The Right Hand of Lilith: Consul

By LC Schwartz

The most powerful empire the world has ever known has been shaken across its foundations.
For centuries the warlock houses of the Canaani Illuminati have lorded over the mortal world. Born from the mingling of humanity with the seven most powerful lords and princes of Hell, the demon-blooded immortal Canaani warlocks command untold power. They have shaped humanity’s destiny since the dawning of history.
Lucio deBellarosa is a blooded warlock of a small soldier family of the Lilitu - a house whose heritage traces back to Lilith herself.
Lucio has existed for over two centuries, slogging through the mud and blood of the Canaani battlefields from Napoleon to D-Day. He has fought and bled for his House, always supported and emboldened by the presence of his half-sister, the stoic Antonia.
After arranging the killing of his rogue cousin and member of the ranking Illuminati Valentini family, Lucio’s next task is simple — to quell the hostilities in the Empire’s western-most demesne before the conflicts spill over into the public eye, and into the attention of the Host, the Canaani’s most bitter enemy.
Unwittingly, he falls into the schemes and machinations of the world’s elite, he becomes ensnared in the web and lies of a millennia-old conspiracy. Deadly attention turns on Lucio, and he is forced fight and bleed against their vicious talons — to protect not only himself, but the lives of his sister and the remaining members of his family: five beautiful, strong-willed, and vehement women - the very model of their demonic matron...
... and stand in violent opposition at the gates of the impossibly powerful Illuminati itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LC Schwartz
• Release date: Dec 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005202699

LC Schwartz

I live on the west coast of British Columbia amidst the mighty elder rainforest trees and the crashing of the coastal waves with my husband and daughter.As an avid reader and writer, nothing pleases me more than creating unique worlds and characters - and bringing them to life. I thoroughly enjoy the art of storytelling, and have taken great delight in the art of wordcraft.

Book preview

CHAPTER 2

Moreover thou knowest also what Joab the son of Zeruiah did to me, and what he did to the two captains of the hosts of Israel, unto Abner the son of Ner, and unto Amasa the son of Jether, whom he slew, and shed the blood of war in peace, and put the blood of war upon his girdle that was about his loins, and in his shoes that were on his feet. Do therefore according to thy wisdom, and let not his hoar head go down to the grave in peace.

I Kings ~ Chapter II, Verse 5-6

PAST DAYS, 1819 ~ ENGLAND

In the broken darkness of the dingy tenements, the black powder pistol swung about, detonating with a loud crack of fire and smoke.The explosion was deafening in the confined space and muted out the persistent chant of the fiery-eye zealot.

The prestigious belch of smoke blinded the two men that flailed against each other in mortal conflict. The subsonic lead ball flung wide of the combatants’ zeal to harmlessly pierce through a dirty plastered wall and into the brick behind. Though saved from the gunshot wound, the thought of impalement by lead shot gave far less concern to Lucio in the red jacket of an English cavalry officer, than the bladed steel edge of his foe’s broadsword.

Coal fire soot coated the windows, the thick glaze held back much of the August day’s light. And yet enough illumination pierced through to glimmer off the sharpened edge of the blade. Though weaponless against his armed opponent, Lucio had demonstrated remarkable fortitude to have kept his life in such an uneven contest.

He retreated from a follow-up swing of the sword, pulling himself out of range of the deadly arc of metal.

The sword’s edge, glimmering in the fading light, would seem just hardened steel. But to the trained eye, an eye that feared a specific cursed metal, it gleamed too differently for it to be anything but silver – or colloquially termed ‘sterling’ in the world of the red coated officer.

The swordsman was a non-assuming person of middle height and appearance, the kind of man an average person wouldn’t spare a second glance or thought – until one noticed the eyes that hinted of the burning fire of passionate faith within his soul.

It had been fortunate that the tenements were mostly abandoned as those who lived within had fled to the square outside to protest the very conditions of the English government that found them trapped in such places. While he cared little for the plight of the workers, or the ignorant few that could have found their way between him and his foe, it did allow him to conduct this battle without the prying eyes of Man.

His enemy threw aside the useless pistol. With its charge spent, it was nothing more than an unwieldy lump of steel and wood. Freed from that burden, he threw himself against Lucio once more; not giving his enemy even a moment to collect himself.

