Dougal's throat flared with soothing relief. Dry esophagus walls swelled, cracks mending under the deluge. Rushing to his stomach, the blood warmed his belly. Dougal's tongue danced, lapping up the delicious nectar.

Slow down, he told himself, reining in his enthusiasm. Savor. Enjoy it. Blood can't be taken in haste.

In spite of himself, he continued swallowing greedily. Dougal felt the beating heart of this...person...beneath his fingers. On his lips. Tasted the blood. Metallic, scarlet ichor, in his mouth, down his throat. It was...different, though. He feared an animal's blood would be thin – bland and lacking nutrition – but this was as pure as any human's blood. And its taste...spicy, almost. Tangy, and strangely energizing. Something about this creature's vitae that set it apart from the blood of humans. She was a unicorn, this creature. Is this what unicorn blood tasted like?

Was...he supposed to be remembering something? Dougal tried to think. But the blood...the blood was so good...and he was so...thirsty...

Not too much, he thought. He opened his eyes, pausing ever so briefly. I can't take too much...only so much blood. Can't take everything. But...but...

“...uuuuuh...oh...” the unicorn moaned weakly.

...but I'm so...thirsty!

“Flamingo! Are you done in there? Sorry if I just barge in but the door is open and I-”

Dougal looked up. Another mare – one with wings – appeared in the doorway. She was heavyset, with a white coat and blond mane. She wore a similar jacket to the unicorn mare, but white and blue.

Her chubby face portrayed shock. Then it twisted into one of horror.

Dougal swallowed what was in his mouth, then pulled it off the mare clutched in his arms. Blood dribbled around his mouth, and flowed in a little river from the unicorn's neck wound. Flamingo's eyes were glazed over, insensate.

The pegasus in the doorway sucked in air, a gasp preempting a fearful scream.

Dougal locked eyes with the pegasus. He pointed a finger at her. “Sleep.”

The mare's scream came out a quiet pop. Then she swayed in place. Her eyes swam, fluttered. Became very heavy. Staggering on her hooves, she groaned, “uuuuuh...” She teetered, vision fading. She toppled over.

She was asleep before she hit the ground.

Dougal gulped, staring at the pegasus. A pegasus. First a unicorn, then a pegasus. He shook his head. Turning to the unicorn, he felt her chest. Heartbeat rapid, breathing labored. The mare's trance had given way to unconsciousness.

He had taken more than he intended. Though not nearly as much as he wanted. He frowned anxiously.

Leaning in, Dougal stuck his tongue out and passed it over the girl's neck. He caught the stray line of blood at the bottom and worked up. The fur of the unicorn's coat felt unusual. Finally, he licked the puncture wounds thoroughly, lapping up the fluids and working into the holes. Beneath such ministrations, the marks closed, leaving no trace of the vampire's work.

None except the problematic blood loss. Dougal knew she would require medical attention. He gently lowered her to the ground.

He still hungered, of course, but his supply of blood was enough to afford a greater degree of control over himself. Dougal turned to the pegasus.

This one was heavier than the other, but Dougal had no trouble lifting. Holding the slumbering pony in his arms, Dougal felt her neck for the telltale artery. He'd been lucky with the unicorn – the unicorn indeed – but with extra flesh it always paid to be careful. When he was confident of its location, Dougal bore his fangs again and bit down.

Stirring briefly in her sleep, the pegasus flinched, then relaxed. She even smiled. “...oooohhh...T-torque...” she moaned, muttering softly.

Slightly bemused, Dougal drank deeply of her blood.

Once again, the vitae was strange. No less potent – for a mortal anyway – but sweeter, perhaps. It differed from the unicorn's blood, however. It seemed more...airy. And crackled with an electricity that tingled as the blood flowed down his throat and throughout his body. Like drinking static. It seemed moister as well, with a taste reminiscent of...morning dew.

More in charge of himself, he prepared to break off of his own accord.

“AAAAAAAHHHH!”

Dougal shot up. There was a third mare.

Why didn't he lock the door? He cursed himself, trying to lock eyes with the new mare. “Sle-”

“Monster! Vampire!” the mare shouted, turning away abruptly and dashing off, the bathroom door clattering closed in her wake.

A new scarlet sweat broke over Dougal's brow. He scowled.

Damnation, he thought, chasing after.

13 - Stars And Seas

Ch. 13 - Stars And Seas

July 1958

“Hi.”

The girl flinched, looking over her shoulder. Her eyes widened. “Bah!” she squeaked.

