The Captor's Redemption

By Lani Lenore

The world, as it is now, is infested with monsters – demons that spawned from the darkness at the world’s edge, from the Hell Realm that the world fell into centuries ago. The people pray to the One God, Ariah, for a day when they don’t have to fear for their lives, and the clansmen of the wilderness fight until their last breath to gain control of the monsters.

But there is hope.

There is one who might deliver the world – one who has power over demons and an ability to trap them inside himself, adding their power to his own. Though the deliverance of the world has been promised through diligent repentance, the condition of the land and its people only seem to be declining as the years pass. The one man that might very well be the world’s last hope doesn’t seem to care. Vincent has his own agenda, and the thought of only one thing drives him:

Revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lani Lenore
• Release date: Aug 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463827727

Lani Lenore

Lani Lenore is a writer of gothic horrors and dark fantasies. In addition to rewriting well-known fairytales with a twist, she also writes original stories in a style she calls 'dark fairytale', which uses fairytale elements to build horror and fantasy stories. Most of her tales, though horror, have a subplot of romance. She loves to immerse readers in worlds of beauty and horror.

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The Captor’s Redemption

LANI LENORE

Text copyright Lani Lenore 2018

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be produced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Saphira

https://www.selfpubbookcovers.com/Saphira

In Memory of James Wyble

Not forgotten.

Table of Contents

Fallen

The Train

Degradation

Searching

The Clan

The Hunted

The Arm

Frozen Wasteland

The Monster

Loss

Home

Beautiful

The Healing

Passing

White

Life and Death

Trevan

Whole

Afterword: The Trunk novel

PREORDER

Other Works

About the Author

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

—William Shakespeare, The Tempest

Fallen

Rain, sharp and heavy in its masses, struck the ground, relentlessly beating it into subjection. The sheet of the above was gray and deep, and all who were beneath it trembled in the cruel jaws of the gloom that clenched them. The entire world seemed alive, nurtured beneath the wing of the vengeful darkness.

Wrapped in this same darkness, the man waited.

The rain became as tears on the worn cheeks of the angels that stood on either side of him. They wept silently past empty eyes, the beads of their sorrow running down weathered faces of stone. They wept for him no doubt. The vanity of it almost amused him. For all the hours he’d been crouched between them, he hadn’t even sent them a bitter glance of acknowledgment. Their tears meant nothing to him, and neither did the loft on which they stood, high above the city streets to look down on all of Ariah’s children. One of those, he was not—not from the day of his birth.

Vincent knelt there unmoving, perched alertly amongst the carvings of saints, hidden by the folds of night. As he balanced there on the stone ledge, with the rain pounding his shoulders and head furiously, he thought on the events that had already unfolded tonight, and on those he knew were still to come. Though he grasped what would transpire, he didn’t grieve for the future. Quite the contrary. He looked forward to it with throbbing anticipation that he felt at the tips of his fingers and even deep inside the tangles of his inner workings. Finally, after so many years of waiting and searching—and hating—things would be resolved. Though he was still unsure of his adversary’s true strengths, he was confident in his own. He would fight the fight, and every bystander would fall.

But Trevan wouldn’t have approved of these methods, he thought, blinking away some of the rainwater.

"It doesn’t have to be the physical strength that proves our worth, Vincent. I have to believe that there’s more to us than that."

Vincent still remembered those words, even now, no matter how untrue he found them. But Trevan was gone. The mouth that had uttered such wisdom had been silenced years ago. His brother was dead, and Vincent had to remind himself of it yet again, but to ponder over this had lost its value. Perhaps Trevan wouldn’t have approved of his brother’s plans tonight—or of the things Vincent had done to get himself here—but matters had gotten too far out of hand. Things would have to be done his way.

Forcing his concentration back to the rooftop, he brushed away those old thoughts like soil from the shoulder of his coat. The suffering of his losses would end tonight. Tonight, all debts would be repaid.

He breathed calmly, even with such a weight pressing upon his head. With his face tilted forward, he could see everything below on the wet street. He’d been watching as the great above had grown dark, fading from its previous, unnatural red glow. Slowly, people had made their way into the cathedral entrance below him. He’d almost smiled at the fact that none of those feeble humans knew what would transpire here tonight, or that walking through those doors would seal their fate.

Everyone within these stone walls will die tonight, he thought with satisfaction as he sat. A cool wind rushed by and dragged across his wet skin, chilling him. Death is the only thing that can be understood anymore. It’s the only worthy punishment. They’ll understand this. As the last moment of life leaves them, they’ll understand.

He understood. Vincent had resigned himself, and he’d soon have his punishment as well. But what else did he have to live for? He could lie to himself about that all he wanted. For eight years, the only vision he’d had of his future revolved around this night—this pending confrontation. Beyond tonight, there was nothing. There was no deed left undone, no desire to grow old, no home, no love, no family. He had once made the mistake of thinking his strict plan for himself could change and now he kicked himself for it, but this—once more—was not the time for self-analysis. At this moment, there were steps that he’d conceived, and it was almost time for the very first.