But Lucio was damnably quick. Even unarmed and unable to parry the slashing sword, the deadly edge still failed to find flesh, blood, and bone. He slipped under the blade, and retreated back and threw a ratty old table between him and his verse-spewing foe. The remains of some rotten meal scattered across the floor with a clatter.

The swordsman was forced to advance around the tossed table, allowing the officer a moment of escape through a narrow door into the shadowed hallway beyond. Continuing the liturgy of verse and text, the swordsman pursued, unwilling to let his enemy escape so easily.

He knew that he must keep up the pressure, for to relax even a moment would be doom – he fought a man not of this Earth, not of any sane mortality.

He fought an abomination of his god.

He pursued his red jacketed foe into the hallway. In the shadows beyond, he saw a pair of eyes flare to life, burning, churning like molten rock dripping from a volcanic core.

He realized far too late of the critical error in allowing this man, his foe, even a scant few seconds of reprieve. Undaunted, he pressed forward towards those flame-licked eyes with a scream of rage. He saw his target, Lucio, through the shadowy film of the hallway – standing in place, his mouth working a dismal chant of a language that had not been heard in the ears of Man for millennia turned over.

In the grime and dirt of the floor and up the wall a circle has been drawn around Lucio, scratched across the surfaces with a broken hunk of wood that sealed him inside.

The swordsman lashed forward with determination to strike down his foe before the chant could enter its completion rite. The critical final mo-ment came as the blade sliced air, cutting through to strike the unmoving Lucio.

Lucio did not see the world around him as a wavering blast of energy distorted the air like a heat shimmer. The brick walls and wooden structure of the building mouldered and cracked, splintered – as if aged a thousand times upon themselves.

The swordsman threw up his hands, his swing interrupted as the floor beneath him collapsed. The lethal sword was thrown from his grasp to impale itself into the weakened wall. His world was shattered in ruinous destruction – and he fell to his end.

Only the area within the circle, and Lucio with his burning eyes, remained untouched and unharmed by the rapid desecration of the building.

Fires had been lit.

They were not the pleasant campfires meant to warm the body; but noxious, putrid conflagrations that burnt anything the fire-makers could reach. Acrid smoke billowed upwards and outwards, carried on the winds to join the acidic coal fire haze in the sky above the city.

The smoke stung at Lucio’s eyes when he exited the remnants of the tenement building. He pulled his foe’s discarded sword along with him. As a holy weapon designed specifically to kill his kind, he was unwilling to leave it behind for another to find amongst the wreckage of the brick structure.

Above him, the sun of the late summer day struggled vainly to penetrate the smog, but could only offer a putrid amber luminance.

As if carried upon by the foul stink of the wind, the screams and cries of the people who had gathered to agitate for parliamentary reform reached his ears. Their voices echoed off the solid walls of the alleyways. Over their yells came the keening of the bugles and cacophonous roar of horse hooves against weathered cobblestones as red-coated cavalry charged into the mass of citizenry with sabers drawn.

They only wanted a better standard of life, but the mass of several thousand souls couldn’t have known that their wants only became part of an orchestrated bloodbath; like a greater drama that played out alongside Lucio’s own just moments before. While he found it difficult to summon any care for the fates of the people trapped within St. Peter’s Field on that particular August day, he still found criticism with the methods involved.

It was naught but arrogant grandstanding; a ‘look-at-us’ moment best left in the care of impudent toddlers.

He turned away from the plight of the poor working class, and moved as quickly as he could down Bond Street towards the nearby canal, and the fields beyond.

In the shadow of a silent mill at the edge of town, he found his compatriots waiting – two men and a woman. The gentlemen were likewise in the uniform of English cavalry, though they look even more Mediterranean that their arriving associate, and no mounts were anywhere to be seen. Animals tended to disagree with the Lilitu, just as the Lilitu disagreed with the close proximity of silver.

The woman would seem to be a lady of substance, covered militaristically in a snug fitting dark gray riding habit and veiled top hat.

You took your time, dear brother, she said as he came within range of her voice. A problem?

Perhaps for a moment, he replied, and tossed the naked blade hilt first for Antonia to catch. She regarded it thoughtfully in her hands for a moment.

As Antonia was an Acolyte, a half-blooded warlock yet to be ignited through the Blooding Ritual, the silver did not make her ill.

This is a Host blade, she said, her eyes lighting upon the inverted Cross of Saint Peter etched into the silver blade.