Dougal displayed his hands. “Sorry, sorry, it's just me,” he said, waving. “I'm not here to drag you back. I'm just here to talk.”

The Tzimisce girl stared at him a moment, then turned back towards the water. She leaned forward, hands in her lap. Her legs, caked in mud, dangled over the ledge where she sat.

“...mind if I sit down?” Dougal asked softly. “You...look awfully lonely.”

“...mmm...” the girl grunted, shuffling her shoulders.

Dougal took a seat beside her, a meter apart. The concrete felt cool to the touch, at odds with the balmy summer air. The Lasombra looked out over the water, letting the sea breeze waft over him. Listened to the waves. Watched the moonlight reflected on the surf. The sight and sounds and smell of the sea...they comforted Dougal in a way he couldn't explain. As if some deep, primordial part of his blood – salty liquid of life – called out to the briny ocean.

Perhaps there was something to be said of Homer's wine-dark sea.

He looked over at the girl. “Nice night, huh?”

The girl stared at the ocean, then mumbled vaguely in assent.

“...do you have somewhere to stay?” Dougal asked. He looked at her jacket pockets. Saw the dirt stains, like lip stick around the openings. “...I see you've figured out the dirt thing. Have you been sleeping well?”

She fidgeted her fingers, then nodded tersely.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

“...how did you...find me?” the girl said, her voice weak.

“...we figured you wouldn't leave town,” Dougal said. “Not that it would have been safe to. Get too far into the wilderness, and you enter wolf country.”

“...wolf country...?” She peeked sideways a bit.

“It's not important right now...”

“Are you...here to take me back?” the girl said, looking back to the sea. “D-did...she send you?”

“...no, she didn't...” Dougal said. “...what do you want to do?”

She shook her head, first slowly, then frantically. “I don't know...” she breathed. Her hands clutched at her skirt. Her eyes were clasped shut.

Dougal noted the rusty red trails dribbled from her mouth. Smelled the pungent odor. A dry but exquisite aroma. “...we also followed the trail of...bodies...”

She choked back a sob. “...I didn't mean to...I c-couldn't...” She hugged her sides, contorting her face in agony.

“Shh...” Dougal said, hand hovering indecisively towards her, “...it's okay...” Finally he let the hand drop. “...we've...we've all lost a few. It just...happens...”

“B-but I tried...I t-tried...” the girl said. She slapped a hand over her mouth. Beads of scarlet blood issues from the corners of her eyes.

“...you tried to avoid feeding?”

She sobbed. “Mm-hmm...” The girl wiped her eye with the back of her hand.

“That doesn't work,” Dougal said. “Starving yourself only makes it worse...but...” He laced his fingers together, staring at them in his lap. “...but I suppose you already know that.”

The girl nodded, then started licking the back of her hand. She stopped, staring wide-eyed at the tongue-trails in the vitae on her hand. She cringed, shaking her head. “...oh God...I'm a monster...”

Dougal said nothing. Just stared out at the waves.

For a while the two just sat there. The girl sobbed quietly, face in her hands. Dougal thought back to the prostitute with the mole on her face.

Eventually, the girl's crying subsided. She sniffed, looking up. The moon hung over the horizon, and the light reflected off her eyes. Her face was a bloody mess. “...what...w-what happens now...?”

Dougal tapped his knee. “Do you have friends around here?”

The girl looked down, frowning. She sniffed again. “...I...I can't...let them see me...” Her body shuddered. “...not like this...”

“Mom? Dad? Brothers and sisters?”

“...my dad, and my grandparents,” she said, “my cousin, too. I'm not sure if they've been looking for me.”

“They probably have,” Dougal said. “You're lucky to have family out there, even if...even if you can't visit them.”

“...you don't have family?” the Tzimisce said, looking over at him.

“My parents both died before...well, this,” Dougal said, motioning to himself. “Anyway, you don't want to visit yours?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head and frowning. “...do I have to come back? To...to her?” The girl bit her lip, touching her face. “I don't want to...to do that to my face. To anyone's face. I don't want to do the kinds of things she did to herself. I...I don't want to...to change myself anymore...”

“Well, you won't have to worry about that,” Dougal said, gazing with longing at the water. “Your sire is dead.”

The young Fiend stared at the water, then jerked her heads towards the young Keeper. “What!?” the girl exclaimed, eyes wide.

Dougal sighed. It was a habit he hadn't indulged in quite a while. “That's actually why I'm here, now,” Dougal said. “As opposed to being your sire, back in those woods, last month.”

