Chapter 21

The Dragon King

o, that was fun,’ Aix said, on their way down in the elevator, with a sort of farcical cheerfulness. ‘Let’s never, ever do it again.’

Jasper and Michaela chuckled.

Pippin beeped happily when the elevator doors opened and George was standing there, in his very sleek charcoal grey suit that was still very English Regency in cut, his gold hair still styled exactly as he always had styled it, his only accessions to the modern world the very subtle makeup to darken his pale brows and lashes. Aix always privately liked that his shoes were recognisably from American Duchess; it spoke to the quality of their shoes, if a vampire from the centuries they reproduced would wear them. George bowed to them, and gestured with the kind of servants’ elegance that looked theatrical to modern people not used to Staff.

Aix loved it, personally; he reached back a hand to tap his same shoulder, a gesture he’d copied from Victoria, her silent sign for ‘push me’. Cthulhu had learnt it, of course, staying with her, and did so, following George down the softly-lit, blue-wallpapered and walnut-panelled hallway. Aix’s chair had a horizontal bar, rather than the usual pair of handles, and said bar could be removed if desired. Aix had been terrified of strangers grabbing it and pushing him, but so far he’d always had someone with him when he went out, to guard behind him.

Now, as Cthulhu pushed him, Aix could hold Pippin loosely in his lap, his hands gently around her middle; but she was quite content to sit on his lap, babbling and miming excitedly at George like a talktative cat. He answered her with grave little ‘do you think so?’s and ‘my word’s, and ‘just so, madam’s, and other such little comments that delighted her to no end. And, because Pippin was busy talking, nobody else had to talk, and could use the few minutes to gather their nerves—Aix certainly needed to.

Aix wasn’t exactly nervous about meeting the person everyone very assiduously did not call ‘Dracula’ or ‘Vlad Dracul’ or anything of that sort. It was The King and The Voivode and, once, when they’d been in a Wafflehouse the day before getting to Baltimore, Our Esteemed Colleague From That One Town, You Know, With The View Of The River? Which just reminded Aix pleasingly of John Peters (You Know, The Farmer?) from his favourite weird radio show.

Because of the secrecy, the conference call equipment had been custom-built by the knockers, and was all analogue, which meant of course that the sound quality was a great deal better than anything VOIP could manage. It was also more beautiful, and Aix was starting to realise that, perhaps, the knockers were the true inventors of steampunk.

There was modern sound-dampening plastic making up the eight carrels the long, carved oak conference table was divided into, though they were not featureless but set into carved wooden frameworks just as though they were panes of glass. The chairs in front of each carrel were generously-proportioned and upholstered in blue velvet, and the microphones were on articulated brass stands oiled to utter silence, with windscreen and pop filters that Aix knew, just looking at them, would make everyone sound disturbingly real and in the room. There were also the big, chunky headphones that Aix had grown up using (well! His father had been a sound stage tech, after all).

George moved toward Aix, but slowly enough that it was not surprising, and reached for Pippin, who eagerly leapt into his arms. Aix supposed it was best if she didn’t stick around—she still needed her snack.

‘Thank you,’ Aix said to George, who gave a little bow of his head before shimmering out of the room. Aix put hands on his wheels, which was enough of a sign to Cthulhu to let go of the chair, and Aix got himself around the table, heading for a seat with view of all the other seats, and the doors. A nice secure corner. He did not like having his back to a room. Locking the brakes, he got up and into the chair in front of the carrel, and put on the headphones, adjusting them and the microphone, ready to just start. He’d been so focused and fascinated by the tech that he hadn’t noticed what anyone else was doing. He felt Cthulhu settle behind him, radiating comfort and protective safety, and Aix saw René and Michaela were the only two people left in the room.

‘Sound check,’ René said, ‘Testing.’

‘Loud and clear from my end,’ Michaela said.

‘I can hear both of you fine,’ Aix agreed.

‘The King speaks with a heavy accent, but he usually goes slower because he knows this,’ René told Aix. ‘It would be helpful if you spoke without slang, can you do that?’

Aix straightened up, leaned away from the mic to clear his throat, curved his mouth into a smile-for-speaking, and turned on the Phone Voice, which was low and velvety, but which Aix knew sounded extremely female even so. ‘Oh, you mean my Radio Voice?’

‘Oh mercy,’ Michaela said, fanning herself with a hand. René chuckled, shaking his head at his own caution, and flipped the switch. The Voivode was used to waiting—most immortals were exceedingly patient about being put on hold—and it was especially pleasant in their phone network, which didn’t have hold music of any sort, simply silence.

‘Voivodul Drăculești?’ René said, with perfect and memorised diction. Aix heard a smooth, deep voice answer.

‘Yes? Domnișoară Van Helsing is present? And the new Hunter?’

‘Good evening, Voivodul,’ Michaela said.

‘Good evening, this is Aix,’ Aix said, because he hadn’t practised saying Voivodul yet, and didn’t trust himself not to screw it up. Romanian may have been a Romance language, but it was the one Aix had heard the least often. ‘I have decided to replace Ana Heeren, and stay in Baltimore in an official capacity as witch.’ There, that sounded professional and clear, right? Aix had no earthly idea what he was expected to say, but he was glad to focus simply on the task of not using contractions or slang, because that distracted his brain from becoming anxious. He could be on the phone, he knew he was good at being on the phone—and it was quite pleasant, with such good sound quality.

A low hum that made Aix squirm. ‘Well, it is gratifying to know the new Hunter was taught how to speak.’

‘I am a trained opera singer, Your Grace,’ Aix said, erring on the side of medieval appellations for rulers. This seemed to please the King, because he laughed softly—and it was a smooth, sexy sort of laugh, lower than his speaking voice.

‘So polite. You are terrified, are you not? You sound young enough to only know fear.’

‘Only knowing fear means I function better terrified,’ Aix heard himself counter, with rather more expression to his voice than the measured and careful way he’d been speaking so far. ‘It’s calm I don’t know what to do with.’

