The Eternals Collection E-Book

Richard M. Ankers

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

All three books in 'The Eternals', a series of gothic fantasy novels by Richard M. Ankers, now in one volume!
The Eternals: Born to immortality, Jean is the last Eternal lord and one of the last inhabitants of a dying Earth. In the face of the perishing sun, some have accepted their fate; others are ready to fight for their future. When Jean's bite takes the life of Princess Chantelle, of The New Europa Alliance, his life changes. Now, he's a man on the run, falling in love and rediscovering his humanity. With the sun's clock ticking, Jean tries to reconcile his sordid past... but instead stumbles into age-old conspiracies and beyond.
Hunter Hunted: As soon as Jean stands in the sun's ruby light, he and Princess Linka are drawn into a world of darkness. Journeying deep beneath the Arctic ice, the two find sanctuary. But all is not right, and soon Jean must solve the mystery of who is manipulating him, and the deepening saga of his parents' deaths. Once again aided by the increasingly manic Merryweather and the mysterious beauty that is Princess Aurora, it seems like all directions point to the legendary city of Hvit, surrounded by the cloying, lavender stench of death, and the never-ending quest for blood.
Into Eternity: Leaving the Arctic ice behind, Jean and the others must reconcile with both current and past deaths, as they close in on the Baltic home of the hated Duke Gorgon. Here, their enemies gather and confrontation is inevitable. Under Merryweather’s frustrating tutelage, Jean marches from one infuriating revelation to another, but as the lies unravel and the truth unfurls, he discovers the Britannian is not the fool he’s taken him for. And at the end of all things, as the sun dies and Shangri-La falls, Jean will know what it means to step into eternity.

Leseprobe

THE ETERNALS COLLECTION

The Complete Series

RICHARD M. ANKERS

Copyright (C) 2022 Richard M. Ankers

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

CONTENTS

The Eternals

Hunter Hunted

Into Eternity

About the Author

THE ETERNALS

THE ETERNALS BOOK 1

1

INDIFFERENT

“Sometimes the end is just a beginning.”

JEAN

Chantelle's cold, dead hand slipped into my own like velvet ice.

“The balcony, Monsieur?”

“Please, Jean. You know formality makes me feel old, Princess.”

“Are you not?” she giggled.

I gave her a narrow-eyed glare.

In sashaying majesty, she led me out onto the moonlit balcony, a slight breeze stirring the purple silks of her gowns and tousling those flowing, raven locks. Neither the orchestra, nor revellers, noticed our absence, all far too absorbed with their petty pleasures.

Scattered geranium bushes emitted a faint pomade into the night in wafts of delicious perfume. The fragrance circulated in the evening's air currents mixing with Chantelle's own exquisite scents. She was everything a man could have desired, perfection personified.

“Come here.” I pulled her close, uncaring of prying eyes. I cared for nothing else, so why should that have mattered.

“Come here Princess,” she corrected, pressing hidden curves against my body.

If I could have remembered what happiness felt like, then that moment would have come close, her demure eyelash batting only adding to the allure.

“Beautiful, is it not, Jean?”

“Not as beautiful as you,” I said and leaned out over the balustrade. The red waters of the Danube looped their turgid way around the palace perimeter forming a natural barrier to uninvited guests. That was the exact purpose of their design. Nature had never had a say in it.

“Shall we?” Chantelle purred, as the reinvigorated orchestra drew my attention back from the river. There was only one kind of music for such occasions: Strauss.

We waltzed in slow circles to the ironic notes of the Blue Danube. I doubted the composer would have generated the same response to his masterpiece if titled red. A searchlight moon shone down from amongst a twinkling eternity, as we twirled across the polished, ebony floor. Could there have been anything better? I very much doubted it. Just because one was dead did not preclude them from appreciating the finer things in life.

I'd been experiencing the best of life for the last five hundred or so years and unlike some, I'd enjoyed every second. What was there not to have liked? To have wined and dined with those of undeniable breeding, shared tailors with kings and queens, walked along gothic promenades without fear, that was the life, or death, I'd dreamed of. I'd never missed the sunlight and felt it terribly overrated. The sun had given such a false sense of wellbeing to the living. Only in the crystal clarity of a sparkling moon did the true reality of an object shine. The snake was not a slithering, ugly beast, but a sensual, seductive coil of a creature. The bat far outshone the bird for it required none of the adulation that the avian so craved. And the wolf, ah, the wolf, what could one say? To see the grey wolves of old backlit by a hunter's moon was a thing of surreal majesty. In a world of sculpted pleasures; toned to compliment the night; crafted for exuberance, I had walked unhindered. Who was I trying to convince, I hated it all! How I envied the wolves their freedom the one thing I would never possess.

“Shall we remain out here under the stars, Monsieur?”

The beautiful French accent of my partner snapped me from my musings.

“Tell me, Jean, what is your wish?”

“To be with you.”

“You can be with me anytime, but in this moment only once.”

“I can close my eyes and imagine this moment anytime I require.”

“That is not the same thing and you know it,” she berated. Another batting of those dark lashes caused a brief disturbance in her sparkling, amethyst eyes.

“No, probably not, but I shall still enjoy doing so.”

She tilted her head to one side as if it helped her think. “You know, Jean,” she whispered. “With your long, dark hair and those brooding, black eyes, you really are to die for.” Chantelle flicked her hair back and grinned, her elegant, porcelain neck beckoning.

It was a momentary thing, an uncontrollable urge, as I plunged dagger fangs into flesh, and sucked, and savoured, and drank.

How long I sated, I did not know, but it was too long. By the time I'd finished, the metallic tang of her blood saturated my tongue, and she was gone. I had taken her past the point of no return where Eternal lust and immortality merged. My lapse shattered the one sacrosanct law of Eternal life, the original sin, the forbidden link to a shameful past: I'd killed Princess Chantelle of The New Europa Alliance, sole daughter of King Rudolph and for the first time in an age, panicked!