He knew that soon the bell atop the stone roof of this cathedral would ring. A monk would have entered the tower, which Vincent had made sure was easily accessible from his chosen perch. Then, the bell would toll. He would allow the bell to sound three times, but three times only because—

Because that’s the sign, he reminded himself. It may not matter now, but that’s the sign.

The bell would ring for the final time and then he would take hold of the monk swiftly, snapping the bones in his neck as if they were merely kindling. He ran this through his mind, quite pleased, knowing that the deed would indeed be just as easy as thinking through it. After that was done, he would climb down from the tower and the next phase of his plan would begin.

This second part that he’d concocted was a bit more unpredictable, but there was no problem in that. He occasionally liked things to be volatile and complicated, but only as long as those two factors knew their place and didn’t flaunt to excess. The second phase was much less of a plan and more of a distant goal: find the priest.

And kill anyone who gets in the way.

The dark street was growing quiet. The last of those entering the cathedral would be inside soon. In a few minutes, the massive front doors would lock and no one else would be entering or exiting the structure. Soon, there would be no one out on the street at all. They’d be shut in their homes in fear for their pathetic lives, praying in their shadowy corners for Holy Ariah to reach down his mighty hand and deliver them. The people felt the ominous weight in the air. Something unnatural was amiss, and the entire city knew it. Surely by now, they all knew the truth: the beasts were on their way.

In a few short hours, all forms of ungodly creatures would be finding their way into this city, just as they had spread into the others, crawling out of the darkness with the aim to take this place for their own. All this was Vincent’s fault, indirectly and directly all the same. He hadn’t tried to stop it, but this was yet another thing that he couldn’t afford to think about. Later, these things would have no effect on him. The fate of this city was something he’d never have to concern himself with.

Later, he knew he would be dead.

As the final minutes before action came to an end, he would have said a silent prayer for his lost brother if he had known where to start—or if he’d thought he was capable of such a thing as prayer. It was always Trevan who did the praying, yet it had inevitably done him no good. It hadn’t saved his life. Thus, Vincent resolved that there would be no prayer tonight, just as there had been none on the nights before.

But don’t worry, brother. There will be justice.

The rain had slacked, but only slightly. A hood covered his head but did not fully keep the water away. Vincent’s hair clung to his face on each side, dripping from soaked tendrils, the strands a stark white. Water trickled steadily off the slope of his nose, ran from his hairless chin, and finally he rose from the shadows. The liquid that had made nests in the folds of his long coat spilled backward in a glittering cascade, splattering onto the stone roof.

It was time. He was beginning to hear a stirring in the bell tower.

He heard the first toll of the bell almost immediately and began heading toward the belfry, sloshing through the standing water on the uneven stone. The second tolling of the heavy bell came slowly, but eventually, it too reached his ears.

He moved more swiftly then, thinking for the first time how odd it was for the cathedral to be calling at a time like this, but he already knew that the bell was not ringing to invite anyone. It was a final warning, letting everyone know that the doors of Ariah’s house were sealed and no one else would be admitted. But this was an ironic thing to the white-haired man, however. Those outside would be the ones to be saved.

Vincent dropped down into the tower below the belfry when he reached it, landing on his booted feet without even having to steady himself. The monk caught sight of him immediately and released the rope that had made the bell toll the first two times. The bell had barely gotten into swing when Vincent had appeared, and it rocked back and rang itself weakly for the third time before slowly swinging on in silence to come to a rest.

The clumsy, unsuspecting monk had been startled, and he lurched back, tripping over the ends of his long, red robe as he struggled to get his distance from the intruder. It was uncertain whether he had sensed the danger, or if he had only been surprised, but if he had recognized the pending threat, he might have been better prepared. It wouldn’t have done him good, but at least he would have known what was to come.

The monk may have meant to demand an identity of the young, dripping, white-haired man before him, or perhaps he’d meant to run, but none of his would-be intentions were realized. Even if he had gotten words past his blubbering lips, the roar of the rain and wind would have hidden them, and if he had run, he would have tripped up on the stairs and Vincent would have caught him despite his efforts. But none of that mattered. Before the monk had opened his mouth, Vincent had gripped his neck. After a crack that was barely audible above the rain, Vincent let the limp body fall to the ground.

He shook his head to toss away some of the heavy water. Without lingering, he began down the spiraling stairs. He didn’t stop to think of how easily he’d killed the monk without emotion, or about how casually he’d walked away. This was only the first of many deaths tonight, and he could dwell on none. There wasn’t much time for contemplation at all until his last foe was reached. Even then, he already knew what he had to do.

He descended, not bothering to mask his footfalls. They echoed back to him from the empty tower below. There would be guards to confront him at the bottom—soldiers disguised as monks with guns and other instruments in their robes, on the lookout for intruders who would seek to interrupt the ceremony. Like himself. Perhaps they had even anticipated his own coming. The priest was not unfamiliar with Vincent or his intentions. That sacrilegious monster must have known that no matter how long it took, Vincent would finally catch up again, and the priest would expect an attempt to be made on his life. He would be right to expect this. The priest would, no doubt, try to be certain that the attempt was unsuccessful, but the man who was hunting him relentlessly had other ideas. He would not repeat his past mistakes.