The laugh was louder this time, surprised into the sort of unschooled sound natural laughter was. Aix felt better, he always did when he got people laughing at something he’d said. If people thought he was funny, he was safe. If he was entertaining, he knew he was desired and liked.

‘Tell me how The Heeren died.’

Aix thought on that. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I was at a café and she abducted me, and took me to a warehouse. I’m still not entirely certain of what she wanted. She told me René meant me ill—while tying me to a chair, mind you—and when I began to recite the reasons torture is not an effective method of interrogation, she became insulted, and insisted she was not torturing me, when of course, that is all one thinks of when one is kidnapped and dragged to a warehouse and tied to a chair by a violent person.

‘Michaela had warned me about her, so I knew she was violent, and…’ Aix paused, unwilling to ascribe mental illness to someone but also having observed the usual signs of unregulated rage in Ana’s behaviour. ‘And that her morals were not focussed on reducing harm or keeping people safe,’ he said, finally. ‘I am a cripple and use a wheelchair, and so a person like The Heeren, who is not only athletic but carrying a gun, when I cannot run from her, nor fight, should she become hostile….’ Aix didn’t know how to end the sentence, but was glad to feel Cthulhu wrap a few tendrils around one of Aix’s arms in comfort. ‘My judgement of who and what is violent is by necessity more sensitive because of how easy I am to harm,’ he decided to finish, feeling as though the whole thought was clumsy, and unclear, and hating that; this was the kind of sentence he needed to see.

‘Anyway,’ Aix went on, screwing the smile back on, ‘while The Heeren was ignoring me in the back of her van, on our way to the warehouse, I went into the Dreamscape and called for help. Through my efforts, The Black Goat Of A Thousand Young was called to the warehouse, whereupon she proceeded to reduce The Heeren to a dark stain on the concrete.’

Aix did not want to bring Pippin into this, and did not quite want to reveal the nature of clowns—it might cause vampires to turn on their pets, and Aix couldn’t stand the thought of that. He liked clowns, and people were suspicious enough of them without wild misconceptions about Cthulhu’s people being brought into it.

‘I have been attempting to read of these star-people. But The Van Helsing says the writings are wholly inaccurate. This does not surprise me, of course, but I have little knowledge of how to judge what is accurate.’

‘Cthulhu is currently sitting next to me, but his people do not speak with sound, so I have to translate. Would you like to ask him questions?’

‘I desire to meet him, as does the Concilium Vampire.’

Aix motioned for Cthulhu to pick up the headphones at the carrel next to his.

Put those on, he wants to talk to you. I can translate your answers into verbal words for you.

Cthulhu pulled down his hood, revealing that he had the same face as Aix had remembered—complete with the many eyes that opened and closed expressively.

That would be best, as I have not been able to adequately research the mechanism of human speech enough to create a suitable apparatus, yet.

We’re kind of just a reed instrument?

…I have perhaps been a little distracted from studying it by written language, and the many things about kink Victoria and Dmitri were teaching me. That is… also why I forgot to come and see you in the Dreamscape. The knowledge I suddenly had access to was overwhelming.

Aww, don’t feel bad, buddy, I know how exciting it is to suddenly be in a library after not having one for a while. And you’re not the only Academic friend I have. There was a fondness there, and a sense that Cthulhu’s ‘absent-mindedness’ was deeply endearing.

Cthulhu opened more eyes as he examined the headphones, before carefully putting them on.

‘Voivodul was just saying how he wanted to meet you, Cthulhu,’ René said.

‘In person,’ Michaela added, for clarity.

I am unsure I wish to meet him before I have made contact with the people whose land I am on.

‘Cthulhu is unsure he wants to meet you before he has made contact with the local Native people,’ Aix said, wondering what the reaction to even a polite ‘not yet’ would be.

‘The mortals? Before the Children of the Night?’ the Voivode sounded more shocked than anything.

Despite our reputation, and perhaps what we seem to you, I am a perfectly ordinary person, where I am from. There is nothing so remarkable about me, or indeed any of my colleagues that have attempted contact; but alien people coming to this landmass have a long and violent history with the Indigenous people; Azathoth wished us to make respectful impressions for our people, not violent ones.

Aix was starting to panic about remembering all of this, but Cthulhu sensed his struggle to recall the exact words, and put a hand on his back. Aix, you needn’t quote me precisely, this is not an equation.

It’s rude to paraphrase someone you’re translating, Aix said, a little desperate to perform respect, since he’d never really known how to make clear to people he felt it.

I know you are not being disrespectful, little one. He tried to use the appellation because it had made Aix feel calm and happy in the past. It worked now, and Aix took time to breathe, and calm himself.

‘He says that despite the reputation he and his people gained over the years, and despite the things they can do, they aren’t particularly extraordinary in the way Nightfolk are. Additionally, he’s now aware enough of the context of yet another alien coming to this land that he wants to pay proper respect to the Indigenous people before he moves on to others, because his mentor, Azathoth, taught him to be a person of honour.’

‘You cannot tell them of us.’

I will not.

‘He has no intention of telling them, Your Grace.’

‘May I ask you something, Cthulhu?’ Michaela said, and waited for him to nod, all those orange eyes blinking peaceably at her. ‘Your people are all psionic?’

We are.

‘Okay, that poses a really difficult legal question, then; psions are part of the Mummery, they’re considered Nightfolk under the Treaty, because they can harm mortals and mortals cannot usually defend against it in any way, and so psions must be kept in check by Hunters. Now, I am in no way saying this as a threat, but you and your kin have a body count already.’

Aix’s stomach dropped in terror, but Cthulhu blinked all of his eyes a few times, thinking on this.

She is correct, and it does not matter to the dead or bereaved that it was accidental, or due to misunderstandings.

Sweetheart, not to say you shouldn’t contact the Indigenous folks or anything, but she has a point—I do not want you to subject yourself—or anyone else—to the mess that is the current justice system in any country. They’d ruin your life for their emotions and damn practicality—or justice!

But I cannot simply not answer for the death and suffering, surely?