As a rule, I was quite unflappable, after all, what was there to get in a flap about when you were already dead? But killing a princess certainly qualified. So, I kept on dancing, holding Chantelle close, and edged my way past the double doors to the balcony's edge. Twisting our conjoined forms around, I surveyed the merriment within the ballroom: revellers swayed to the orchestration ignorant of all but themselves. A smirk escaped the confines of my lips. Once sure of our privacy, I leapt the rails with my burden. It was a drop of about thirty feet, nothing to such as I, and quickly made my way to the tree-lined riverbank. Clutching Chantelle tight, as a lover might, I again made certain of our solitude. Where my Eternal eyes could not see my senses, scent and hearing, took charge. They all confirmed that there was nobody present but me and my corpse. I waited for an opportune cloud to obscure the moon and then flung her departed form far into the claret waters. Chantelle's limp form hit the surface with an undignified plop, and then slipped away in stages, her raven hair the last to depart as kelp in a wavering sea. I'd have liked to say I was sorry to see her go, but to be honest, I was at best indifferent.

Retracing my steps to beneath the balcony, I had a sudden epiphany: I could not go back the same way. People were bound to have seen us both step onto the balcony. No, another escape route was required.

Not wishing to be found outside alone, I spotted some sturdy looking climbing ivy and, in a reversal of parasitic behaviour, scaled it to the top of the palace. I felt no lethargy as I hauled myself up and over a particularly hideous gargoyle to the palace roof, Chantelle's blood had quite reinvigorated me.

Having always enjoyed a spectacular view, I took a moment to savour my surroundings. It was incredible! Class told, and that most opulent of pleasure domes dripped with it. Positioned with a full view of both mountains and river, the Comte de Burgundy, a clever play on colour as he was certainly of no royal heritage, could keep his vampiric eye on all and sundry. Not that there was anyone to keep an eye on anymore, but I suspected him a tad insecure and it probably aided his sleep. I envied him his home though. If he'd built it for himself, I could neither remember, nor recall witnessing, but it showed him in a finer light than he warranted. I could not stand the little runt, otherwise.

I meandered across the inclined roof looking for somewhere to gain access to the main halls, when I realised, I'd been revealed.

“Good evening, Jean,” came the whining voice of Sir Walter Merryweather.

“Good evening,” I responded with a casual air.

“Taking a stroll?”

“No, I am in fact lost. I was looking for the latrine and somehow found myself in front of the wrong kind of pot.”

“Tee-hee, yes, quite.”

“And you?”

“Boredom, as always.”

“You could get into awful trouble for saying something like that.”

“I could, but I won't.” He gave me a wink and touched the side of his nose with a green, velvet-gloved finger that perfectly matched the rest of his outer garb.

“Incredible view.”

“Always. The Danube is an impressive little stream. I never tire of watching it pulse across the land like some bulging virgin's jugular vein. Ah, those halcyon days,” he added, with a stifled yawn. “Ditched Charlotte, have you?”

“Chantelle,” I corrected. “And I would rather say I have eluded her cloying overeagerness, for a short while, at least.” I watched Walter closely, but he did not react, and I suspected my secret safe. “Do you wish to return to the ball?” I asked.

“Not really. I deplore all that showy bravado. My fangs are bigger than your fangs, etcetera, etcetera. Have we really become so melodramatic?”

“Well, this is the end of the world, or so they say. May as well go out with a flourish.”

“May as well,” he agreed. “Although, I'd still prefer to be ripping out human throats and sucking up their souls.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Ah, I forget how young you are.”

“And I, how old, you.”

“Losing humanity marked the beginning of my torpor.”

“If you say so.”

“Let's just agree we would both find it infinitely preferable to drinking from a bag.”

“Too true,” I concurred, as he stood to brush the moss from his garish outfit.

“Right then, let's be off, rejoin the tedium and all that.”

“After you, I said, gesturing with my hand.” Always smooth under pressure, I smiled to myself and followed him off the roof through a door I hadn't even noticed back to the strains of more Strauss. I didn't expect I'd ever feel the same way about him again. I much preferred Wagner, anyway.

Merryweather led me through a labyrinthine set of stuffy passages, the purpose of which quite eluded me, before we eventually reappeared in one of the royal boxes that overlooked the twirling throng.

“Makes you sick, doesn't it, Jean?”

“What does?”

“All this.” He spread his arms wide to encompass all the massive ballroom, with no apparent care for who might see him.

“It provides some entertainment,” I said, whilst wiping a long, dark lock from my eyes.

“Bah! Entertainment indeed! We have machines that can move mountains, the ability to create near endless resources, yet this is the sum of our achievements, to frolic.” Merryweather slammed one velvet-gloved hand down upon the parapet. I was sure for effect rather than genuine anger.

Already bored with the fop despite his sudden leanings to rebellion, I decided to take my leave. “I really should be finding the princess before some other dashing Eternal sweeps her away before dawn.”

“Ah, fancying a midnight dip, are we?”

“I don't swim.”

“Who said anything about swimming?”

“Hmm.” I rolled my eyes at the beaming fool. “Anyway, I must be going.”

Merryweather regarded me with something akin to suspicion before doffing an imaginary hat. I was dismissed, and I didn't need telling twice. After a quick check below, I jumped the parapet and dropped the rather long distance to the ballroom floor, landing conveniently at the feet of the Marquise de Rhineland and a gaggle of her cronies. It was a pompous title for a pompous woman, but she did have exquisite legs.

“Ladies,” I said, and gave a mock bow.

“Ooh, Jean, you're looking particularly delicious tonight. As tall, dark and handsome as ever, I see,” oozed the Marquise. Her ice-blue eyes shimmered in the light of a dozen chandeliers

“As do you, Marquise.”

“Oh, Jean, you know to call me Portia.”

“Sorry, Portia, I sometimes forget myself.”

“Are you not with the princess?” she asked, which caused her overripe friends to titter.

“I was, but I suspect I may have upset her. She is punishing me by her absence.”

“Is it really such a punishment?”

I leaned in closer, or as close as I could to someone dressed as a trifle, and whispered, “Not really.”

“Ooh, Jean, you are a very naughty Eternal Lord.”

“I could be.”

The glint in her eyes matched the licking of her lips: wanton.

“Would you like to leave this most boring of balls?”