The stairs of the tower passed easily beneath Vincent’s feet. What would have been a tiring effort for most was an easy glide for him. Before too long, he was on the final steps of the winding tower stairs.

He saw the first two guards without much effort. They were dressed in their ceremonial robes, standing on each side of the tower entrance. The two didn’t appear to be armed, but Vincent knew otherwise. If they’d been expecting him specifically, they’d be foolish not to be.

Not that it will do them good, he thought smugly as he approached from behind.

The duo would be looking for the bell-ringer to be coming back soon. They surely thought the footsteps behind them were those of the returning monk, because they stood as still as statues as Death steadily approached.

Vincent stepped up between the two watchmen casually, forging his presence into their minds. He stood still for a short second until he was sure they had noticed him—until they’d turned their heads a tick and understood that he did not belong. He wanted them to see him before their deaths. This was his way, and it was the only way they would have their lesson.

It happened swiftly, as easily as he’d planned. One guard noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that he was an intruder. Vincent was in black, not dressed in a red robe. This guard was the first of the two to move.

Vincent lashed out with his left hand, delivering a chop to the man’s neck that snapped the bone quickly and relentlessly. The first guard fell without even managing to get a hand on his weapon.

The second watchman had been slower. He had been lost in his own thoughts when Vincent had stepped through, perhaps thinking of what he’d eat later, or of finding himself a frightened woman from the gathered number to barricade himself up with, but whatever he’d been thinking about, he’d hesitated. His partner was already dead, and he’d barely managed to reach into his robe for his weapon before the man in the sleek black scale slammed a fist into his head that made his spine buckle and collapse at every vertebra. The second guard fell.

Vincent left those two behind, not bothering to take their weapons. Guns—such cowardly human contraptions. He wouldn’t need them.

The hall stretched before him, long, narrow, and all his for the taking. At the moment, there were no more guards in sight. He knew that just a few more strides down the hall was a turn to the left where there would be two large, ornate doors, finely painted and inlaid with gold.

And at least two more watchmen, no doubt.

Once those two were dead, and those great, over-decorated doors were opened, chaos would ensue, but he would be right where he wanted to be. For the first time in eight years, he would stand before the priest—the man who had killed his brother—and he would look him straight in the eye, and then Vincent would kill him. No; this time he would not fail.

Before his mind even made the command, he was striding down the hall from the bell tower and on toward his destination. Along the corridor lit only by flickering torches, he found the turn. There, he hesitated a moment behind the wall, listening. Two guards stood watch; no more. He could hear their breathing, one on either side of the door. Bored with their duty, they were quite at ease. They’d be easy to dispose of.

Holding a neutral expression, he readied himself, turned on his heels and swung around the corner.

The crimson-wrapped soldiers were surprised and slow to react, trying to force clumsy hands to grasp their weapons through the slits in their robes. Perhaps against a normal human adversary their actions would have been fast enough, but Vincent was far from normal. And even farther from human. Weapons that would have been easily accessible under typical circumstances may as well have been a mile out a reach.

Charging the great doors, Vincent grabbed both guards by their throats simultaneously and, without losing a step, slammed their heads into the stone on each side of the entry. The bodies crumpled to the floor below, leaving matching bloodstains with scalp and hair clinging helplessly there.

Even from outside the chapel doors, Vincent could already hear the readings from the holy scrolls beginning, but he’d had his experience with those words. He no longer cared to hear them. Without a moment of lingering, Vincent threw open the tall doors.

When the cavernous chapel hall was opened to the rest of the cathedral, Vincent already knew what he would see. All around him there were gatherers, robed in red, holding candles as they stood aligned with the hard, wooden pews to participate in this unscrupulous worship.

Down the aisle to the front of the assembly hall, there was an ancient man holding a scroll—of equal age it seemed—gingerly with both hands. There were candelabras around that old man, each holding five slender, white candles. Other men in robes stood around him as well, and amongst them, standing out like a single, majestic tree in a dying forest, the only man aside from Vincent that was not robed in red, was the priest. He was robed in thick ebony.

There seemed to be a fantastic aura emitting from him, and Vincent was sure he wasn’t the only one who felt it, despite all his enhanced senses. Theywere two parts of the same destiny—kindred—but one didn’t need abilities like theirs to feel the tension.

The men saw each other across the long room, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. All others vanished. Their eyes burned into each other—hatred in one pair, greed and loathing in the other. There was no more running; both of them knew it. Tonight, there was going to be Death.

The priest stood there behind followers that were undoubtedly prepared to give their lives for him at a moment’s notice. Vincent had no such aid beside him now.

She’s just as gone as Trevan is, he thought suddenly, but ignored it just the same.

The man before him with the long hair and piercing, green eyes under a pale brow stood firmly, unwilling to retreat. Then Vincent watched as that priest—was holding Trevan’s pulsating heart in one bloody hand, holding a jagged dagger in the other, marveling at how easy the kill had been and knowing that all he had to do to get that power was drink the blood from that heart and new life would unfold within him—smiled self-righteously.