It is, Lucio replied, nodding once. You can be certain that they are well aware of our presence here.

The delay, however necessary, is unfortunate, Lucio, Antonelli said – the apparent eldest of the two waiting men.

The younger one, Ottavio, looked on with an expression of sour discountenance. Lucio could sympathize with the boy, as he had always found England to be an exceptionally distasteful country, rightly cast off into the ocean like trash by the rest of the European continent. Though they would appear to only be a scant few years apart in age, Lucio could only think of the youngest of the Valentini brothers as a child – even though the actual difference in their age was much more disturbing for a right-minded mortal.

Lucio glanced back at Antonelli.

Unfortunate? The attack has only just begun.

The fool Belialé, Antonelli said with unmasked discontent. Having grown bored with waiting and unsatisfied with the mortal terror they have orchestrated in the square, they have learned that the Consul of Manchester is currently away in London, leaving his home empty – and is not expected to return for several days. They have taken it upon themselves to visit his manor.

You cannot be serious, Lucio replied, unable to maintain his expression of casual indifference.

I am quite, dear cousin. And your delay has given them even more time to sow the rage of the Naberu.

Lucio snorted. You would rather I found my death on the sterling blade of a Host and give them another victory, rather than tighten the reins on those fools?

Pssh. If it could be called a victory, it would be slight in the least, Antonelli said with a slight smirk. You know damn well that it would be easier to rein back the tides themselves than attempt to control the passions of the Belialé.

The manor abode of the Consul of Manchester was a prestigious Tudor affair sitting on a small hillock overlooking the fallow fields and the squalor of the city. The lavish gardens that surrounded the manor house had been trampled through by angry boots.

With the battle of Waterloo and the exile of their mortal fool and stooge, Napoleon, only a few years behind them, the Belialé had been loath to waste time on recouping their loss against the Old Kingdom of Northumbria.

While Lucio could appreciate a healthy vengeance against a hated foe – thieving valued items from a home and raping the Consul’s maid servants smacked more of cowardly hooliganism than a real concerted effort to ensure that their hatred truly left any lasting mark.

Nearby, one such maidservant was receiving the lustful attention of a Belialé raider. She cried out and writhed beneath the man with wanton abandon. She couldn’t help herself against the attack as her body and mind were enraptured under the Belialé’s dark magickal weavings. Three others, both men and women, of the unnaturally gorgeous House had paused in their looting to cheer on their companion as the woman’s virtue was stolen from her in the disgusting attack right in the middle of the open cobble-stoned carriage yard at the front of the manor.

Despite the desperate pleasure the maidservant’s body exuded, Lucio could see the stark terror within her eyes. He could almost hear the tormented screaming hammering against the inside of her skull. Lucio was acutely aware of the woman’s horror as it leaked out of her. The smell of her terror was divine. As the Belialé feed on the lusts of mortal, the Lilitu draw upon terror to revitalize their numinatic energy. He desired to draw upon the woman’s anguish to replenish some spent power lost during the battle with the Host, but she was already enduring enough torment.

Lucio was unable to stomach the pure stupidity of the antics, and moved to stomp on the raping fool and pull him off of the woman – but a restraining hand from Antonelli held him back.

Curb your chivalry, dear cousin, he said.

We should melt the fools’ flesh from their bones, Ottavio finally said, glancing around the scene of discord and disarray.

We are only here to assist. Not to command or judge. The children will have their fun, and it will fall upon their own heads when they return to Paris, Antonelli countered.

Lucio turned away from the woman on the ground, drawn by the raucous giggling of another standing with a companion by a wagon. Somebody had stolen one of the Lord’s wagons and parked it in the middle of the courtyard to be piled up high with loot. Judging by what was loaded into it already, the Belialé didn’t really care about what they are actually taking, but revel solely in the act of thievery for its own sake.

A Frenchwoman writhed on her man’s arm with stupid giggles at the scene being played out around her. The man seemed to have little time for her antics, or her improperly exposed bosom, as he was busily admiring a large, gorgeous painting of a dark-haired woman in diaphanous gowns on the back of a glimmering white stallion.

Lucio found the giggling woman difficult to look at. She was once quite beautiful, but since then the flesh of her ample breasts has been marred by bite-marks. Her eyes had been a vibrant green, but the luster has faded and couldn’t hide a strange quirkiness of her mind that had crept in.

Insanity by pleasure.