The Marquise looked about, as though searching for somebody, before grabbing my hand in her gloved own. She bade a hasty farewell to her compatriots, then languidly led me from the ballroom. Nobody spared us a second glance, all far too advanced in their merrymaking.

Out through the gold laden double doors, and into a corridor of polished ivory we strolled. That gave me a chance to fake an admiration of some of the more dramatic murals that covered every spare inch of the place: a sure sign of overkill and bad taste. Then, out through the sparkling, crystal palace entrance and onto the grand, marble staircase. Taking a dramatic stance, the Marquise beckoned a footman who had her carriage brought forth post-haste. What drew the carriage, I had no idea, unless it was of horses whose colouring matched that of the night? With no acknowledgement to any of the scurrying servants, she climbed the inlaid tortoiseshell steps into her mobile boudoir and sat with her back to the coachman. I followed, doing my best to avoid standing on her gowns, and took a white, leathered seat opposite.

“It seems a very long time since I last had you alone like this,” she cooed.

“It must be the better part of a century, I should imagine,” I replied, whilst straightening the cuffs of my jacket.

“I see you refuse to submit to the whims of others, ever the rebel.” The Marquise lifted her chin to my jet-black attire.

“You know me. Old habits die hard.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

If the Marquise was about to further divulge her thoughts, the juddering start to our drive prevented it. In a moment of fang baring brutality, the Marquise bashed twice upon the frame of the carriage and shouted to the coachmen to not jolt her again. The crack in the side panel where fist met wood demonstrated what a facade of decorum she perpetrated. As always, I found it disgusting. Turning back my way, once again angelic, she continued.

“Have you missed me, Jean?”

“I've seen you on many occasions. This formulated world is too small to miss someone for too long.”

“You know what I mean,” she giggled.

“Not really,” I answered honestly.

“Hm, playing tough won't work with me. I see through your veneer of disdain.” Moonlight shone through the carriage window and gave a strange look of madness to her eyes as she lent closer.

“There is no veneer with me. My feelings to this life have not changed for centuries.”

Sitting back in her seat, I watched the Marquise ponder my words with the look of a child unable to comprehend a question.

“Do you really hate it so?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“But, why? We have everything our heart's desire and even when we don't we simply create it.”

“That is exactly why.” I gazed out of the window and watched the dramatic scenery sweep past.

“You are a most mysterious man,” she chuckled, as she eased her way into the seat beside me. “Beautiful, isn't it,” she purred into my ear.

“Perhaps, if you like your Alps and Himalayas amalgamated. It just so happens that I prefer the originals.”

If the Marquise heard me I did not know as her mouth closed about my neck. I squirmed in my seat at the twin pressures she applied, but never enough to break the skin.

“Now, tell me you still haven't missed me,” words of honeyed silk poured from her mouth.

“I still haven't missed you,” I breezed, as our mouths met and, for a time at least, I submitted to her as the toy I once was.

Time and motion blurred together; I suspected the Marquise of having manipulated one or both to her benefit. I wasn't complaining. Her attentions proved a surprising relief from what occurred at the palace. I was of course used to women throwing themselves at me for one reason or another. However, having two quite so powerful ones do so in the same night was a new experience altogether. The first new experience in longer than I cared to remember.

I'd barely buttoned my trousers, when the carriage came to a shuddering stop. Flung head first into the Marquise's corsets, I was most disgruntled to be found in said position by the attentive coachman. If he thought it odd, he didn't show it, as the Marquise let out a most undignified growl from the back of her throat. I uncoupled myself, strolled from the carriage, offering my hand to the Marquise en route, and viewed our destination.

“Very impressive, Marquise.” I looked the fairytale castle up and down. “White marble?”

“If you call me Marquise once more, I shall rip out your tongue,” she hissed. “And no, it is actually polished ivory.”

“That's an awful lot of elephants to have perished for one's pleasure.”

“Always the joker! Anyway, I'm a little sick of the sight of it, in truth. I may have it remade in jade. I think that should look sufficiently different to the norm.”

“Is there such a thing?” I replied.

She just sneered and led me onto a moving stairway; a lazy entrance to a lazy life that somewhat distracted from the overall effect of the place. A barrage of servants appeared as if from nowhere, relieved the Marquise of her excess outerwear, then bade a hasty retreat.

“I see you still rule your home with an iron fist, Mar… Portia.”

“There is no other way, Jean. I work on the principle that if I treat everybody with the same lack of respect, those that deserve it will get the message, whilst those that don't will at best complain.” The accompanying fanged smirk did nothing to encourage my acknowledgement of her methods. Not that it was asked for.

“May I ask where we are headed at this time of oncoming daylight?” I enquired, with as much disinterest as I could muster.

“Why, the view of course. You didn't think I had this castle built especially for the sentimental value, did you?”

“I was under the impression your husband was the one who'd had it built.”

“He likes to think so, Jean. But, we all know men have no real ideas of their own.”

I had a sudden desire to strike Portia's head from her arrogant shoulders. The Marquise shuddered as the thought showed in the flash of my eyes. But, as her standing decreed, she soon recovered, and continued her tottering passage through the brilliant white halls of her home. I walked behind and to the right of her mostly so that I didn't have to look at her face, I was already quite bored with her, also so she was dawn side of me. I much preferred the Marquise to experience the sun first if it appeared during her showing off.

After a seemingly endless walk of which I even started to whistle to communicate my boredom, the Marquise stood before a pair of the longest, red-velvet curtains I'd ever seen. She paused, licked her lips, and then threw the drapes aside with a flourish.

The reflex to pull back from my feared doom was hard to resist, but I presumed even as big an imbecile as the Marquise would neglect to kill herself off so readily, so stood my ground. I think she was impressed to see me there, when others would, and probably had, fled.

“So?”

“So what?” I replied, not wishing to add to her delusions of grandeur.

“Is it not the most beautiful sight?” She pointed across a valley of staggering depth to something in the distance.

I stepped closer, trying to retain my nonchalant air, but couldn't help letting my inquisitive side show. There was a palace of sorts, difficult to be certain of, but something ancient and rather spectacular. Of that fact, I was sure.