Smile while you can, Vincent thought, finding an arrogant smile of his own. The opportunity will pass soon enough.

Engaging the priest in battle was still some distance away, however. The full length of the room stood between them. First, everyone else in this grand hall would die, and when the priest was the last man standing, he and Vincent would have bloody combat. Beyond that rested Victory.

He let the word run across his mind once more, imagining the sweetness and satisfaction it might bring, even if it only lasted a few moments before his own death found him.

Victory.

Those few seconds that he stared down the man he’d sought for nearly ten years had only seemed like an eternity. In fact, as soon as he’d pushed open those loud, angry doors, the reaction inside was immediate. All the gatherers in the candle-lit chapel had turned to look at him, all curious as to why this strange man, soaking wet, had interrupted the ceremony unannounced and not even in proper dress. The scroll reading had abruptly stopped, and then Vincent had heard several small clicks throughout the crowd. Guns. This was not unexpected.

At first glance, it was hard to tell who was armed and who was simply gathered for the ceremony, but then, almost as a whole, the crowd began to shift before his eyes. Those with guns seemed to appear as if the crowd was a raging sea and the gunmen were the whitecaps. He saw the gunmen when they made motions toward their weapons—even as he stared at the priest—and when others in the crowd began to see the guns emerging, it made it all the more obvious as the sea began to part and dissipate into branching tributaries.

Vincent didn’t need to see where the gunmen were; neither did he care where the bullets would come from. Before any of the robed gunmen had a chance to fire, he was on the ground. He’d dropped down on his hands and knees, and in the time it took for the men to reach their guns, draw, click, and aim, the thing rising up from the floor was no longer a man.

Vincent had made his draw, and the Hell-beast had awakened.

The thing that rose up in Vincent’s stead was a demon, without question. It was one like the writings spoke of, and it could be a sure bet that no one else in that great hall—other than the priest—had seen a beast quite like this.

The creature stood upright on short, stout legs. The torso was akin to a man’s, quite broad and muscular across the shoulders. The back rose up into a high, arcing neck. There was a muzzle on the beast, baring sharp teeth, and atop its head sat two long, twisted horns, not identical but seeming to curve and grow however they liked. All this was intimidating, but the real danger of this monstrosity was its long arms and large hands that parted to form bony, claw-like fingers. It must have been over ten-feet tall, and yet it had emerged from a mere man, half-past six feet, within seconds. It resembled something the gathered people might have only seen in their nightmares.

The beast’s man-given name was Woldrath, but no one in that crowd would have been educated enough to know it. Vincent had allowed the beast to come forward at this time, take control of his cells, shift his muscles, stretch and deform his skin, and mutate his bones. For the moment, he was Woldrath. His thoughts were Woldrath’s thoughts, and Woldrath was motivated by only one thing: the need to slaughter.

Woldrath looked over a sea of red, squirming movement. The color made the demon’s heart pump faster, exciting and enraging it all at once. The creature didn’t like the color, and if Woldrath had been any lesser beast, it might have been inclined to slink away from the thick, blinding hue. Instead, this sea of red rekindled anger deep inside the demon. Anger against humans. Had they thought that a dark cave could keep Woldrath forever? In a way, Vincent had freed the demon from that prison, though Vincent himself was a prison. If not for the Captor though, Woldrath wouldn’t be standing there with so much fresh blood before it.

It remembered the humans. They wore red on the day the demon had been taken captive, and the beast’s eyes were burned by it. Woldrath remembered, and it was time for Revenge.

The hall was lit only by candles, but it was of no consequence. Woldrath could see clearly in the dimness. The demon had finally been brought forth out of this Captor again after a tedious while of waiting. Vincent was fulfilling his promise, and Woldrath was pleased.

The emergence of the demon was unanticipated by everyone in the hall other than the priest. When it stood up before them, those who were still holding candles dropped them immediately. A few even managed to light their own robes on fire as they ran screaming toward the exit. Some that had been holding guns dropped those as well. Other gunmen faltered a few moments, but then decided to re-aim with trembling hands. A few gatherers were simply too frozen with fear to move at all. The greater percentage though, crying, screaming, and fearing for their lives, had begun to scatter.

And if there was one thing that Woldrath hated above all else, it was when prey tried to escape.

The demon roared in rage, baring its teeth, its head tilted to the side involuntarily—for one horn had quite outgrown the other—and the beast raised one massive arm. It swung, scooping up everyone who had rushed for the door behind it, and in a single motion sent them flying back toward the far end of the room. Several bodies crashed into the pews, snapping instantly. A few more slammed into other fleeing bodies, crushing several bones to bits. The room that was once filled with screams of fear was now being taken by cries of agony.

This was music to Woldrath’s ears.

The beast felt something hitting against it then, pelting its skin like sharp rocks and digging into the thick flesh. The demon whirled angrily, searching for the culprits responsible. It saw them instantly with its yellow eyes, seeing that they held small metal objects in their shaking hands. This would stop. Yes, this would stop now.