You can stop doing it—which you did—and you can continue helping people and being kind. No amount of causing you pain or suffering is going to bring those people back from the dead, you know? It was an accident, you learned what you did wrong and immediately corrected your behaviour. That’s all anyone can ask of you.

Aix’s words were full of conflict and knowledge of several opposing opinions—it was something he had thought on a great deal, and seen many human perspectives of, and drawn his own belief out of that large body of data. Thus, Cthulhu respected his opinion as wisdom.

The subject of morality was something Cthulhu had struggled with, though it was not in the same fashion as his colleagues—they struggled to remember smaller beings had the same feelings they did, whereas Cthulhu had been gently corrected many times for being too careful, too obliging. It was why understanding how he had harmed all of those humans had been so hard to countenance. He had been obliging them, he had been trying to do as they wanted him to.

The problem was, he’d had no idea that what they had wanted was very, very bad for them.

Michaela watched them converse—now that she could see Cthulhu’s face, it was clear he was saying things to Aix, and that they were having a deep conversation. ‘They’re conferring,’ she said, mostly to telegraph the silence for the Voivode’s sake.

‘You are so like your father, always saying the Unquiet Thought.’

‘You be mindful of that phrase, Voivodul, that’s unique to one of Aix’s gods, and I don’t think he’s a god even you want to annoy.’

A chuckle. ‘I have no fear of the Devil, Domnișoară Van Helsing.’

‘The Devil isn’t a god, he is a servant of one,’ Aix said immediately, and a little sharply. ‘Michaela means Loki. And she was acting exactly in a way to honour him,’ Aix added. ‘You’re right, Michaela; and it’s important to have a trickster’s questioning in these conversations. Thank you, Michaela,’ he said, both for the questioning and for being ready to demand Aix’s gods be respected. Nobody ever did that, for Aix, and it meant a great deal.

‘Ah, so there is fire in there somewhere.’

Aix tensed, unsure how to respond correctly to teasing like that, but hating it; there never was a response that didn’t cause more pain, it was just punishment for showing anger at all. It reminded Aix that this was, before anything else, an authority figure.

Aix had always had a problem with authority.

Steady, darling.

The phrase was so incredibly human that it startled Aix, and he looked at Cthulhu in utter bewilderment. Cthulhu tilted his head slightly and gave a little shrug.

That is what Victoria would say, if she were here.

Aix’s heart went out to Cthulhu, in that moment, and he took off the headphones so he could hug Cthulhu, trying to convey that he was very grateful, but also had been reminded how much he’d missed being around Cthulhu, and talking to him, and it really hit Aix, suddenly, that Cthulhu was here, was here and in the real waking world, and touchable and everything. And small—well, smaller. He was still bigger than Aix. Aix took strength from Cthulhu’s faith in him, his respect. Aix was still the human Cthulhu referred to above all others, not anyone else.

I think it’s a fine idea to meet Auntie and tell her your intent and ask her what would be the best way to communicate that respect of her people and their home; but I also agree that the mortal world is not the part of this world that can handle alien contact right now. The dominant powers in the human world, right now, are not mature enough to even stop killing the planet and take care of everybody; they would absolutely use first contact to destroy you and everyone else even faster.

Aix shared with Cthulhu the stories humans told already about this, the way that many had already thought about these ideas; most of the stories were bleak and hopeless, with one single bright spot, that (even with that optimism) still opined that humanity would become more oppressed and violent before getting better, after first contact—even with a race that resembled them more than Cthulhu did, even in a storyworld where humans were always trying to be the best version of themselves.

And, too, Aix shared all the stories he wanted to show Cthulhu to teach him about the current state of affairs—there was so much learning to do. Cthulhu shared back what he’d already been learning from his short stay with Victoria and Dmitri—he had been learning from the vampires and wolves of the city, who were pleased to teach him history they had been alive for.

Aix was vaguely aware there was a conversation going on without him, he heard the shapes and colours of Michaela and René’s voices; but he tried to trust that they were giving him time, were just assuming he and Cthulhu were having to discuss things—which wasn’t inaccurate, Aix reminded himself angrily. It wasn’t a lie.

Why did he always think he was lying to people when he wasn’t debasing himself in front of them?

Not the time for going through a Trauma Box, he thought to his brain, angrily.

Michaela was, after forty-odd years, very good at chatting with the vampire king; she knew his particular turns of phrase, the quirks of his abrasive playfulness, the way you could be quite blunt with him in comparison to modern people. And, also, the fact that he was always irritable at baseline over the phone, because of the way the high pitched hum of electricity got to him. That irritable mood made him provoke people, because he was a warrior and combat was, at this point, part of his personality.

Michaela also knew Aix, in his own words, ‘was not even in the vicinity of fucking around’, and treated every attack as an intent to kill. He did not play-fight, because he did not find conflict enjoyable—only predators fought for fun, in Michaela’s experience. Prey animals of the sort Aix was fought only to defend their lives (or the lives of others), and their aggression tended to be either zero or lethal, with no understanding or desire of in-betweens. And, too, Michaela knew that Aix’s fursona was a sheep, horns and all—if a sheep decided to ram you, there was no hesitation, there was no posturing, nor threats; you were just knocked down immediately and quite possibly trampled to death if you didn’t have the sense to retreat. It wasn’t compatible with how Drăculești tested people, and Michaela was grateful she and René were both here to keep things from becoming a diplomatic incident.

Drăculești also liked Michaela, and so flirted with her—something rather novel for both of them, since she was the first female Van Helsing, and he (like most immortals) found Michaela’s enormous stature and fatness to be extremely attractive. He (and many other vampires) also found her long red hair attractive. It was nice to be able to go all femme fatale, Michaela had always found it quite necessary to her self-esteem, given that modern people were so incredibly awful to her for the same traits. After a bit of that, however, he turned his attention to René’s silence.

‘You are a Lord, René, you no more must be the demure little mouse.’

‘You have already met me, Voivodul,’ René said, using the soft, coquettish voice he always fell into when speaking to a Master—he didn’t like that he still did that, but he knew it would fade in time.

‘I know how broken a whore you were when Diedrichs was Lord Baltimore, but I do not know you free of his yoke. You have clearly demonstrated you have leadership, strange as your methods are to me.’