“It is Shangri-La, Jean, I've had it moved here. I knew you'd appreciate its majesty.”

I shook my head in disgust, turned my back to the pompous fool, and made my way up to the bedchambers. It would be a long day before I could be rid of the woman.

2

CONFUSED

I unlocked the Marquise's elaborate coffin, a throwback to an ancient past, although necessary, stretched and then stepped out into the soothing comfort of darkness. The ornate lock was positioned on the inside cavity, a particularly clever touch, if unneeded, which prevented me locking the infuriating woman inside. Instead, I settled for stealth and closed the lid in silence. I didn't expect the Marquise to awaken anytime soon, but had no inclination to take the risk. I'd always been an early riser, or was it late, either way, I vacated her most private place.

The woman, though tedious, did possess style. The sheer gigantic nature of the coffin, easily big enough to hold a double bed with room for movement, showed she was not all idiocy, just mostly.

Like all our kind, instinct decreed when the sun had set. But, I still peeped around the heavy, velour curtains with a degree of trepidation. Evening had come.

The Marquise slept with her windows thrown open and I savoured the mountain air it was so much fresher, so less clouded by stagnation and death at such heights than at ground level. In some respects, I wished I could have remained, but I knew it should bore me after…well, straightaway.

I collected my clothes from where I'd tossed them and was about to set off in pursuit of blood when the coffin lid hinged open and the Marquise rose from her bed.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Well, despite the fact you haven't revealed the whereabouts of the Marquis, I was off in pursuit of a drink.”

“Are you so desperate for it?” she said, whilst stifling a yawn.

Her lack of modesty disgusted me, as she sauntered her overly curvy way towards me. “Yes, I haven't feasted since…” I curtailed my explanation of when I last drank. “I can't remember when, actually. Long enough though.”

“Well, I shall come too. I think I'd best keep my eye on you. I wouldn't want you to stumble into my husband. It could end badly for him and I do so enjoy his wealth.”

I turned away before she could see how I despised her, and walked off with purpose, whilst she shouted and blustered in her attempts to dress.

By the time she caught up, I had already sniffed out the plasma supply and found a rather fine crystal glass to pour it into; false blood always tasted so much better from a quality drinking utensil. The Marquise attempted to look unflustered by my attitude as she ungracefully glided into the room. The fact her skirts flapped behind her like peacock feathers in a breeze showed that in truth she had rushed. Probably afraid I would leave her to her own devices.

“I see you found it, Jean.”

“Indeed. Would you like some?” I offered her a glass which she took and attempted to drink without the blood staining her face: she failed miserably. How our ancient forbearers would have despaired if they could have seen us drinking that way.

“Shall you accompany me to the Comte de Burgundy's Halloween Ball?” The Marquise batted eyelashes piled with clots of mascara.

“I wasn't aware he was having one.”

“He's having them all week. Some sort of ongoing celebration for someone or other.”

“Doesn't he always?”

“This particular one is Halloween themed.”

“It was All Hallows' over a month ago, at least, I think it was? I lose track of time and the old celebrations.”

The Marquise leant in close, or as close as her bustle allowed, and whispered, “It's just an excuse to dress up. I'm going as a wicked witch. What shall you be going as?”

“Why, me of course!”

The return journey to the Comte's palace passed without event. I was in no mood for the Marquise's attentions. Her obstinate refusal to explain her husband's whereabouts only further annoyed.

I contented myself in watching the desolate mountains slip past the carriage windows as we descended from whatever great height we had formerly risen. The repositioning of the Marquise's home without prior consultation had been most unwelcome. It really was bad manners!

“Oh, Jean, you're such a sourpuss. What's going on in that marvellous mind of yours? Why must you always be so troubled?”

“I like to be troubled. Somebody has to make the effort.”

“That's just the point, dear boy, nobody has to make the effort.”

By reflex, I balled my fists at her whining, causing my black, leather gloves to creak in pain. If the Marquise noticed, she didn't let it show, instead, choosing to stare out of the opposite window in statuesque fashion. I didn't care, I had the better view.

After an inordinate amount of wasted time we reached the flat of the land and I, at last, looked upon my hostess. She noticed immediately.

“I knew you couldn't stay mad at me for long. You've being itching to look at my costume, haven't you?”

I looked her up and down once, then again. “I didn't realise you were wearing one.”

“Oh, ha, ha, funny man!” The Marquise pouted from behind her pointy nosed mask. “I shall be the belle of the ball. All shall bow before the magnificence of my outfit. Look, I even have a broom.”

“I thought you off to do some cleaning.”

“I haven't spent the last several thousand years not cleaning to suddenly do so.” She snorted like a pig and folded her arms across her ample bosom.

“I'd no idea you were so old?” I said, in a purposeful effort to annoy and hopefully be thrown from the carriage. Sadly, it did not work. She actually found it funny and giggled like a little girl.

“Oh, Jean, you are naughty. You know very well that everyone shall have their eyes on me. Does it make you feel special to know you are my chosen Eternal? I expect Princess Charlotte will be seething when she finds out.”

“It's Chantelle, and she shan't be bothered in the least.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Very.”

“Hmm, we'll see?”

I had an irresistible urge to explain exactly why she wouldn't, but didn't.

With a great sense of personal relief, we passed the gargoyle crowned entrance gates of the Comte's grand driveway. As with all of his kind it was unnecessarily long. A compensatory measure according to a mutual female acquaintance. By the time we reached the palace entrance, I was quite beside myself with loathing for the wicked witch of the Rhineland. So, hoping to lose her, I jumped out of the carriage before it drew to a halt. I was about to rush up the marble stairs when a ghost accosted me.

“And where do you think you're scurrying off to?”

“I was desperate for the latrine if you must know, Merryweather.” Nobody else had such a whining voice as he. Even with a large, white sheet draped over him with nothing but two eyeholes cut out of it, he was instantly recognisable.

“You're always but always in need of toiletry facilities. Do I unnerve you, Jean?”

“It would be polite of me to say no, but I'm not known for my manners, am I?”

“Touché. At last, amidst all this decadence, I have met a man of interest.”