“...she's dead?” the girl said, mouth hanging open.

“When we had you embraced, it was for a purpose,” Dougal said. The nature of that purpose – sacrifice as nothing but a pawn – he spoke not a word of. “You and the other fledglings were supposed to help us kill an enemy of the Sabbat. But our time table was moved up, so we couldn't come looking for you. We bit off more than we could chew. Now it's just you, me, and Lance back there.”

The girl followed the Lasombra's pointing thumb. Spotted the Ventrue Antitribu in the distance, leaning against a flickering lamp post, watching the road.

She turned back to Dougal. “...everyone...everyone died?”

“Yes.”

“Is...is it because I wasn't there?” She frowned, hands clutching against her chest nervously.

Dougal looked over at the fledgling. He paused, eyes taking her in. “You? No.” He looked back towards the water. “It's obvious you don't have a warrior's bone in your body. No, you'd be dead.”

The girl jerked back, blinking. Then she looked back down. “I...I guess that's true.”

“Don't take it personally.”

“Do you still want me back?”

“If you want,” Dougal said. “It's...hard out there, for a fledgling. The streets are harsh, and survival is by no means guaranteed.

“Now, I'm not saying you have to join with us,” he continued. “You've seen some of what the Sabbat is, and how it operates. It's a harsh existence – and may be a brief one. We fight a war, here.”

“A war?”

He nodded. “That's right. The Sabbat is embroiled in an eternal crusade against another sect, the Camarilla.” Dougal looked over his shoulder, eyes on the Ventrue. Saw the latter wasn't looking towards them. “...don't tell Lance, but you could always defect to their side. They aren't as militant, the Camarilla. Not as suicidally crazed.” He looked the girl in the eyes. “But don't be confused, despite being more humane than the Sabbat, the Camarilla is not nice. They are monsters through and through. They just like to pretend they aren't. Or so I've heard.” He glanced out at the moon. “You could always make a break for a Camarilla controlled city, bow before its Prince, and try to make a respectable unlife for yourself.

“...except you're at a distinct disadvantage.”

“I am?” the girl said, blinking.

“Yes. You're a Tzimisce.”

“Oooooh...” she said, clutching her head, “that's what she said! What does that even mean!?”

“It's your clan,” Dougal said, “your lineage.” He pointed at her. “You carry the blood of the Tzimisce,” he said. He pointed to himself. “Just as I carry the blood of Lasombra.” He pointed back towards Lance. “Just as he carries the blood of Ventrue. You are a Tzimisce, just like your sire, and her sire before her. I'm not a Tzimisce, so I can't teach you what that means. I only know what my sire told me about your Clan. I do know this, though: the Tzimisce and the Lasombra are the pillars of the Sabbat. Always have been, always shall be. So even though the Camarilla claims all children of Caine under their rule, they despise us. Despise the Tzimisce, and the Lasombra.”

Dougal watched the sea. “There are Lasombra in the Camarilla, I'm told,” he said. “Antitribu – those who work against their own Clan – who chose the Camarilla rather than the Sabbat. There are not many, though, and Clan Lasombra hunts them relentlessly as blood traitors. So even were I to defect, I would not find the Lasombra Antitribu. They hide too well in the shadows, like any proper Lasombra. They have to.” He turned back to her. “But you have it worse, for according to my sire there are no Tzimisce in the Camarilla. Period. I don't know exactly why, but your Clan and all its disparate members will not have anything to do with that sect. If they aren't in the Sabbat, the Tzimisce are loners and apolitical.

“If you try to join the Camarilla, you will have no friends. You will be alone against elders willing to kill you for what you are. Elders for whom Tzimisce and Sabbat are synonymous.”

The girl frowned, then looked out towards the water. She pulled her legs up, hugging them close to her chest. Her chin rested on her knees. She shut her eyes.

Dougal frowned too. “...look, I'm sorry,” he said. “None of this is your fault. You didn't ask for this. I know that feeling. And it seems like everywhere you turn, your options aren't options at all. I know this is hard...”

“...what do you want?” the girl mumbled. She turned to him, cheek pressed into her knees. “Why do you do what you do? You don't sound like a monster.”

For a half a minute, Dougal sat in place, mouth half-open. “...I want to move forward.”

The girl pondered this for a moment, turning to the sea. “...if I join...the Sabbat...what will I have to do?”