‘I am no warrior, only a tradesman,’ René said, with a touch of humour. ‘And I use my tradesman’s tools.’

‘Ha! So you do, Lord of Whores. And this witch? She is a strange mix of fear and ferocity—but women often are.’

‘He is not a woman, Voivodul,’ Michaela said, because she knew Aix wasn’t A Woman, though what he was seemed to be something he was still figuring out.

‘He is a beautiful boy, such as your son,’ René said gracefully—it was terrifying to speak well of Aix, René was so used to his old master, and the sadism of superiors in destroying anyone René even looked at a little too long; but that was then. That was then, he told himself. They were gone. And Aix was strong, and had the protection of a being perhaps older than humanity itself. ‘And he uses the tools of his own profession. His voice is powerful, and his mastery of language I have not seen in some time. Certainly not in one with such power of will and such devotion to gentility. It is the gentleness of the humblest pullet, who takes in kittens and ducklings alongside her own chicks, and protects them all as her children.’

René looked across the table, and saw Aix sitting with his elbows resting on the table, hands halfway buried in the hair at his temples, wide-eyed and staring at the surface of the table with the sort of expression that had many potential emotions but the only definite one was ‘speechless’.

Jesus Christ, René. Fuck. What. What is happening.

I believe it is called a compliment. He is accurate in his assessment. I have heard many people describe you similarly. Why are you surprised? Do you not know yourself?

Um… no, hon. I just do things. Part of my madness is that I have a big scribble where my sense of self should be.

But you have such strong ideas of what you should do.

That’s good to hear, but I can’t put it all together cohesively myself, beloved.

‘He’s a good match for you, then, and for the city. I will call for a meeting of the Councilium Vampire in thirteen nights, for the purpose of swearing in a new race under the Treaty.’

‘Is this acceptable, Cthulhu?’ Michaela made sure to ask. ‘Do you have the authority to speak on behalf of all of your people?’

I have been the first to succeed wholly at communicating with this world and its inhabitants; that means I am the only one with the authority, and am obliged to do so.

‘He says that because he’s the first to successfully communicate with Earth, that means he’s got both the privilege and the responsibility of being the only person with the qualifications necessary to speak to us on behalf of his people.’

Does the Concilium Vampire only have vampires? I am not fully understanding the nature of the Treaty or the authority of this Voivodul.

‘He wants to know if the Council is just vampires, and if so then why would the Treaty refer to everyone else as well—actually, I want to know that too. What exactly is the governing structure, here?’

‘New,’ the King said, chuckling. ‘We have not had it long. The Treaty is still something of an experiment.’

‘My grandfather and the King drew up the first version,’ Michaela said, to give Aix perspective. ‘Since then, Opa travelled all over, contacting all kind of folk and trying to get them to join the Treaty. My daddies continued that work, and did the lion’s share. By the time I came along, most everybody had agreed to it, and it had expanded to be more functional as a foundation of government. We… have a government, but it’s still setting up. We don’t have many people like you, Aix. You’re only the second one that does things your way.’

‘Who’s the first?’ Aix asked, curious.

‘The Blackstone.’

‘You mean Victoria? Seriously?’ Aix was shocked, and laughed. ‘So her whole thing with Dmitri, with taming Dmitri… that’s new, huh?’

‘The Devil of the Cloisters was quite the predator, before he picked the wrong prey.’

Aix felt his smile fall off so quickly he could hear it hit the ground. He looked at Michaela, and felt as though he was at the edge of some kind of story he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear from this source. The Devil of the Cloisters was the kind of title a serial killer had—a real one. A human one.

He’d thought… he’d believed Dmitri and Victoria, when they had said he was only a serial killer by virtue of being a vampire.

Had… had he put her in that chair? The thought was chilling. Aix felt sick. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He didn’t want to know. He ripped off the headphones and shoved back from the table, getting out of the chair and completely ignoring his wheelchair in his state of mind, leaving the room and going out into the hallway, pulling out his phone, heading for the elevator.

Cthulhu wasn’t sure if he should follow—he tried to reach out to the two people in the room, without harming them, without doing too much… the Averays had been people he could talk to, and the Man Who Was Hap’s Friend… but he had been too afraid, to reach out, to bond with others, and he only realised that it was Aix’s fear when Aix left the room and took it with him.

Aix hadn’t been so afraid, in the Dreamscape. And yet it was something he was so accustomed to, that he did not even have full awareness of it—and so Cthulhu hadn’t either, as it crept into him. But he was not afraid, now, and could try again.

René paused, looking at Cthulhu’s eyes across the table—looking into them. They swirled, and he felt the psionic power, though it was alien, and terrifyingly huge, even compared to the power of his old Master. But it was not malicious, like his old Master, and so René tentatively reached out with his own power.

Hello.

Ah, hello.

Your mind is different… colours? Ah, I have seen these colours in Aix, in the very earliest parts of his mind.

Have you? Ah, but he said his cradle language was French. The colours are a different language than the one you hear spoken now.

There are different ways of speaking with sound? Why?

Oh, my friend, that is a question that some devote their entire lives to exploring. But it is good that we can communicate with you more directly.

‘Voivodul, Madame Van Helsing,’ René said, ‘it seems Monsieur Cthulhu has found a way to speak to me.’

‘Good.’ Michaela said, getting up. ‘I’m going to go after Aix.’

‘Why?’ René asked simply. ‘He will go to Victoria, and she is the best person, do you not think?’

Michaela—slowly, and reluctantly—sat back down. ‘Point,’ she said, ‘and you upset the witch, Voivodul, though I doubt you care very much.’

‘I do not know him well enough to understand why, and cannot care until I do. But I have upset you, and that concerns me. You know me well, and would only be this angry if you knew I had violated my own code of honour.’

‘I am, and you did,’ Michaela said, sighing. The King had been more enthusiastic than she had expected about learning therapy techniques, but it was still difficult for him to understand the concept of mental illnesses that weren’t trauma without re-categorising someone entirely as slightly less than a person.