“Stop being so melodramatic, Walter, you've known me for centuries.”

“Have I, Jean? Have I?” Merryweather made a mock bow, the sheet riding up to show his choice of red-velvet garb this evening instead of his usual green, then scooted off up the stairs as the wicked witch exited the carriage.

“Who were you talking to, Jean?”

“I'm not sure, some spectre from the past.”

The Marquise was oblivious to my answer as her eyes scanned the hordes of guests. Like a plague of multicoloured locusts the palace was infested with the undead elite.

“Come on,” she said, taking a firm hold of my proffered arm. The Marquise fairly dragged me up the staircase, whilst waving her broom to all and sundry.

We entered the palace and joined the throng of people who pushed and shoved their ways along the main corridor. Such an array of costumes and facial masks was there that I alone remained revealed to the masses.

Wondering what on earth I'd got myself into, I used my lack of disguise to reveal my exact feelings at the logjam. Reversing the Marquise's dragging hold, I growled and sneered our way through the masses until we stood before the ballroom doors. Not giving the panting witch chance to settle, a quick scowl to the guards and we were in.

I felt the Marquise's talon-like nails dig into my arm. The pressure grew through the black leather of my ankle length coat. It did not take a costume specialist to see she, and her wicked witch alter ego, had been well and truly outclassed. A veritable cornucopia of mythological, and somewhat more dubious looking creatures, paraded around the room.

“I am not a happy woman,” growled the Marquise under her breath, just as some sort of faerie glided over to us in a shimmering mirage of a dress.

“Good evening, Jean,” she breathed.

“Good evening,” I replied, without any idea as to whom I addressed.

“Good evening, Portia.”

Her words were like cherry blossom twirling in a midnight breeze, soft and exotic. The faerie bowed, her slivered eye openings the only compromise in protecting her desired anonymity.

“How did you know it was me?” spat the Marquise.

“Your accessories,” grinned the faerie emerald eyes blazing from behind her ornate mask.

The Marquise looked to her broom, and then realising her stupidity, to me. I could feel the burn from beneath her masked face. Particularly impressive it was too for a stone-cold undead.

“I think I shall mingle for a while. If neither of you object that is?”

I bowed to the Marquise as she jostled past the faerie into the milling crowd.

“Ah, I have you all to myself. Would you like some air?” the faerie inquired.

“Thank God,” I replied. “I thought I was stuck here for good.”

I sensed a smile behind the kaleidoscopic mask and allowed myself to be drawn from the petting zoo. This should have been an awkward task due to the general melee of frolicking partygoers, but the crowds backed away as though we were lepers. I put it down to being generally disliked by all bar a few of the Hierarchy that frequented such gatherings.

I'd never set out to endear myself to anybody that I didn't like and felt even less reason to do so for those I did. I was what I was, went where I went, and did what I did. But that didn't change the fact I was more than a little perturbed by just how much of a cold shoulder I was shown.

I said nothing to my mystery guide, as she breezed through the ensemble towing me in her elegant wake. She led us from the ballroom, which I noted had a new ceiling depicting pagan times, devils and all, very appropriate to the occasion, and out onto the same balcony of my former misadventure. The faerie glided over to the railings, where she stopped and stared out into the darkness. Partial darkness would have been more accurate thanks to the random bonfires that burned for no seeming purpose all around the grounds. Someone had decided on varicoloured flames, which I felt most unnecessary. The whole effect was, as usual, spectacular, and totally pointless.

My companion gazed towards the Danube for many minutes. I knew that for a certainty as I gazed at her magnificent form for equal length. She may have sensed my lascivious eye upon her, as she eventually turned and tucked her great, lace wings into her arching back. She was of quite staggeringly good stock. The moulding of the dress over her luxurious frame only enhanced her physical appeal although I wondered what lay beneath the mask more so.

“I like your costume,” I blurted.

“Why, thank you,” she said after a slight pause.

“I think you may have every chance of winning the best dressed. I've no reason to doubt there'll be one, as there always is.” I rolled my eyes with exasperation.

“I will win it,” she said, very matter-of-fact for a woman of such obvious good taste.

“You're very confident,” I replied.

“Well, I will. It's all arranged.” I felt quite the co-conspirator as she touched her mask's elongated beak.

“By whom?”

“My father.”

“The Comte!” I fairly choked. “I didn't know he had any daughters.”

She laughed out loud at this seemingly ludicrous statement and lent out into the cool night air. Her actions made me imagine a time where so beautiful a creature's breath would have danced in the chill air. However, those times had long since passed. No earthly resident had warm breath anymore and hadn't had for centuries. But one could still imagine.

I was about to say more when the house orchestra struck up the tones of Night on Bald Mountain.

“Oh, no, not Mussorgsky!” she all but yelled. Let's get out of here. And before I had chance to argue, she'd hopped over the rails and vanished down the grounds. A quick look back to the revelry, and then I followed. I'd have loved to say we went unnoticed, but a myriad pairs of eyes were well and truly upon us, or rather me.

I landed to one side of a gorse bush and noted to look first next time, then made hasty pursuit after the winsome creature. She had alighted on the riverbank and was watching the undulating waters chug past.

“You never said how the Comte had fixed your triumph?” I breezed.

“Comte! That idiot couldn't arrange his own socks onto his feet never mind my so-called costumed triumph.”

“I see, so you aren't the Comte's daughter then. May I ask who has arranged your impending victory?”

“King Rudolph, of course.”

I wasn't a man prone to irrational outbursts but the desire to scream almost overcame me. How had Chantelle survived my bite, and why was she acting so sweet after I'd manhandled her to a Danube burial? My fangs chattered against my lower teeth. For once in my life, I had no idea what to do or say.

“Hello, one and all,” came the last voice I wished to hear.

“Hello back,” returned the faerie. She was coolness personified for someone who I'd not long since tried to dispose of.

“Merryweather,” I grumbled. “What do you want?”

“Well, I was thinking of haunting you both but decided it was too tedious. It's easier to just chat.” With a flourish, the ghost drifted past a line of imitation rhododendron bushes and removed its sheet covering to reveal the blond haired idiot that was Sir Walter Merryweather. “Good God, Jean, you look like you've seen a ghost!”