“I won't make you do anything you don't want to,” Dougal said. “I can't speak for Lance, but I get the impression so long as you don't betray us, he'll be fine with whatever. He's...stiff, and he's not exactly an outstandingly moral person, but he is an honorable one. And I think he believes in the Sabbat ideal of freedom. It's one of the things the Sabbat has going for it: you can be whatever Vampire you want to be...except a traitor, of course.”

“Will I have to kill people?”

“...I won't say you won't have to,” Dougal said, “nor can I say you won't. But you know that already.” He rubbed the concrete beneath him. “Still, Lance and I have talked it over. We aren't really interested in death or destruction for their own sake.”

“...so I won't have to...change my face?”

“No. No one's going to make you act like her.” Dougal laughed. “Tell you the honest truth, I never liked the crone anyway.”

“...what was he name?”

“Hmm? Don't know, actually. She changed her name a lot, something about having a malleable identity. We just called her the Crone. I think the name was something significant, but I never learned what.” The Lasombra shrugged. “Speaking of, I never did catch yours. My name is Dougal.”

The girl smiled slightly. “Um...my name is Nora.”

“Nora...” Dougal smiled too. “I like it,” he said. “It's a lovely name.”

“It's an old name,” Nora said, speaking into her knees. “But thanks.”

“Not a problem,” Dougal said. He climbed to his feet. “Then I guess we should get going.” He got two feet before stopping. “And hey kid...Nora...”

“Huh?” Nora said, looking up. Then she squeaked, a big hand landing gently on her head. She peeked out from under it as the hand tussled her hair.

“Don't worry,” Dougal said, smiling down on her. “Things get better.” He walked away.

The Tzimisce girl sat there on the ledge for a few seconds, bewildered. Then Nora rose to her feet frantically. “Hey! Hey, wait up!”

Present

“After the others died, Lance and I rebuilt the pack. And we rebuilt it our way.”

Dougal Dempsey looked at the monarchs intently. “Every other pack in the Sabbat was a wild, uncontrollable mob. We acted with purpose.”

“What kind of purpose?” asked Princess Luna.

“Various kinds, though the commonality was advancing goals. Lance, being Ductus, preferred to fight the Jyhad, and that meant taking the fight to the Camarilla. It just so happened that a couple other members also had reason to want to fight them. I personally just wanted to keep us on task, and stop the others from spiraling down in degeneration. Others had more scholarly pursuits, and we took time out to advance those. Mostly, though, we were agents against the Camarilla. When a crusade was called, we came in to help. To fight. And while the sieges didn't always succeed – in fact they often fell apart once the initial momentum was spent – we did a lot of damage to the sect's enemies.

“We went along that for thirty years.”

“Thirty years,” Twilight Sparkle said, whistling. “Wow. I mean, I suppose for immortal creatures it would be a drop in the bucket, right?”

“The average unlife expectancy of a Sabbat pack is roughly five years,” Dougal said.

“Oh.” Twilight's eyes opened a little wider. “Ooooooh. Oh, that's...that's impressive then.”

“I am honestly not surprised an organization that one you've described has such a high turnover,” Luna said. She looked down at the floor. “Not that I like such a senseless loss of life...unlife. Nor indeed do I think I like the idea of what sort of damage a complete monster could do in five years...” Luna looked accusingly at the vampire. “Makes me wonder what sort of damage you and your associates could do in thirty.”

“More than I would have liked,” Dougal said, shutting his eyes briefly. “Yet thankfully less than could be expected from an average pack. That was, in fact, what made us both well and poorly regarded. Our peers – such that they were – did not appreciate a group of stuffy, serious Cainites that didn't see much amusement in wanton destruction and terrorizing the local mortal population. We made up for it by proving our courage and skill. But the easiest time we had was merely by staying out of the way.”

“What finally happened?” Luna asked.

“Hmm?”

“You say your pack went on like that for thirty years,” Luna said. “You also say you betrayed the Sabbat. How did you get from one to the other?”

Dougal paused for a moment, allowing scattered thoughts to build in his mind. He breathed in and out. That luxury habit indulged again. “...sooner or later, one's good luck runs out,” he said. “We made a mistake...a poor choice of targets...”

Knock, knock.

“Excuse me...”

The door cracked open. The waitress peeked inside. “Um, your highnesses,” she said, sheepishly, “um...”

“Yes?” Luna said, cocking an eyebrow at the mare.

“It's...uh...about last call,” the waitress said, looking furtively at the floor. “We could keep the place open, if you still need some time...”

Luna tapped her hoof against the hardwood floor. “...no, I apologize,” the princess said. “We're just about finished here. We'll be right out.”