Woldrath grabbed up the nearest human and squeezed him to bloody mush between its fingers. That, for the greater part, stopped the small, stinging pellets from striking Woldrath, but now there were more people running and scrambling about clumsily. The beast grabbed up the last of the stone-shooters and gave them the same reward as the first. Then the demon set to work on the rest of the escaping crowd.

Woldrath chomped down on their heads with sharp teeth. It used its wicked horns to smash them to paste against the walls. It swung its arms to crush them and used its claws to slice them to fleshy ribbons. There were possibly not even enough of the flimsy, human gatherers to satisfy Woldrath’s lust for blood, because after all was still and the blood was staining the assembly hall, the demon’s brain insisted that there was more destruction to be done.

But there was a voice in the back—that small, firm voice that harnessed the beast and pulled it away, telling it that all was done for the time. Granted, Woldrath didn’t always agree with this little voice, but no matter how hard it tried to fight, it found itself being pulled back nonetheless. Eventually, the demon was forced to retreat into the darkness for a time.

Before this though, Woldrath had seen the priest. The demon felt the immeasurable hatred that it had felt throughout its life inside the Captor. The demon knew this priest was the target. Woldrath also felt a familiarity with Vincent’s enemy, and that—like had only happened once before—frightened Woldrath.

The beast began to walk toward the front of the cathedral, and as it walked, Woldrath was pulled away. Vincent once again emerged, the bones coming back into place and even the thick, blue-black-colored skin slimmed down to the suit of dark scale and human flesh. The horns retracted, and the white hair emerged. The yellow eyes became blue, and there he was again finally—just Vincent, the priest, and the blood-splattered walls—and it was indeed time.

Vincent approached his foe on steady feet. Behind him, a fire was enveloping a section of pews and dead bodies, raising a stench that was unpleasant to his sensitive nose. He was exhausted after the creature within him had been pulled away, but there was long-held fury fueling him. He’d not be stopped by a little fatigue.

He walked on, standing below the priest, about ten paces from him. They stared at each other for several moments, both silent because, Vincent thought, there was nothing to be said. Both of them knew why they were here and that fate had brought them back to this point once more. All things would be resolved.

Aside from that, Vincent’s time was dwindling. He didn’t have a moment for chatting.

Then the priest did something that Vincent hadn’t expected. He spoke.

His enemy spoke, and when he had opened his mouth and the words had spilled out, a realization hit Vincent. It was hard and sharp in his mind, causing his brain to pound and mock him, and the hunter could do nothing but stare. He stood a moment in complete shock, and then finally the answer was clear—the true meaning of the words he’d been pondering since he’d heard them.

The girl had spoken those things to him.

The girl from the train.

So, there was a deeper meaning to the words after all. He could hear her speaking even now, her voice so clear, and at the moment every word had seemed profound. The words she spoke, among many others, were these:

"Let what’s dead, stay dead. Stop this now."

The priest turned and walked away from him then, and the hunter was suddenly unable to hold himself. Beneath him, his knees gave way, followed by the rest of his body and he fell face-forward onto the floor. Nothing moved.

It was eight o’clock.

The Train

Eight Years Earlier

In the future, all trails of thought would eventually circle back to the train, but Vincent was not aware of that then. That foggy night, he was only there for a long-awaited engagement, but it was a meeting only he had planned for.

The trains were the central mode of transportation in the world, as it was now. The cities were spread so far apart—to avoid the beasts—that if a person was planning to leave his home city for any reason, he’d better damned well take the train. It was wise to heed unless his wish was to never be seen by his loved ones again, be ripped to fleshy ribbons in the wilderness, and watch a beast of some incomprehensible intellect gnaw on a leg bone that used to be attached somewhere up his trouser leg.

The world, as it was now, was infested, and no amount of clansmen could deliver it. Those people of the forsaken lands could make things better by their studies and defenses, but at the height of their efforts could only effectively secure the cities. And, despite all their knowledge of demon and monster, even they traveled in numbers.

This was a vast and fallen world, so it was best to learn the lessons early. Take the train.

Hidden by layers of Night’s shadow dress, Vincent stood just outside the deserted station, listening to the wind whistling around the corners of the structure. A few stray papers blew noisily across the platform in the near-dead silence. These were abandoned schedules perhaps, but no one would need one at this time of night, if indeed there had been anyone aside from Vincent who wanted to board this midnight train. It only had one course, stopping through three stations along its way. No schedule needed.

Most nights, there was no one to ride this lonely train, and it moved on silent and empty. It made its stops, not because it was dedicated but because in the city, this was how things were supposed to work. There was a set pattern based on safety and habit and there was no room for change.

On this darkest night of the month, it seemed to Vincent that he would be the only passenger boarding at this station in the city of Sahalen. If it hadn’t been for the knowledge he already had, his impatience would have guided him back home a long while ago. The emptiness of the station was misleading, but Vincent knew that the man he sought would eventually show his face. If it wasn’t in this station, it would be in another, and if not, then the priest would appear on the train some other way.

But he will be here, Vincent assured himself. There’s something on this train he wants.