I remained impassive as Merryweather struck up an immediate accord with the figure he simply called his darling faerie. Simmering to one side, I fought back the urge to kill, once and for all, the pair of them. Particularly Merryweather though, I would hasten to add.

I was saved by the strains of Stravinsky's Firebird, an apparent favourite of the Britannian's. The dandy made an immediate excuse, reapplied his masterful disguise by tossing the sheet back over his head, and left us as we were.

“Did I sense hostility between yourself and dear old Walter?”

“I'd rather not comment,” I snarled.

“Why?”

“On account of doing something others would regret.”

“Do you do such things often?” The faerie advanced in mock, creeping fashion.

“Only when the need arises. I really don't know what you see in him though.”

“I don't see anything, you silly boy.”

I was a little nonplussed at being called a boy. That was one thing I hadn't been for half a millennium.

“Walter has my father's ear, that's all. It never does to get on his wrong side. Walter has a way of making things occur if you do not play along with him, or so I'm told.”

I marvelled at how the woman could talk as though nothing had happened. Eternals do not feel bitterness in the same way as humans used to on account of the lack of soul, but even so, I had almost killed her.

I concluded that I should just come out and apologise for the previous evening, when a shout of, “Linka!” from the distant balcony drew both our attentions.

“Ah, so much for the mystery of the mask,” said the faerie. “I am beckoned by he who must be obeyed.” She made a false noose action and pretended to hang herself.

The action was quite lost on me as I was in a tailspin towards insanity. I had even less idea who I was talking to now that I knew the woman's name than I did before I thought her Chantelle.

The faerie now known as Linka put her right hand against my cheek and slowly withdrew her mask with her left. I was awestruck. She was easily the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and certainly not in full womanhood. Her emerald eyes shone with youthful exuberance. She appeared untainted by man even though an obvious draw. A perfect specimen, ethereal, a wisp of rose petals in the eye of a hurricane; I was beguiled. Her touch, soft and gentle, almost melted the rock that was my heart.

“I have to go now, Jean. Will you come, too? I should love to have you as my escort for the evening. Plus, if there's a secondary competition for most raven-like companion, I might win twice.”

“I would love to,” I stammered, despite her mockery. “But, Linka, if that is your name, I thought I knew everybody left in this sick world, all those of importance anyway. But, my dear, I do not know you. I beg of thee, who are you?”

The girl leaned in close, put her lips to my ear and whispered, “I am Linka, King Rudolph's youngest daughter, sister of Chantelle and the hidden gem of The New Europa Alliance, or so my father says. Does that clear things up for you?” She then kissed my lifeless cheek, turned, and glided away between the flickering light of the bonfires. The scent of spring went with her and left me desolate and alone.

I thought she giggled as she made her way back to the masquerade ball, but it might as easily have been Chantelle sniggering from beneath the Danube that unctuous river of blood.

3

SURPRISED

Linka swept into the ballroom like a breath of fresh air, whilst I lingered on the balcony a dark pollutant. The masked guests parted before her, which allayed my earlier paranoia, until she came to a halt in the middle of the arena. There she swivelled in the fashion of a spinning top and presented her arm. The masked ensemble all looked my way.

I'd never been one for undue attention, so that corridor of guests caused a degree of trepidation, but only a degree. I took one large gulp of night air, removed my coat, folded it over the balcony rail, and then strode into the ballroom. Head held back, black, silk shirt billowing about my arms, I stood out amidst the glamour like a brooding shadow. My silver cross, the one keepsake from before my parents' deaths, slapped against the bare skin of my chest. It was a deliberate act of rebellion against those who so abhorred the symbol even if I didn't fully appreciate why. Reflecting the candlelight like a star the necklace provided a sense of empowerment over the masses as they gasped and groaned. What could they say? What could they do? Nothing. After all, I was about to dance with a princess for the second time in twenty-four hours.

“My lady,” I said on approach and bowed to my hostess.

“Monsieur,” said she, mimicking her sister's French accent.

Mimicking was the correct description, as all those of good breeding knew, people only spoke French to appear sophisticated, which by doing so proved they weren't, or indeed that they were French, which was just unfortunate.

Linka was like her sister, yet not, as removed as a puddle from the sea. She had the same cut of chin and raven hair, but possessed none of Chantelle's posturing. But it was her eyes, those emerald orbs that burned so fiercely from behind her mask that set her apart. Linka carried more allure in an emerald glance than Chantelle had in a year of amethyst staring. How I'd not noticed, put two and two together, was quite unlike me, almost unheard of. I prided myself on observational detachment; it gave me something to do. Linka oozed a confidence that came from class, not effort. She was stunning, and I, besotted.

How she knew the waltzes were restarting, I had no idea, but we moved straight into one, gliding together as though on ice. I was the artist and she my muse. Two minds moved as one body. And, for a while, I almost smiled. Almost.

The night passed in whirls of dappled light, waves of music, and a plethora of leering masks. It soon became obvious that although I had, and in truth, still did not know Linka, the ensemble did. Men envied and women seethed. I cared for neither. I only had eyes for my dancing, faerie mirage. The girl got me so hot under the collar, figuratively speaking, that I thought I may sweat for the first time ever and wondered what it would feel like? But it never happened.

It was whilst contemplating such strange thoughts that I noticed some of the boxes around the upper tiers of the ballroom to be occupied. The artificial candles, toned from saffron to deep amber amongst the revellers, reacted to the lofty occupant's moods in crimson halos and blooded skins. One grand stall contained the corpulent and unmistakable figure of King Rudolph himself. His one elongated fang protruded over his lower lip like an ill-bred dog, which ironically he was. He seemed to be in the select company of the Hierarchy's top brass: Lord Worthington of Britannia; Duke Gorgon of the Baltics; Crown Prince Vladivar of the Red Alliance, to name but a few of the more recognisable. The usual harem of clingers-on accompanied them, most just minor duchesses. And, with unequivocal certainty, every single one of them stared at the pair of us. On instinct, I winked a reply, then wished I hadn't, as Vladivar reddened beyond the lighting and Rudolph looked fit to explode.