It sounds like a romantic fantasy, but Lucio well understood the Belialé’s power over the flesh.

She would not last the summer – either dying in one of her companion’s feasts, or losing her mind so completely that an asylum would be her only other fate.

Lucio determined that the annoyance that crept up his throat was not for the fate of the woman herself – mortals are such scant creatures – but the sense of loss to the world that her vanished beauty would leave behind.

Is this truly worth our time? Lucio said, storming up to the mad woman’s beau. His anger was like bile burning in the back of his throat. Petty thievery and vandalism?

Ah, mais oui, mon ami, Jorge duBois replied, turning away from the painting. Like Lucio and his cousins, he was darker of skin, a native of Mediterranean Gaul. And also like the Lilitu, the Belialé lord was in possession of a beauty very rarely seen amongst the mortals of the world. Yet where the Lilitu had predatory allure, Jorge duBois was more effeminate, pretty, with fine features, exquisitely trimmed beard, large blue eyes and luscious, soft lips. His long, dark hair was pulled back into a clasp at the base of his skull and he wore his own English officer’s uniform as though it was the latest of Parisienne fashion.

His large lips curled up into a smile as Lucio approached him, perhaps in an attempt to disarm the hostile Lilitu before he could do any serious damage.

This was not part of our agreement, Jorge, Lucio said, stepping into the face of the Belialé. The one on Jorge’s hip, poo-poos then reaches out to stroke Lucio’s arm. The Lilitu batted her hand away with a backhanded slap.

Ah, my dear handsome man, Jorge said, placing the painting on the cart, you would seek to deny us just a bit of harmless fun? The procedure has gone on well enough, the populace has been inflamed with rage, and the sting of Belialé subterfuge will be felt in these lands for many years to come. It is time for celebration! He threw up his arms and yelled out to his people. They cheered with a loud ‘whoop!’ and Jorge buried his face in the bust of the idiot woman. She squealed in delight. Lucio roughly hauled him back.

Oi, Jorge yelled, shrugging off Lucio’s hand. Remove yourself, good sir!

Lucio jabbed an accusing finger at the raped maidservant on the ground. When the Lilitu agreed to assist in this stupid venture, it was in the understanding of subterfuge. Any doubt the Naberu could ever have had of our involvement will now be completely washed away by your sheer idiocy.

Jorge’s eyes flared, literally burning out of his skull to be replaced by molten fire as his face contorts into a rage-fueled mask. He shoved Lucio back away from him with impossible strength.

Lucio’s boots bit against the cobblestone, his eyes likewise instantly burned from their sockets as the air around him stung with the biting scent of the acid dripping from his fingertips.

Akin to their enemies of the Naberu, the Belialé held magickal prowess over the emotional states. But where the Naberu commanded minds, the Belialé gripped intense physical sensations in their fists of power. Their weavings could literally cripple a man with agony or pleasure.

Lucio wasn’t about to give Jorge a chance to put him to the ground and summoned forth the ruinous numinatic powers of the Lilitu into the form of highly vitriolic acid ready to be set loose upon any offending person, particularly the man that stood in front of him.

Antonelli swore, muttering something unkind about Lucio’s parentage – but he and Ottavio still set themselves likewise to their cousin, and summoned forth their own numinatic powers. Antonia, unblooded as a warlock and unable to tap into the magickal world, instead brought the liberated host sword around to bear, brandishing the fearful blade both in the direction of Jorge, and his beautiful Belialé cohorts that have begun to take notice of the stand-off.

With the sudden threat of battle and the promise of rageful stings from his Matriarch later should he survive, Jorge stepped back from the Lilitu. He laughed with some jovial intent – an odd gesture when set in contrast to his smoldering eyes aflame with hellfire.

Cousins and friends, he said, opening his arms in a grand gesture, please forgive – for emotions run high in our hearts.

The molten hellfire in his eyes boiled away, leaving only charred empty sockets behind. The flesh and the eyes themselves quickly regenerated. In mere moments Jorge’s face was once again angelic and gorgeous.

The Lilitu remained on guard.

We will have no further part in this, Antonelli said to Jorge over Lucio’s shoulder. Deal with that as you may.

Jorge’s lips smiled, more in an attempt to turn down the aggressions of the Lilitu than general amusement.

As you will, Valentini. Though our Lady Mistress might not look too favorably on what has happened here.