Vincent didn’t know what the priest could want with such a regular train on such a regular route, and he didn’t particularly care as long as he got his confrontation. Therefore, he waited, deep in the shadows, keeping watch on the doors of the polished black train cars through the foggy haze.

Occasionally, he lifted his eyes to the large clock near the station exit. Currently, the hands pointed out to him that it was eleven fifty-six.

A few seconds was all a man needed to board a train if he was on time for departure, so Vincent would wait those few remaining minutes for good measure—and because his methods would allow him no less. Trevan might have scolded him for delaying until the last moment, but Trevan was dead. It still amazed Vincent how often he reminded himself of that. Then again, it was Truth, and there was never any sense denying that. It had been over a year since that day he would never forget, but it was still hard to accept. Soon though, he wouldn’t have to worry about that wrongdoing any longer. Revenge would be had.

He passed the minutes in silence, his mind clear, listening for what might come. As the time dwindled down to nothing, the only sound that finally came to him was from the train itself as the wheels made a metallic hiss on the track. It was time for it to be on its way. Vincent respected this. They all had things to do tonight.

The doors of the train slid to a close by mechanics as the showy, electric transportation began to roll forward slowly. Vincent stepped to the edge of the platform and took a deep breath of the moist night air, exhaling a white cloud that soon disappeared into the dark. It appeared he’d be riding alone after all.

He waited a few moments, timed himself just right, and then stepped off the platform and onto the metal holdings between two of the cars.

The train moved slowly and easily along the city railway. For a while Vincent stood, listening to the metal-on-metal sounds of the wheels against the track. He was in the third car—otherwise empty, like the rest of the train—bracing himself in the aisle with his feet pressed against the bolted seats. His hands in the pockets of his worn black raincoat, he closed his eyes in the dimly lit car as the lights of the city flashed past the windows.

He listened.

Applying his ears to their fullest, he caught and labeled all sounds quickly as they came at him—an irritating buzz of sound that came from the electric lights above; the metal hiss as the train rolled along the track, gaining speed; the wind whipping by on both sides; the constant rattling of a loose window—and then he took all of that away.

Silence. This wasn’t unexpected, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t a little disappointed. No matter. He would continue his wait.

He stood a little longer in the aisle, listening for sounds all along the train’s length. When no new noises presented themselves, he decided to sit, not because he was tired but because he was becoming bored. As anxious as he was, this was undoubtedly going to be a lengthy ride, and despite his wishes, nothing at all seemed to be happening.

He plopped down without care into one of the nicely upholstered seats. It was comfortable—almost too comfortable—and he knew that if he didn’t stand back up again after a short time, he might get lazy. He wasn’t concerned he’d fall asleep, but he might be apt to let his guard down. For the time being, he leaned back a little.

The interior of the train was elegant. He observed from his seat, seeing it was just as extravagant as the outer shell. Inside, it was clean and cool with carpeted aisles and luggage storage overhead. If this had been a daytime run, there would have been pretty, smiling ladies in uniforms pushing carts down the aisles with food and beverages on them. Vincent thought the whole setup was a bit elaborate, but then again, the passengers would want to be as comfortable as possible as they left their home cites. There was less panic and paranoia that way.

Vincent looked through the misted window and watched the city pass by as he rode along the outskirts. Tall stone buildings seemed to lean down and peer at him, examining him like an unfamiliar rodent. Soon though, the train would pass them by. Then, it would be on to the next city and there would be nothing but weedy marsh and distant trees for twenty miles or so, with only the two empty tracks flanking this center one to keep him company.

The next city would emerge before it was expected to appear, a dark cluster in the distance. The train would approach, and then he’d at once be right in the middle of another city. There would be no smaller houses that progressed to the taller buildings. Things were kept in close quarters, no matter how large the space. It had to be that way.

When the last of Sahalen’s buildings were passed, the train rolled out onto the elevated stone hill that kept the track from ever being submerged in the marsh just outside the cities. As Vincent peered out the window, staring over the emptiness of the soggy Flatlands, he wondered what exactly made the night train such a fright. A large chunk of that superstition was probably just the rumors spread by the old and the overcautious. Even though there may have been more beasts out in the darkness, weren’t the exact same precautions taken by the clansmen at night as in the day? The trees were cut away around the train tracks for miles—as far back as Deptha. The trains made a high-pitched sound that was undetectable to human ears but that most beasts found disagreeable, and all the cars were well-lit after the train cleared the cities. Just as he thought this, the lights inside the train car kicked up a few notches, making the horrible, electric buzzing sound greater.

The train was run by electricity, and by way of the track, all the cities were lit. A single dam to the west supplied the main supply of this power. This dam was just outside the marsh of the Flatlands, and a prominent village thrived around it and maintained the structure. Vincent had never been there to see it, but he hated the sound of the electricity. Always had. He guessed that it might be even more terrible nearer to the dam, but he’d wondered if the humans even heard it at all. His hearing vastly exceeded theirs. To him, the buzz was atrocious, and even this comfy chair wouldn’t be able to get him to sleep now.