“Do I bore you, Jean?” Linka asked, dragging my attention back from those above.

“Good grief, no! I was drawn to the heavens, so to speak, and their occupants. I think I am being murdered by glaring.”

“Oh, ignore them. They'll go away after a while.”

“One of them is your father, my dear.”

“Well, he probably has more reason to stare than the others.”

“I suppose so. You must be of particular importance for him to have stashed you away for so long,” I ventured.

“Not really, I just know things he doesn't wish others to.”

“Ooh, I'm intrigued.”

“You can stay intrigued,” she beamed. “Oh, and there is the little matter of my sister's whereabouts. You were the last person to be seen with her after all.”

“Was I?”

“I think you know you were, Jean. I think you know exactly where she is, but would never tell.”

“I would never talk behind a lady's back.”

“She's no lady,” Linka fairly growled. “I hate her.”

“Linka, my dear, she was still your sister whatever your differences.”

“Was?”

“Is, you know what I meant. Anyway,” I said, trying to change the focus of our conversation, “Why has your father not asked me about Chantelle if that is what he believes?”

“Merryweather,” she breezed.

“Pardon?”

“Merryweather spoke up for you. He said you'd been with him almost all night, so Chantelle must have disappeared on some dalliance. It certainly wouldn't be the first time,” she added. “She's been gone for days before. No matter how father punishes her she only seems to rebel further and strike up partnerships with the most undesirable princes and the like.”

“And, me,” I added.

“Oh, definitely you.”

“And, now you have.”

“Indeed.”

“What do you intend to do about it now you're as naughty as your sister, if not more so?”

“Well,” she said, as she leaned into me. “Between you and me, Jean, I think it's bedtime.”

“That's very forward of you, Linka but I'm really not that sort of man,” my coy reply.

Linka threw her head back and laughed. She laughed as though the world might end, then laughed some more. Her sheer delight tinkled through the chamber like a flautist in a morgue. Once her hysterics had stopped, she gestured a nod over my shoulder. At that, I realised us alone, the last couple in the auditorium and that the horizon was in the first hues of lightening.

“Bedtime,” she said again.

“Bedtime,” I agreed, with a wide-eyed nod.

Linka led us from the dance-floor. But, realising something missing, I broke free and dashed outside for my jacket. I did so adore my ravenesque outerwear. It was gone? That was irksome to say the least, but there was no time to worry about it. I raced back just as Linka dipped below a small side door to the expansive ballroom. Through this she pulled me into a reassuringly dark passageway. We could, of course, both see perfectly well being children of the night, but I found the lack of light somewhat comforting. It was certainly far more appealing than the prospect of being frazzled on the spot.

We made our way along the bricked walkway, silent but for the clopping of our footsteps, until we started to descend. The passage angled downwards at a steep gradient, not enough to cause a slip, but enough to suggest you might. Curiosity then got the better of me and I broke the echoing of our passing with the most childish of questions.

“Where are we going?”

The girl said nothing, just shushed me with a finger to her masked lips. So, I continued behind her like a good little boy, frustrated at not being in control, but glad I'd lost it to such a beautiful creature. Eventually we emerged into an enormous area, again in complete darkness. In fact, I had my suspicions the place had never seen light in its lifetime. There was also an infuriating smell of mould and mildew. Unable to stomach it, I brought forth my red, silk handkerchief and put it to my face, then remembering my manners offered it to Linka. She shook her head, retook my hand, and led on.

It didn't take long to realise the true scale and enormity of the place I found myself in. It was some sort of cavernous space of gargantuan proportions. Linka obviously knew it well, but I didn't, and was a little perturbed at knowing nothing of its existence. The habit of not knowing things was not one I wished to acquire. I prided myself on knowing everything in life. Doing so gave me a real insight into ridiculing it. Surprises left me working off the cuff, and I liked to be prepared.

“We are here,” whispered Linka.

“We are where?” I said with a hint of anger.

“Here,” she indicated with her hands. “Look closer, Jean.”

I did just that, then rubbed my eyes in comedic fashion. Every lumpy outcrop of which I'd presumed rock was in fact the rounded end of thousands upon thousands of sarcophagi.

“Bedtime,” she said, and smiled.

I had a smile of my own, but for a different reason to she. I wasn't sure that sleep would've been on my agenda? Hence the disappointment when she tapped on the rump of one outcrop and said, “This is yours.” She then moved off with a coy smile and a wave leaving me alone and frustrated in the pitch-black. I was unused to being unused. It was most disconcerting! Maybe I'd lost my allure? I scowled, opened the sarcophagus lid to a mouthful of dust and clambered in. The lid closed without a creak.

Only when I'd made myself comfortable and felt the first strains of sleep tug at my eyes did I wonder what on earth I was doing there?

I found it hard to focus. My sleep had been suspiciously by its depth and I did not appreciate the hand that writhed at my shoulder.

“Do you mind!” I growled. “Get your hands off me.”

“It's me, you idiot. Keep your voice down or you're done for.”

“Merryweather!” I exclaimed.

“Shut your trap,” he hissed, shaking his head in mock despair.

“What's going on?”

“Shh! Just follow me and keep quiet.” Merryweather half coaxed, half dragged me from my bed, and then set off at a gallop through the cavern pulling me along behind him. Much as I wanted to rip his head off, I allowed myself to be manhandled until I was fully awake and then able to take up a loping position at his side.

“What the hell's going on, Merryweather?” I implored in hushed tones. He just shook his head and kept on running. In truth, I was amazed he could run at all. I was so used to his effete antics that it seemed almost unbelievable. But his fleeing form and paler than pale look indicated more than just urgency. At least our footsteps had awoken no other of the room's occupants, which I presumed were many. Then, before I knew it, we were out of the cavern and running pell-mell down another passageway. On and on we ran until I sensed the faintest trace of light up ahead and stopped dead.

“What are you doing, Merryweather?”

“Saving your arse, that's what.”

“Having me crisp baked, more like. That's daylight ahead!”

“That's dusk ahead, and a long way ahead at that. Stop being such a baby.”