Well, she thought, Aix had a trauma in spades, and often said that it controlled more of his life than any other mental illness he had. But then again, Michaela thought, Aix truly did not notice how autistic he was, most of the time. He was so used to being the least autistic person he knew, that he had a skewed calibration of what ‘normal’ meant.

‘He is an oracle, Voivodul, and those are only chosen from very specific kinds of madness,’ René was already saying. ‘The thing that makes him able to call forth gods and speak to beings that have been trying for all of human history and failing is the same thing that makes him fragile. He is not of Christendom. The old gods make their people very differently than the new.’

And there was René, Michaela thought, his age making him able to step back and reinterpret what modern culture called only ‘mental illness’ and putting it back into its human context.

‘You cannot tease him or toy with him, Voivodul,’ Michaela added, figuring she’d just focus on the practical—it’s what she was good at, and what the Voivode was good at too. ‘He is the opposite of a warrior.’

‘What, pray, is the opposite of a warrior? I have heard it is many different things, from whore to coward—and your witch does not seem the coward.’

He is better than warriors. Killing and violence do not require bravery; being faced with certain death, and coming out of hiding naked, and offering love—that is brave. It is baffling, and it is gentle—and it is very, very brave.

René smiled fondly, hearing this fierce loyalty—Aix engendered such fierce loyalty, because he gave such fierce kindness, such fierce acceptance, so immediately and instantly. It was so extraordinary, and it was so heartbreaking that he did not yet understand or notice how extraordinary it was. And, too, it was not simply words—for Cthulhu knew little of Words. They were floating concepts, they were shared memories and impressions, and René wondered at them, in no little awe. He had always thought that the Voivode was the most powerful, the most graceful and practised psion—but Cthulhu put him to shame. René saw what Cthulhu meant—the enormous size Cthulhu had been when he had met Aix, the cavern in the mountain, the way Aix very matter-of-factly and cheerfully offered to help, the way he immediately saw this enormous creature, and was afraid, and reached out his hand anyway, because yes, Cthulhu was big and yes, he certainly could do harm—but he was, more importantly, alone and possibly hurting, and Aix couldn’t let that be just because he was frightened.

‘He is something that lacks unadulterated titles,’ René said, slowly and thoughtfully. ‘Monsieur Cthulhu has shown me a little of their first meeting. There was every reason to be afraid, and any warrior would have attacked a creature the size of a castle—indeed, many did. Aix knew what he was, what he might do; he knew the tales. But he still saw things a warrior would not, beyond that: that this creature was alone, and chained inside a cage, and that he might be in pain, that he might be afraid. That is the opposite of a warrior, Voivodul. An Innocent, you and I might call him—though he lacks the naïveté one expects an Innocent to require.’

He would be distressed to be compared to that deity. Cthulhu said, when René showed him the comparison to a deity Cthulhu knew Aix viewed with deep terror and rage. He would be very distressed. His gods are those whose people were murdered by the people of that one.

Has he never in his life met a single person worshipping that deity who was kind?

No.

René was shaken by this, though he wondered why that should be. He had simply always gone about believing everyone had met some good Christians, because obviously, there were so many, they must have. He had thought himself very progressive on that—he had crewed a ship full of men of different religions, he still knew some of them as brother-vampires—Jasper, for example, had never wavered in his Sikhism ever, though he did not consider himself devout so much as habitual. And there were plenty of Jewish werewolves and even a few Jewish vampires. And then, of course, the fae were all their own ways, older ways than man. He had even known a few Muslims, though it had been a very long time ago, when he had been alive and sailing.

‘He’s a very humany human,’ Michaela said. ‘Because he’s not really human at all, not by nature. He was raised human, and so he’s more human than the rest of us ever could be, because he had to learn it on purpose.’

Thank you, Michaela Van Helsing. I think Aix would be pleased with that description.

‘Ah, Monsieur Cthulhu finds your description better than mine, Madame,’ René said, conceding it without rancor. ‘Apparently my witch is as allergic to Christianity as we are.’

‘For good reason,’ Michaela said, knowing exactly why—because she’d asked, surprised, and received a bitter answer. ‘For very good reason. Properly, he’s a Seiðmann, not a witch—“witch” is a Christian concept, in this world….’

Metasepia: Victoria, I need to ask a really serious question about Dmitri.

Metasepia: I’ve just been in a meeting with the big Д and he called Dmitri The Devil of the Cloisters.

Metasepia: And he said Dmitri ‘picked the wrong prey’ in regard to you taming him.

Metasepia: Victoria did he. Was he the one that made it so you need a chair??? I’m sorry I’m sorry I know that’s rude to ask I don’t know how to phrase things elegantly right now I’m scared and I’m upset. I ran out of the room because I didn’t want some ancient combat-happy vampire telling me, I wanted you to tell me. I’m hiding in my room rn. 😭😰

NineInchNeedles is typing…

Aix wished Pippin were around, as he sat on the bed, the curtains drawn, the only light from his laptop’s ambered-out, dim screen. He hugged his black pegasus plushie and watched the screen, unable to even countenance distracting himself with talking to other people or searching for random objects and colours on shopping websites.

NineInchNeedles: First of all, I don’t at all mind you asking about this, considering the circumstances and your personal context. So please don’t worry about being rude, darling; you’re frightened and you’re in shock, and if your first instinct *even so* was to immediately walk away from the trigger to that and come ask *me*, you’re already doing *more* than the bare minimum.

Secondly, no, Dmitri is not why I use my chair. I was already using it as much as you currently do when he targeted me. That’s *why* I was a target—back then, he hunted like all predators do.

I was using a frame Uncle Furfur had made me at the time, and I was a fat goth woman, and I was alone. I wasn’t *lonely*, however, as he assumed; and I certainly wasn’t someone that wouldn’t be missed—again, as he assumed. Still, I was young enough to—perhaps foolishly—believe I could handle him, that he was my fated Darling. You’ve met Abi Gaspar, and Uncle Furfur—they’re quite threatening when you first meet them, or if you’re not in the context of our family. So, I knew he was a monster, but I had grown up with *nice* monsters, and I hadn’t ever met one that wanted to harm me.