That is well enough, for she is not our Mistress, Antonelli said. If it’s all the same to you, we’d rather not be acknowledged in this affair at all, lest it came to taint our names.

Antonelli stepped forward to put a hand on Lucio’s shoulder. Leave it for now, it is not our fight.

After a moment Lucio nodded and stepped away from Jorge.

The Lilitu turned to depart the villa on Antonelli’s lead and leave the Belialé to their revelry. Antonia stepped over to the interrupted carnal display in the driveway. Barely even acknowledged the perplexed look of the Belialé rapist, she drove her booted foot into the lust-filled man and kicked him off the woman.

She spat on the ground – adding further insult over an acolyte striking a warlock.

Lucio gave her a satisfied nod and an amused quirk of his lips.

It vexes me that we left them with no lasting agony, Lucio commented as they head back down the hillside towards the smoking city.

Let it go, my friend, there are far better reasons for which to die, Antonelli said, giving Lucio’s shoulder a friendly grip.

CHAPTER 3

So likewise ye, when ye shall have done all those things which are commanded you, say, We are unprofitable servants: we have done that which was our duty to do.

Luke ~ Chapter XVII, Verse 10

PRESENT DAY ~ FRANCE

Lucio’s eyes opened.

The room was dark, but the electric lights burning throughout the Marseilles harbor filtered through the gossamer curtains and bathed the ceiling with a shifting amber glow.

His sister stirred beside him in the bed. He realized it was her that woke him by her elbow pressing against his shoulder.

Once she noticed he was awake, Antonia pushed the covers aside, then slid out of the bed. She was still dressed; though had discarded her jeans and corset in favor of sweat pants, a tank top and slip-on shoes. The pump action shotgun that followed her out from under the duvet was another new addition.

Lucio glanced at the light curtains, shifting against a meager draft that shouldn’t be there.

He swung his legs out, and slid his feet into the shoes waiting for him beside the bed. Silently, the pair of them maneuvered to the bedroom door.

The bedroom door was left unlatched, but had since shifted a few inches from the draft. It allowed him a limited view of the dark hallway beyond. No lights were left on in their rented suite that night – yet a meager amber glow emanated from the living room end of the hallway, and brought with it the sounds of early morning Marseilles.

Antonia closed up near him. Having showered after the events of earlier, she still smelled of floral and berries - a bizarre contrast of the hard woman with the shotgun. Lucio tried to not smile with amusement at her, but failed.

She noticed, and gave him an inquisitive scowl of annoyance.

He shook his head and whispered. Nothing.

The Vieux Port Hotel was an exercise in contemporary, colorful European design; and the suite’s décor was no different. The hallway featured little in the way of obstructions, but the faux-wood floor made a silent approach to the living room much more difficult with the hard-soled shoes Lucio wore. Still, if it came down to a fight, Lucio would much rather have shoes protecting his feet than running into a battle with them bare and vulnerable.

Antonia moved first, her shotgun shouldered and held ready, aimed down the hallway and her route of progress. Two other doorways were spaced along the right-hand wall – one to the washroom, and the next into a small kitchenette.

Lucio followed her, keeping close to her right shoulder, peering out over the lethal weapon.

The bathroom looked clear in the darkness. Despite the tell-tale glow from the living room at the end of the hallway, any sound of occupancy had yet to filter down to them beyond that of early morning city life.

As they closed on the kitchen, Lucio’s muscles tensed as a sulfurous scent was carried on the draft, soliciting a sidewards glance from Antonia.

She mouthed. Canaani?

He nodded slightly. Then not wasting a moment further, he threw himself forward into the living room ahead of her as his blood boiled within his body, fueling his physical self. His muscles tensed into iron, his skin toughened and his motions became a blur.

He chanted in a language long since lost to the ears of man, and the air began to burn with the acrid stench of acid.

He was confident in his sister’s support and focused solely upon the sensed threat directly in the room as he rose to his feet. As his words hit air, the blackness of his pupils flared and smoldered, burning like embers of a forge. The molten flames expanded outwards from the dark points, until they consumed first the iris, and then the whites of cornea. Molten flame, broiling and churning, filled in the space that once held human eyes.

The stink of sulfur stung the air.

Antonia was on his heels, her shotgun first wheeling into the small kitchenette, then over the pass-through leading into the living room.

But there was only one person who waited for them – a man, sitting languidly upon the plush, squared sofa. He was quite amused by their display, and offered a low chuckle.