So, where exactly was the danger here? Granted, there was always at least a chance of trouble. There were stories of derailed trains because of track damage and of some huge beasts ripping a train right off its course, but that would have been ages ago, Vincent knew. The clansmen’s efforts—no matter how human—seemed effective. There were few monsters making their home so close to the cities in the Flatlands anymore, and Vincent didn’t imagine many of those lesser beasts were large enough to damage the train. Besides that, the railway had been updated with every modern precaution possible. Even the walls that had once been around it were removed to let a little bit of the world in through those windows. Vincent supposed that most of the fear of this night travel came without good reason. Humans just had a hard time letting go of old trepidations.

The train was traveling through an area that had once been a forest. He could see the remaining trees on the horizon where the Flatlands ended and the clansmen’s territory began. On a whim, he thought about how much he enjoyed trains. He’d only put twenty years behind him, but if there was one thing he felt he’d missed out on in earlier life, it was train rides. Every boy should have been able to experience the joy of riding the train, looking out the window at the world that he would never get to experience otherwise. Unlike most boys though, Vincent had seen it for himself, and not all of his memories were fond. No normal life for the abnormal, he’d always thought, and he must have been right because since birth there’d been nothing normal about him or his life. After his enemy was dead though, he’d make it a point to ride more trains, and maybe renew some of that carefree youth that had slipped him by.

Even though he felt he’d been cheated out of that small pleasure of childhood, Vincent could remember his first train ride. He supposed this must fall on the happy side of his memory store, but if he analyzed it, it was a bit of a pathetic truth.

Actually, the ride had been atop the train. He and Trevan had hitched a ride by jumping easily to the roof as it zoomed past. They’d ridden it on to the city where it was headed, not knowing where they were going and not caring at the time.

The train had stopped in Sahalen—the city he was leaving now; the city he was born in—and there they had stayed. This was after the massacre of their clan home that had left no survivors except the two brothers. This same butchery also claimed the life of Enoch—the man they called father—and forced them to leave everything they’d known. They’d been barely sixteen.

And why is this a happy memory? We lost everything in just a few hours. Is it because Trevan and I were still together? If that’s happy, I‘ve lost my mind. We didn’t even speak the whole ride, and if we’d never gotten on that train in the first place, maybe I wouldn’t be on this one now.

It was a thought that had never crossed him before, and it might have been true, but even if it was, he had to let it go. Hating himself wouldn’t do, especially not now that he was so close to finishing all this once and for all.

He felt anger well up inside him, and he clenched his hand to hear the squeak of his leather glove as it tightened. He considered ramming his fist through the window, but instead, he took a deep breath to calm himself. There was no sense in worrying over it. Once that unholy priest showed his face on this train, Vincent and Trevan would both have their peace—two different types, but comfort just the same. That was good enough for Vincent.

He could see the second station coming into view. These cites didn’t seem too far apart with the train moving so fast. On foot, it would take ages—another benefit of the train.

This station was in the city of Ralik, a smaller one of the eight remaining, but he knew that the next city along the way was much larger and much further away. That city was called Herald, and it was the greatest settlement that man still had on this earth. It was a center of religious activity among other things, and for that reason, it thrived.

There were many sorts of hospitals built there, orphanages and shelters for those who possessed little. It was a city watched over by the angels, or so it was said. Vincent had been there once, but he couldn’t say he had fond memories of it. Actually, he didn’t remember much of it at all that didn’t involve utter madness and smothering white walls. He just knew he didn’t want to go back.

But Trevan would have liked the city.

Despite the likelihood that his confrontation would happen in Herald—since the man he sought at least claimed to be a priest—Vincent also knew that Herald was set the furthest away from the others. Even the speed of the train might take nearly an hour to get him there, and he didn’t like the thought.

There was a mild screech as the train began to slow, pulling up to the platform in Ralik. The station looked deserted, and he decided quickly that if something didn’t happen at this station he might likely die from his boredom before there was ever a confrontation. It had been a year, and he’d been as patient and methodical as a young man was capable of, but tonight that was wearing thin. He’d told himself not to be too anxious, but telling himself this only worked sometimes. He was so full of piss and vinegar that it was hard to train himself to do anything without often losing rationality to the moment, despite all efforts. He knew it was fact, especially without Trevan with him now. He just hoped it didn’t happen tonight.

When the train came to a stop, he rose and silently moved to look out through the open door of car three. This station smelled like the last—like fog and city air. It looked the same as well. The very same wind whipped through his colorless hair, but there was one thing different about this station: when that door had slid open on its own, he’d immediately heard voices.

Unlike the last, this station wasn’t deserted.

He stood in the open doorway, not planning to budge, simply taking in everything that could be seen. The fog was hanging much lower. The moisture in the air was beginning to make him feel damp and heavy as he peered all around, looking for the source of the disturbance he’d heard. The voices were echoing off everything they touched, and picking them out was about as easy as finding a needle in a haystack in the dark. Echoes had never been good to him. He could tell that these were male voices, hushed, but not enough to protect from disbursing all over the station.