“Ah!” the mare said, then nodded. “Okay, thank you! I'll...uh...get your bill ready...” Her voice trailed off as she ducked back out.

Twilight yawned. “...oh my, it really is late, isn't it?” she said, rubbing her eyelid. “The others are probably already back at the hotel, worried about me.” She smiled at Dougal. “Not that I don't find your story fascinating, Mr. Dougal!”

“What?” Dougal said, shaking his head and returning his attention from the middle distance. “Oh, thank you...”

Luna sighed.

“...I could finish my story in the carriage,” Dougal said, “if that's alright with your highness.”

“...no, that won't be necessary,” Luna said, rising from her sitting position on the floor. Her back popped softly as she stretched. “Ugh...tonight as been a long one, and I...need to return to my lodgings. To think on what I've learned here. Come along, Twilight.”

“Right,” Twilight said, making towards the door. Emptied glasses levitated along with her as she walked. She headed out the door.

Luna turned to Dougal, who was just getting up and stretching himself. “Mr. Dempsey.”

“Yes, your highness?” Dougal said, one eye shut, his arms over his head.

“One last thing...I have my own suspicions,” Luna said, “given your choice of words, what happened to the rest of your pack. You...have my condolences.”

Dougal said nothing, cupping his hands behind his back.

“...that is how it is, is it not?”

“...it was ten years ago, or thereabouts,” Dougal said finally. “Really, it was amazing we'd lasted so long utterly intact, leading the unlives we did.”

“And when they were gone, you parted ways with the Sabbat?”

“...I was...tired...” Dougal said, looking away. “Truthfully, I was tired of the work – of the crusade – almost immediately. But...they made it bearable. I had somewhere I belonged, despite having no permanent home or family. When they were gone...” He raised his hand to block the overhead light bulb, watching the silhouette of his fingers dance. “...there was nothing in the sect – in the whole Jyhad – for me. I was...so tired...”

He looked back to the Princess. “Is there anything else you wanted to know?” he said.

“A great many things,” Luna said, sighing. She shook her head. “But I know more than anyone that among the long-lived and active, there's paradoxically never enough time for all the stories of our lives.” She looked the vampire directly in the eyes. “I just need to know one thing,” Luna said, frowning. “Will you leave your past behind? Have you abandoned the monster you were? Dougal Dempsey...can I trust you to not harm my people?”

It did not even merit a pause for consideration. “Yes,” Dougal said, flatly. “My past is dead.”

The image of the blood-stained golden dagger flashed in Luna's mind. She felt trepidation, her heart fluttering.

She was looking at a Vampire. A parasite upon the living, and a consummate liar by nature. That he spoke when past vampires she'd met did not comforted her little.

It could all be an elaborate lie. A story concocted to play to her sympathies.

Yet...damn her for a fool, but it didn't fit. She couldn't buy such a scenario, and the deliberate risks it put him into were it true. No matter how much easier it would be for her.

Luna sighed. “Fine, we're done here,” she said. “But I'm still watching you.” She raised her hoof, pointing first at her own eyes, then at Dougal. “Are we clear?”

Dougal tilted his head, then smirked. “Hm hm...crystal, your highness.”

“Oh there you are, darling. Do you even know what time it is?”

Twilight Sparkle stepped into the darkened hotel room. She was positively beaming. “Oh, sorry for waking you, Rarity.” Twilight whispered. “Yeah, we...kind of got sidetracked...”

Rarity rubbed her eye, yawning. Pushed just over her eyes was a sleep mask, a lock of frazzled hair draped over it. The unicorn blinked at the halfway light, then moved to shut the door. “Oh, it's quite alright. So – briefly, because I need my beauty sleep – how was the play? I'm so jealous we couldn't go.” Not that the afternoon and evening were a waste. Shopping, the Baltimare Museum of Art, a Pinkie Pie misadventure, dinner at a prestigious waterfront restaurant...

“The play was lovely,” Twilight said. “Very interesting narrative structure. Experimental. Ten minutes, forty seconds – I timed it naturally – of an actress slow motion cutting a pie.” She levitated her bags in front of the untouched bed near the window. She shook her head. “But that wasn't even the best part of tonight!”

“Well, you'll have to tell me all about it in the morning, dear,” Rarity said, hopping back in bed. “It's dreadfully late, so try to get some sleep. We have a full day tomorrow. Good night.”

“Oh Rarity, I can't sleep now!” Twilight said, shaking giddily as she parked herself on the edge of her bed. “I'm too excited.”