Behind him, the lights of the city filtered in through the open patio door, blending with the soft glow of the side table lamp. A warm Mediterranean breeze followed the light in, dispelling some of the pungent aroma wafting off the burning acid.

Domicelli, Lucio said with a hiss in his voice. He cancelled the summoning he had begun.

I am dismayed, my friend, the man said in reply. Returning to your hotel after what you did. Very foolish. You have angered a great many of our people. Prominent people. Thus I would have expected finding you to be a challenge, but you made it so very easy.

Domicelli sniffed the air.

And you are without silver.

Antonia maintained good discipline, Lucio considers – she didn’t give into the impulse that burned in her gut to toss him an I told you so glance about returning to their hotel. She kept herself deathly focused on the interloper.

Domicelli was casually attired. His loose, dark silk shirt was cut low to show off the hint of a muscled chest. He was young like Lucio, but where Lucio’s hair was straight and flared, his was tightly curled against his scalp. He was clean-shaven, which revealed a history of scars from a life of violence, and terrible injuries too great to heal appropriately by their kind’s natural accelerated regeneration alone.

Lucio glanced around the small living room. Nothing seemed to have been touched. Only the French doors that led to the balcony were left open, allowing the diaphanous draperies to blow in the coastal breeze.

Lucio smirked slightly at the obvious entry. Domicelli, despite his secrecy, wanted Lucio to know that while an enemy may have slipped passed their defenses – they were either very stupid or wanted their presence to be known and obvious – before deadly violence ensued.

Antonia still checked the rest of the suite, however.

And Lucio kept his focus carefully on Domicelli, ready to lash out the instant Antonia found something amiss.

Domicelli just stretched out casually on the sofa.

I did note however, the single room, and single bed, he said, waving his hand in a general arc. Could the rumors be true, my friend?

Domicelli’s dark eyes flicked over to Antonia when she returned from checking the bedroom. That leaves some intriguing ideas in one’s mind.

Antonia gave Lucio a minute shake of her head.

What do you want? Lucio said, annoyance edged his voice.

Domicelli smiled slightly.

My friend, you are too sensitive with regards to your lovely sister. She is an attractive woman, you can not help but expect that men will have… thoughts of her.

Sporco maiale, Antonia said, her dark red lips twisted into a sneer.

Speak quickly or you will be sent from the balcony. I have little patience for your games tonight, Lucio said.

Domicelli chuckled again. An interesting challenge indeed. I would be curious to learn if perhaps you could actually do it. But wouldn’t that just create a stir? I mean, even more so than what you have already done.

I did as requested by the Matriarch.

Mm, yes. Yes, you did. Nothing more, nothing less. And in the process, showed up and embarrassed the prestigious Valentini for all the other families to see. I cannot help but wonder if you jumped at the chance to openly shame an Illuminati family. Quite splendidly, in fact – I think it will be in the morning edition of the news.

Lucio breathed in through his nose, and drove the blood boiling in his veins back down to a more passive state. He felt the edge of strength slip away, the flicking of his muscles die off. The smell of acid remained within the room; the carpet had been pitted where drops of it dribbled from his hands when he brought it forth from the ether.

With the fading of the magickal energy, his eyes rematerialized from the dark pits they had become. Lucio didn’t believe that he or Antonia are in any current danger – at least for the moment.

Lucio had known Domicelli for close to a hundred years, off and on, when the duties of the deBellarosa family had brought him into the range of the reigning matriarchs of the Lilitu House and their ‘messengers.’

It didn’t mean Lucio liked the perverse bastard, and he had little desire to hide that fact from him. They even came to blows once, but that conflict was terminated before any serious damage could be done, or a clear victor determined.

They’d had an edgy relationship ever since – like both men were vying for a reason to determine just who was the stronger in the numinatic arts.

Despite the man’s pretense and caterwauling, Domicelli did let some truth slip. Lusio didn’t expect the Valentini to learn of Antonelli’s death quite this quickly – the implications that were presented brought with them some concern.

As the Valentini failed to see to the death of their wayward son – a threat to the security of the Canaani Houses as a whole – it then fell to Lucio to bring him down. He was to be terminated before his extravagant, openly rebellious ways brought the attention of the Host down upon him and the rest of the Lilitu.

But, perhaps as revolting as the idea was, it might be time to arm with silver, just in case.