Because they’re also worried voices, he thought as the vicious wind lashed at his hair. They’re afraid.

Anyone who would brave this late train was probably carrying some sort of fear or stress, but Vincent knew this situation was different. There was heavy tension here. He felt it himself. These people in the station, for whatever reason, would not feel safe until they were on the train, and that was odd behavior indeed. He didn’t think his adversary was among these men, but still, he observed.

He heard footsteps from a clear direction to his left and backed into the doorway to watch without being noticed. He’d been hiding in shadows since he’d first come to the city, and was well-practiced at the art.

A man emerged onto the platform. It was a single man in a brown coat, and—

—his hand is inside his coat. He thinks no one will notice. Subtle, but not subtle enough. And he’s not the only man. There are others. Maybe about five of them.

The man in the brown coat looked all around him, searching. He scanned the area like an expert. Vincent noted this. He also didn’t think the man noticed him. The lights of the train were dim again, and if the man in the brown coat had seen Vincent hiding against the wall between a window and the door of the third car, he hadn’t cared.

Vincent looked on silently as that man was motionless against the unmoving background. Then he watched the man turn to make a gesture behind him with a gloved hand. The wave summoned two other men in coats to come onto the platform, both of them searching the area just as their predecessor had.

Vincent smirked as he looked on at them, amused. They must have been damned uncomfortable, dressed in those city clothes. No one might have noticed unless they were looking closely, but the truth was in how they carried themselves, and how avidly they searched the area. To Vincent, it was painfully obvious. These men were clansmen; not city dwellers. Now, what were they doing?

After a moment, yet another two men followed out of the darkness. These two, however, didn’t enter into Vincent’s sight alone. Walking between those men was another figure, this one small.

From where he stood beyond the reach of the night winds, Vincent felt the demons inside him stirring. They’d sensed something here, but not one of the creatures inside him knew what it was. He felt something in his head as well—a hot, headache pain that usually came to him when a demon was nearby. As soon as Vincent had seen the small figure, he momentarily forgot about all the other men, and he stood staring toward her, odd feelings creating a disturbance within him.

The young girl there was dressed in a uniform—a jacket, navy in color, with a white skirt—like city girls her age might be likely to wear. Still, it was an unconvincing façade, much like the clansmen around her. The girl stood out, and Vincent wasn’t sure if any disguise could hide that obvious glow she had. He couldn’t tell if she was clan or city born, but there was something about her, oh yes. That, at least, was evident. Even from a distance, he could feel her unusual presence.

Not demon though. No. Something else…

Looking at her, he felt that he was being wrapped in a cloud of warmth and that soft whispers were pouring into his ears by some sweet breath. Never in his twenty years, even aligned with all of the strange things he’d seen, had he ever experienced anything like what he was feeling now. That child was special, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. She might have been ten years old, a pretty child, her hair running in a single long braid down her back.

And it was as white as Outland snow.

Like mine is now. If it was white for the same reason that his was, she was also a very tragic little girl. He closed his eyes to get his mind back on track and to shake away the comfortable warmth cloud. It was making him feel drowsy. Despite the similar circumstances he may have shared with that young girl, there was no time for him to be sympathetic or curious in that realm. As soon as he’d seen her, he’d known that whatever business the priest had on this train was with her.

Earlier, as he’d been thinking about what would happen tonight, he hadn’t cared what would bring the priest here. He’d found out, through his relentless stalking, that the man would be taking this Sahalen-Corroda train, and that had been his only driving concern. Now though, seeing this girl and knowing she was important at just the sight of her, he felt like the child he’d been when he’d first discovered his own powers. He couldn’t shrug it off anymore. Vincent was both afraid and fascinated.

Now he had to know why.

He managed to focus his attention back on the men—those clansmen in average city dress—and wondered what they had in common with the girl. They were obviously protecting her, but why clansmen? Did they know about the priest? Did they know what that man was capable of? Vincent supposed it was possible, which would explain the need for beast hunters, but they’d need a whole camp of the tamers—and the priest would still slaughter them. They seemed to have luck going their way tonight, however. Vincent was going to make sure the priest didn’t get whatever it was he wanted.

Besides, after tonight, it would do the man no good.

He turned from the men, looking back toward the odd little girl. Immediately, the warmth like a mother’s hug became a freezing chill that ran over him, similar to jumping naked into a creek. His skin tightened on his arms and he felt his scalp crawl, seemingly trying to escape his skull. The inner cold was so real that he might have gasped if he hadn’t trained himself otherwise.

He’d managed to avoid the notice of the men on the platform, but the girl had seen him, and she wasn’t afraid to let him know it. Her eyes stared right into his, a misty gray hidden partially under the white hair across her forehead. Vincent didn’t dare to move.

She’s looking right at me. Well, she knows I’m here at least, but I don’t think she sees me. I don’t think she sees anything.

He’d seen that hazy glaze over her eyes. That girl was blind, but her eyes had found his perfectly, so in some supernatural way, she could see much better than the men around her who had both their eyes.

He continued to stare a few moments, frozen and silent, and then a thought rushed on him almost like the chill