If I had not been disabled, what he did to me would not have put me in the chair. I will spare you detail, but in brief: he forced me into standing for several hours. There’s a reason I so personally understand the nature of the stress injury you gained from a week of xmas retail, you see.

He didn’t *intend* for this, but after he had me restrained in the usual manner of his victims, I began to be… extremely Jewish, I suppose one could say, as I learned it from my Jewish side of the family… at him, and *argue* and *question* and even *heckle* everything he was doing and saying, and he is English enough to be unable to resist the urge to snark back.

It saved my life. He had never caught anyone that was not afraid of him, or I suppose that was afraid of him and their first instinct was to try and argue him out of it in such a reasoned and thorough manner. I asked him questions about vampires, about himself, about not his murders (it became clear immediately he was the Devil of the etc) but about *himself:* Who was he, what did he do when he wasn’t murdering, did he have any hobbies, that sort of thing. I knew the best chance was to simply treat him like a person, and hold him to the same standard, and show him *I* was a person.

It took long enough that by the time I talked him around several of my joints had subluxated, but one doesn’t pay attention when one’s life is dependent on not interrupting the conversation. By the end, he took me to Sleepy Hollow himself, and availed himself on the mercy of my family. I would not say he felt *guilt* or *regret* at having murdered anybody, but by then (so he tells me) I had captured his heart, and so he felt the traditional obligation to court me properly, and care for me. He was a little condescending at first, but Grand-mere and my mothers and I trained him out of *that* sharpish.

I won’t say he’s so submissive and attentive out of pity or guilt, because that’s not what it is. He simply didn’t realise he needed to submit to a dominant in order to feel fulfilled in his life. He made amends for harming me by paying for all my medical expenses and acting as nurse—and it is difficult to make clear he does not resent doing this, because we live in a world where people assume resenting one’s obligations or sense of honour is the default, as though doing anything that isn’t wholly selfish comes with a sense of resentment. It doesn’t have to, not even for monstrous people. Indeed, Dmitri was terribly unhappy being selfish, and has felt much better helping me and others than he ever has merely being a common-or-garden murderer.

He stopped going after vulnerable people, and started hunting challenges—I purposely appealed to his Victorian Great White Hunter, I’m not at all ashamed to say, when I proposed he change his ways—and I am no longer in pain from my injuries. My condition is simply the kind that gets worse as time goes on, just like yours, and after I turned thirty-five I decided that all the physical therapy was no longer really worth the time and effort, and switched to being in a chair full time.

I know my reputation with the Voivode is that I am a baffling and powerful “Jew Sorceress” that he respects but still views as somewhat Other, and that his way of understanding my power of oratory and argument is to see it as magic—which, to someone who learned to attack problems with a sword, it *is*. He is medieval, and Orthodox Christian, and despite his words sounding quite harsh and even prejudiced to our ears, it is merely a language barrier.

Darling, I am only ten minutes away. Won’t you come see me, after reading this, so I can give you a hug? I can send Dmitri on an errand if you do not want to see him, but he says if you want to question him he will answer anything, and stay kneeling on the floor and bound in silver, if that would help you feel safer. We—or I—can also come to you.

I did not know you were having this meeting tonight, and I am upset not to have been invited, considering you and I approach problems similarly, and my name was likely to have been brought up by the Voivode.

Metasepia: Thank you for sharing all of this with me. I wish you were here too, and I think I probably made a terrible first impression. Could you come? I bet you’d be able to make them let you into the meeting, if its still going on when you get here that is.

NineInchNeedles: I’m on my way. Do you want Dmitri to stay behind?

Metasepia: Um, no. No I think not seeing him would make it worse, because I’d have time to build up this scary alternative without him there. It helps to know he isn’t responsible for disabling you, and that he?? Actually was a terrible person and *changed willingly*??? That means a lot.

Metasepia: It would also feel better to have another non-Christian in there. I don’t know what Michaela is, and she defends me okay bc she’s always Ready To Fite (ง°-°)ง, but I’m not really sure if she’s not-Xtian.

NineInchNeedles: She is, as she puts it, ‘Bluegrass Murder Ballad Christian’, which is not Christian enough to Turn any of the vampires (yes, you can do that). I would say she’s genuinely quite experienced interacting respectfully with all kinds of religions, not the least of which is because she’s my best friend. She *will* defend non-Christians against the immortals from Christendom. She knows how to use her privilege as a Hunter and as The Van Helsing. Find Jasper, if he’s about. The Sikh gentleman. He’s quite restful if you need a break from the Xtian goyim.

NineInchNeedles: Going Underground now, darling. See you in a tick.

There was a knock on the door, and someone opened it just enough to speak, when Aix didn’t answer.

‘Forgive me for intruding,’ a polite voice said, ‘I am not over the threshold. I have your chair, I was concerned when you ran past without it.’

‘Jasper?’

‘Yes, it is I.’

‘Come in.’

The door closed audibly, but quietly, and Aix was glad for it.

‘You left the room very upset, may I help in any way?’

‘Just—the King is very abrasive, and—from a violent culture.’

‘Ah.’ There was the slight squeak of the tanker chair at the desk, and Aix assumed he’d sat down; Aix always wanted people to sit down.

‘He probably thinks I’m so rude,’ Aix said, starting to feel panicky and helpless about it, like he always did when certain social situations seemed too hard for him and he made mistakes, or ran away.

‘If he became offended at mortals running away from him in fear, he would not be a vampire,’ Jasper said, and Aix could imagine his hoary beard curling with the smile in his voice.

‘Do you like people running away from you in fear?’

‘Sometimes,’ Jasper chuckled. ‘Sometimes I did, truly. But now, ah, well, I only use that for throwing troublemakers out. But you are different. You are like Pippin, you wish only to make people smile and laugh. As does the Sawbones.’

‘Sawbones? René was a sawbones?’

‘Did you think he was the captain? Most do.’