You still have not explained your presence, Lucio said.

You’re right, Domicelli replied. I come only with a message.

Which is?

The Marchesa D’Agostino wishes your attendance tomorrow night at her abode in Paris.

Lucio frowned with a glance at his sister.

This displeases you, deBellarosa?

As intrigued as I am about this invitation, I cannot help but wonder at the necessity; or why she felt it required her sword to deliver it.

Domicelli shrugged and rose.

I do not know, nor care. Delivery of that message was my sole requirement. And with that task now done, I shall take my leave. He glanced once again at Antonia, first her untethered breasts under the thin shirt, then up to her eyes. As painfully difficult as that might be.

Domicelli turned his back to Lucio, but his head was tilted and his awareness remained focused on the man behind him. He stopped amongst the diaphanous, waving draperies to give a glance back with a stark malicious wickedness in his eyes.

But do tread carefully, my friend. The Valentini are loath to forget even the most meager of slights. I would be so unhappy to lose my beautiful rival.

He blew a kiss to Antonia, and then was gone.

Lucio watched him vanish into the coming dawn.

The threat seemed to have passed. Antonia rested the shotgun over her shoulder.

What is our next move?

Lucio closed the French doors and latched them, for all the good that did.

We go to Paris.

Is that wise? You trust his words?

Lucio regarded her for a long moment. He could easily see what Domicelli meant, she was a very attractive woman, providing one does not demand beauty remained solely in the realm of meek or waifish countenance.

I trust him to do the job he was assigned to do without question. But he is not a deBellarosa, so I trust him no further than that.

Antonia nodded slightly, refusing to give up her frown. Good.

Lucio brushed past her.

Pack your things. Let us see what our beloved Matriarch wishes of us.

Antonia snorted. Sure, it’s not like I need to sleep ever.

Lucio paused in his step to glance back at her with a slight smirk. That is why I adore you, my dearest.

CHAPTER 4

The disciple was not above his teacher, nor a slave above his Master.

Matthew ~ Chapter X, Verse 24

The catacombs pressed in around Lucio. Gravel crunched under the soles of his shoes or skittered across broken flagstones and tiles. Around him, the sightless, vacant eyes of the long dead watched his passage through their domain with casual curiosity.

He could feel the presence of old souls within the dark and ancient passageways – souls that became lost to the gates of Heaven or the fires of Hell, but remained trapped in the endless purgatory on Earth.

Their touch was like ice against his skin. Their whispers tickled at his ears.

Behind him, Antonia followed with careful steps.

A cloaked figure led the pair through the twisting maze of the Paris catacombs – their only light was a burning torch of greenish flame clasped within the pale grip of the figure’s hand. His other hand held a weapon of the Old Kingdoms, a halberd of silver and iron embossed with the runic language of the First Tongue. The archaic weapon seemed to pulse with barely bridled energy that promised a vicious death to any caught within its extensive arc. It was a weapon of another time, and Lucio wondered if it was one of the originals of its kind, crafted back in the age that gave it birth when the Lilitu first came to Paris eight hundred years ago.

The dark, veiling cloak masked the figure behind its thick material. With each motion, sigils and runes sewn into the fabric twisted and writhed in the meager light. The cloak was old, and crafted in a time when delicate care was taken with such precious things. The hem had been worn and frayed with the tread of a million footfalls through these ancient passageways.

As expected of any Canaani who took pride in their numinatic arts, Lucio had a ritual cloak of his own, but it would not match the potency of the one before him. Summoning the spirits of the dead in the graveyard at midnight did not compare with protecting the most important and powerful figure in House Lilitu from threats – both external and internal.

When the figure turned down yet another seemingly nondescript passageway, Lucio considered the silence of the dark world and the strange sense of unreality that always accompanied a visit to Paris. He could easily forget that a world-class metropolis raged above their heads.

And yet, he mused as his eyes came to rest on a collection of bones still yet to brown with age, not all the dead within these passages came from the world of old. Some were all that remained of foolish tourists that defied the posted directives, and ventured far too close to the hidden demesne of the Paris Lilitu.

Though fitting for his particular House, he found the location quite trite. Once the suspicious world of man believed his ilk to be the mythical vampyre, but was there really any need to maintain such a foolish façade?

Still, he supposed that it did serve a practical purpose. Within the winding passageways of this underworld – he could only guess that they