“And why's...yawn...that, darling...?” Rarity mumbled, lowering the sleep mask and planting her head on the pillow.

“Because...” Twilight said, looking out the window at the city lights. She grinned from ear to ear. “I think I just found my new case study!”

Weak.

Dougal sat in his bedroom, seated in his reading chair. In his hand he swirled a wine glass. The pungent aroma wafted towards his nose.

The Lasombra sipped the concoction. Cold. He was not unfamiliar with cold blood, a taste he was growing more used to. He recalled a previous experience. Remembered biting into the body of a dead vagrant, claimed by the numbing winter night beneath a Chicago overpass. A vivid memory it was, for the cold, for the bitter taste of chilled vitae. For the light of a fire cast not twenty feet away, enjoyed by other bums. For the furtive attempt to remain hidden amid the garbage, and for the confusion on why his victim had never sought the warmth of the oil drum flame.

Like a shard lodged in his mind, the memory would not come loose. Would not go down, and be forgotten.

Weak.

Dougal scowled, rubbing his temple. Took another swig. Let the gulp of pony blood – bought with bits – rest in his mouth. Swallowed the liquid in increments.

Tasted of the ground. Of growing things. Earth pony. Dougal was getting better at identifying them by taste.

The guards on duty on the opposite wall were earth pony. Were warm, too.

Prey.

Dougal squeezed the arm of the chair. Shook his head. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

He thought of them. Lance. Nora. Siobhan. Mason. Randel.

Pathetic.

The Lasombra gritted his teeth.

Traitor.

He breathed in. Out. Forced himself to relax his grip on the wine glass. Dougal rubbed his forehead.

Watched the blood swirl around in the glass. Pitch black was the room, not even a single lamp on. But he could watch it, his vision inverted so that light was dark and dark was light. The world was as a photo negative, and he used it to study the blood in his hand.

Dougal remembered himself, as he was so long ago.

Disappointment.

“Shut up!” he roared, rising to his feet and chucking the glass away.

Crash.

It exploded against the wall, shattering into a million pieces and painting the cream-colored plaster scarlet. Little streaks of blood ran down the surface to the molding.

The keeper clutched his head, gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes. “Shut. Up.”

Knock, knock, knock.

“What's going on in there?” came the voice of one of the guards.

Breath in. Breath out. Dougal allowed his hands to drop to his side. He stared at the stained wall, the ruined wine glass. The wasted blood.

He sighed. “Sorry, sorry,” he called out. “It's nothing.”

Dougal resolved that he'd need to get the cleaning supplies. For the moment, he simply stared at the pointless mess he'd made.

Weak.

“Wayfare! Wayfare, wake up!”

The stallion started awake. “Ugh...wha? Whatizzit?” he slurred, blinking.

“Wayfare,” the unicorn mare said, leaning over to him, “I-I think I heard something from downstairs.”

The stallion blinked, then said groggily, “Ugh...are you su-”

Crash.

“Honey, I think someone is in the house!” the mare whispered, her ears flapping and turning rapidly. They flattened against her head. “Wayfare, I'm scared.”

The stallion patted his wife on the cheek, nodding. “Stay here,” he said. He rolled over, sliding off the bed. His hoof caught the chain on the reading lamp and switched it on. The room was bathed in a soft yellow light. The stallion walked quietly over to a wall and picked a baseball bat in his mouth.

He glanced over to his wife, then slipped through the bedroom door.

The mare sat in bed, heart racing. She followed the retreating sound of floorboards squeaking beneath her husband's hooves. She trained her ears, but the sounds were muffled by distance and walls.

Crash. Shuffling and banging. The sound of...popping. A strangled cry rang out. A thud.

“Oh sweet Celestia...” the mare whispered, forehooves planted over her mouth. Sweat ran down her brow, matting her dark fur.

Hoof-steps. The squeaking of many floorboards.

The mare held her breath.

Bam!

Inward the bedroom door swung, slamming against the wall.

Four figures stood in the doorway.

“Eek!” the mare exclaimed.

Two cloaked figures rushed inside the room, parting to either side. They were burly ponies. The third figure stepped inside, levitating a ball with a cord trailing from it. The cord ended in an irregular, pointed stone, arrowhead in shape. Spinning on the string, the stone settled with finality, pointing towards the mare.

“That's a match,” said the figure in the center. She pointed towards the mare in the bed. “Take her.” Beneath that hood, the mare's eyes flashed a sickly green.

The bedside lamp flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness.

“Aaaaaaaaah!”