‘No, just surprised he was a ‘bones, is all. I know pirates voted on captains, and that captain wasn’t much of a thing except in combat situations.’

‘Oho! Have we hit upon another of your special interests?’

‘A bit,’ Aix said, smiling a little, closing the laptop and thinking about getting off the bed, or opening the curtains. But he didn’t want to be seen, right now. If Jasper was willing to talk to him without needing to see him, that was nice. ‘Particularly the history of western medicine. I was very into plagues and plague doctors when I was thirteen or so. I collect medical antiques—well, I will, once I can like, afford to have that kind of hobby again. If ever,’ he added, somewhat bitterly, then immediately felt embarrassed and scared at expressing any modicum of pessimism. ‘Anyway,’ he said, forcing himself to sound cheerful. ‘Victoria’s on her way and she’s mad at not being invited to the meeting.’

Jasper laughed. ‘Oh, I wish I could be in the room when she joins the meeting. She is the only mortal brave enough to scold him. It is something to see Mrs Blackstone in a high dudgeon, she is so very polite and yet her tongue is very sharp.’

‘Ahhh, does Jasper like the Drama?’ Aix said, teasingly.

‘I will not participate, but to watch it unfold is more enjoyable than any theatre.’

‘Same, same. I love other people’s problems.’ Aix felt a little better, his thoughts more coherent, and said, ‘Um, Jasper? Could you go tell them Victoria’s coming?’

‘I can, yes. Will you be returning when she arrives?’

‘Yes,’ Aix said, solidifying his resolve. ‘Yes. I won’t come back without Victoria joining me.’ Setting that boundary felt good, because it felt like angry lashing out, but actually wasn’t. ‘Also, um, I’m okay. I just needed to have a moment to calm down, and I needed to talk to Victoria about her history, not someone else.’

‘I will convey the message.’

Aix heard him leave, and heaved a big sigh, and then his phone rang. He looked at the caller, who had never called him before, but was in his contacts.

‘Amber?’

‘Oh, you’re awake! Mike said I shouldn’t surprise you with things, is that true?’

‘I don’t really like surprises, even if they’re nice. I can act surprised though, if you want.’

She laughed like a wildfire, ‘Well, promise you’ll act surprised when I bring you your new kitten, then. Mr Christopher Monday found him in Kansas and brought him to me. The vet I stopped in at told me he’s all right, probably eight weeks. Got him his first shots for you.’

‘A—a kitten?’ Aix said, voice going all high and soft and tears springing to his eyes. ‘You got me a kitten?’

‘You want me to bring him over? I just got into town.’

‘Um, no, I can’t right now, I’m—I’m in a meeting. But tomorrow afternoon! Oh my god, Amber. A kitten. Oh my god. Thank you.’

‘Well, you said it’s not a home without a cat. I’ll let you get to your meeting.’

‘Thank you again, Amber, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Aix said, and hung up, and then tossed his phone on the bed and bounced and flapped excitedly. ‘Ahhhhhhhhhh!’

He left the bed and stood to flap a bit more effectively, turning in a little circle. He wanted to jump up and down, but his feet were too fragile for any kind of jumping anymore, so he just bounced with his upper body instead. ‘Eeeeeeeeeee!!!’

‘Eeeeee!!’ echoed Pippin, from the corner by the bathroom. Aix turned, and smiled.

‘How did you get in, you little mischief?’

Duckie happy!

Aix decided to let it go, and sat down on the edge of the bed, carefully tossing the curtains clear of where he was sitting. ‘I just got some wonderful news, babyponkin. We’re going to have a little friend live with us. Do you know what a cat is?’

‘Ear!’ Pippin said, in a perfect imitation of a kitten trying to gain attention. She showed Aix the memory of the cat colony that had raised her and been her family, and Aix learned—to his delight—that Pippin considered herself part cat, because she had been raised by them. That explained all the cat-like behaviours and sounds.

Catfren? Catfren?

Oh, she was very excited, her Flash was all lit up rainbow and her Mask was bright, colours moving around on her skin in surprisingly complex gradients and stripes. She did a little handspring and some tumbles, and Aix laughed.

Duckie’s friend Amber found a baby cat and he is going to be your little brother, okay? We’re going to see him tomorrow.

Pippin wanted to know—just to be sure—that the cat was a cat cat, and not a humanspeople cat. Aix giggled, and assured her that yes, this was a realio, trulio little baby kitten.

How many old?

Two full moons. Aix replied, because the moon was the most universal clock he could think of, as he got up and went into the bathroom to get some water, and to splash his face. Pippin made a squee noise at this information, and Aix heard her running around in the bedroom, as he took off his cat-eye glasses and turned on the water to splash his face. After that, and a drink, he felt better, and came out, getting his laptop off the bed and putting it over on the desk, as Pippin flipped and did cartwheels all over the large space between the bed and the wall that had the door to the hallway in it. She seemed to know how to manage her own energy, which was really nice. That and her control over her Mask, and all the different colours in her Flash, made Aix wonder just how old she was.

He sat and watched her play for a while, and was a good audience when she started putting on a show, and then there was a knock at the door, and she stopped with a big clownish expression of surprise, mid-pantomime. Aix giggled, and got up to answer.

‘Who is that?’ he said, and she beeped at him, tail high and inquisitive, as she followed him to the door. Victoria and Dmitri were there when he opened it—he hadn’t realised that much time had passed.

‘Ee!’

Victoria was in violet, and beamed upon seeing Pippin. ‘Well, hello, darling!’ she said, exactly like an auntie.

‘Tata!!’ Pippin said excitedly, stamping her feet excitedly and reaching with grabby hands, but not jumping on Victoria until Victoria patted her lap, whereupon Pippin climbed very carefully up Victoria’s Very Sensible Wool Skirt, and got a hug.

‘Oooh, how’s my favourite smallest niece, hm? Can you say hello to Tonton?’

Pippin hesitated, sensing the tension between Dmitri and Aix. Duckie scare? Duckie scare of Tonton?

Maybe. Tonton is a dangerous man, and Duckie didn’t know quite how dangerous until a little while ago.

I call Big Mommy?

‘No,’ Aix said, firmly. ‘No, do not call Big Mommy.’ He picked her up, balancing her on his hip. ‘Sweetheart, I love you.’ He kissed her. ‘But no, I do not need Big Mommy. I’m not in danger. Now, Mommy and Tata have to go do Work, okay? Not for little joeys.’

Pippin made a big show of yawning, sticking out her little striped tongue and showing her little fangs. She fluffed up at Dmitri, but didn’t seem very committed to being threatening at him, her Mask all in shapes of confusion.

‘Tyohed,’ she announced, and got down, going over to Aix’s bed and disappearing into the black curtains. Aix looked back at Victoria, and Dmitri.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he decided to say.

‘Not at all,’ Dmitri said amiably. ‘It’s been too long since I’ve spoken to the Great Dragon, himself.’

Victoria pushed the brakes down and pushed herself up onto her feet so she could hug Aix properly, squeezing him to her bosom (she was taller than him by quite a bit—she took after her mother October that way). He hugged back, glad to have so many friends that liked to hug and were bigger than him, now. After she sat back down, Aix got an idea, and while he couldn’t look at Dmitri, everyone knew by now that Aix just didn’t look at people unless he was challenging them, or inviting them into his mind.

‘Hug for Dmitri too?’ Aix asked, trying not to be embarrassed that his brain was trying frantically to come up with jokes and failing to do anything but baby-talk. He couldn’t be embarrassed, that would feed into Dmitri’s, and he was English, so it would reach singularity instantly. Still, one had to ask permission to touch someone.

Victoria wheeled further into the room and cleared the path between them, and Aix found out that Dmitri gave very good hugs. They weren’t the invigoratingly squeezy kind, like Aix had always gotten from his dad and always gave as his default; they were steady though, not too hesitant, just… anchoring. Secure. Dommy, Aix thought. René’s hugs were like this. Aix wondered if Dmitri was a switch, or was like Aix and submitted to some genders but dominated others.

As Dmitri held him (and it was nice to be aware that Aix was leaning on Dmitri, and Dmitri was just letting him, and could hold him up), Aix rested his head on Dmitri’s chest and breathed in the scent of him—the fine wool of the dark blue suit, the perfume he wore, which Aix couldn’t identify as more than just ‘soft, vaguely sweet, floral?’ and ‘high-quality’, and, under all of that, the chemical-sweet smell of his hair toner.¹ He, also, purposely went over Victoria’s words, purposely reflected on Dmitri’s history of cruelty.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it, Aix thought, it was a history. It was a past. And Aix had a history of cruelty too—he’d been very unstable, and very cruel, and also creepy, and these things haunted him, because… why? They were in the past, and he did not do them anymore, and the people they had affected would never see or hear from him again, nor he from them. And was it so different from the fact that he’d had to decide forgive his father so he could allow himself the same mistakes and missteps, however egregious? Wasn’t a lack of room for imperfection one of the things he hated most about certain people in his life, like his mother, or her family, or his ex-husband? If he treated Dmitri without that allowance for him to change, it would sabotage Aix’s ability to let himself be better than he who he had been.

Aix thought about his favourite definition of redemption. Namely, that a person doing the work of being better was doing the work rather than seeking recognition for it, and that doing the work was the important part. The idea, which was so alien to Aix and his gods, that no matter how far down the path of malice you went, that you could always, always turn around as long as you were still upright and walking. And that you should be allowed to turn around, at any point in that path. There was no sense of ‘point of no return’, and that idea had been new and potent and something Aix tried to think about a lot.

He’d only ever grown up with the Puritanical idea that there was no such thing as redemption, no matter what you did to repent; and that grace was conditional, and nothing could make up for even one mistake or loss of control.

‘Do you need to sit down, Aix?’ Dmitri said gently, after a time. Aix pulled back, looked up at him, into his very pale, clear blue eyes.

‘I need to tell you something,’ Aix said, ‘so please, don’t interrupt.’ He paused, knowing it would be halting and slow, even more than his usual long pauses while he put the next sentence together. ‘I know what it’s like to have a past full of actions that other people would judge extremely harshly, a past you can’t change, but have learned better from.

‘I know what it’s like to have people not allow you to be better than that, not allow you to change and learn, to continue to insist you have to be punished for what you were like, not what you are like.

‘I’m not going to do that to you. You’re who you are right now, and who you choose to be. The fact that you have to decide to make the kind decision, the fact that you have experience not doing that, means the decision to be kind has more weight, to me, because it’s an actual decision. A man with blood on his hands, who tries to wash it off… it means more, it means you know what dirty hands look like, and know when yours are, more than someone who has never had to notice.

‘…Okay, I think I’m done.’

Dmitri’s face was hard for Aix to read, even harder than normal because he was blond, but he put a hand up near Aix’s face, and when Aix didn’t pull away, he gently cupped Aix’s cheek, moving his hand to slide his fingers through Aix’s curls. He broke Aix’s gaze first, eyes flicking down to Aix’s mouth, to his hair, before he pulled Aix back into a hug.

‘I am not a poet, like you,’ he said, breath cool on Aix’s hair. ‘Words have never been my forte. So… thank you, Aix.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Aix said. ‘Okay, now I’m gonna sit down.’ Dmitri let him go, and Aix went over to his wheelchair. ‘I take it they know, or else the meeting is over?’

‘Oh, it’s not over,’ Victoria said, with steel in her smile, as she led the way down the hall. Dmitri followed beside Aix, the hallway more than wide enough.

‘His Majesty is relentlessly curious, and our Cthulhu is proving very much the same.’

‘Oh good I’m not the only person who calls him something like “Your Grace”.’

‘Your Grace?’ Dmitri played up his shock. ‘That’s for a Duke, Aix.’

‘It’s perfectly respectful for a King up until Henry Eight,’ Aix said airily, knowing very well Dmitri knew this already, and enjoying the comical banter, ‘and His Grace is from the 1400s, if I recall my history correctly.’

Dmitri laughed. ‘Cheeky,’ he said fondly, and Aix giggled.

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