Being called a baby by the world's biggest fop was just the shock I required. I grabbed Merryweather by the scruff off his pristine lemon shirt and shoved him hard against the passageway's rough wall.

“I am not accustomed to being led, Walter. Where are we going and why?” The feral look in my eye drew a tear from my blond haired guide, then the proverbial flood gates opened. “Good God, man, have some dignity won't you.” He went limp in my hands and slowly slid down the brickwork. “What the hell is it, Walter?”

He looked up with doleful eyes and whispered.

“What? Speak up!” I cried, releasing him and balling my fists.

“I said, she's dead.”

“Who's dead?”

“Chantelle.”

His saying her name hit me like a stake through the heart.

“What?” I shook Merryweather so hard that his head bounced around as though attached to his body by a spring.

“She's dead,” he whimpered.

“I got that part, but you're not making any sense. Why are we running away?”

“Not we, you. They know it was you, Jean. Everybody knows it was you.” Merryweather looked up with hound-dog eyes and I saw a first glimpse of inner decency.

“Why would you risk all to tell me this, Walter?” I allowed my voice to soften and helped him to his feet.

“I loved her. I've always loved her. I may have hated her dalliances with you, but I know she would not want your blood on her hands. That's why I've saved you from those who will soon rise.”

My mind whirled at a million miles an hour, but I'd only one question to ask. “How?”

“Her corpse, what was left of it, washed up downriver. You were the one last seen with her, Jean. Damn you, half the courtesans of Europa saw you, and greater powers besides. I told them it could not be true as you were with me, but they would not have it. Fortunately, I'd seen you descend into the catacombs with Princess Linka. I followed later when I knew what was going to happen. It took a long while and a great deal of stealth to find where you rested. Once I did, the rest as they say is history.”

“Thank you, Walter,” was all I could offer.

“They will have your head on a pike, Jean. You must leave. This passage leads to a secret door far beyond the palace grounds. You must go and quickly. I cannot come further as I tire even now. I have not slept and you know that the dead must rest.”

Merryweather offered his hand, which I took and shook. There was no point in goodbyes. I hated them anyway. So, I turned and ran. I ran faster than I'd ever had call to in all my non-life. Swifter than a hawk, I closed upon the dimming light. By the time I reached the rock slab that made for a barely passable doorway it was darkest night. Good, just how I liked it. With a fair degree of effort, I managed to move the rock enough to squeeze through the gap then had the presence of mind to shove it back into place.

The cool, crisp, night air washed over me with cleansing relief. The fustiness of the passages had been most unhealthy and had left a sheen of grey dust upon my best black, silk shirt. I beat at myself, then cursed for making a noise, then cursed at having cursed. I looked about but there was nothing except trees. It appeared I had emerged into an inclined forest. Using reverse psychology, I moved up the slope at pace, rather than down, for who would think a hunted man would trap himself upon a peak. I wasn't sure if that was how such thinking actually worked, or indeed if it was a good plan, but having already set off at a gallop, decided it best to continue.

Time passed swiftly as I effortlessly sped upwards. Until, that was, I came to a cliff face. With no other option but to return whence I came, I started to climb. My taloned fingernails proved most effective in aiding this, but by the time I reached the greatest height and had chance to pause I was very annoyed to find I had broken at least one of them. I spun a full three hundred and sixty degrees: rock, rock, rock, distant palace and Danube: very distant. The undulating river snaked around the palace like an anaconda as the turrets of the place sparkled in the star-shine. And that's when it hit: I was a fugitive, a killer and coatless. It was all very annoying, especially the latter.

4

BLACKMAIL

One plus to being a fugitive was the solitude, no dandy idiots flouncing about the place, no effete quips to grate on the palette. However, the realisation I might never return to high society was a bitter pill to swallow. I could live without women, I hoped, even more so for my fellow man, but no longer having anyone to moan about was hard to accept. Then there was Linka, the girl of my dreams. Once met, never forgotten, even the thought of her stirred my soul, or it would have if I'd had one.

A uniquely altered part of the world, the amalgamated Himalayan plateau and Rhineland's Alps combined both rugged individualism with spectacular size and it worked. I liked it although I ventured the gale blowing across the massif to be a future annoyance. A north wind whipped across mountains silhouetted by dusk in wisps of propelled snow. I tugged up my shirt collar and awaited the inevitable.

Wicked gusts slapped at my shirtsleeves. Like a scarecrow caught in a storm, my arms whirled me around in circles. It grew so bad that in the end I just rolled them up. That led to a complimentary coating of ice. I tapped at my arm to the chinking of cracked mirrors and the revealing of pale skin beneath. It was all most disconcerting.

But what would have proven certain death to the living, or so I imagined, was no more than a hindrance to me. My dead body was beyond chilling, beyond freezing and way beyond being abused by such paltry, elemental fare. However, it was not beyond sunlight. That little nugget required some lateral thinking. I could not go back, that was clear, but neither did I know where forward would lead. The powers that be altered the landscape with such regularity that if I proceeded across the mountaintops en route for Old Hungaria, I would as likely end up in the Orient. Bereft of choices, I mulled my fate.

I took one last look back to the scene of my shame, the Comte's palace still dozing, then set off across the jagged peaks.

I walked through the tiring dusk and into a more peaceful darkness. The obsidian night refuelled my waning fires, and I pressed on regardless of the inclement weather. It was quite something to have the world to myself and I revelled in it. Being so close to the sky was peaceful in a way and I had little to complain about. But, as time dragged on the inevitably of an approaching day played on my conscience.

If King Rudolph and his colleagues followed, I suspected I would have sensed it, and I sensed nothing. I expected they chased their tales in aimless circles, as always, scouring the palace for my sheltering form. At some point they would realise me gone but not until they'd wasted hours in the searching. I hoped my departure would have no comeback on Merryweather. Even if his aid was unexpected it was, nonetheless, appreciated. The poor chap really had looked heartbroken at Chantelle's passing. I just wished I'd had the foresight to quiz him on how and where she was found. I'd an inkling she wouldn't have looked as glamorous as when last I'd seen her.

A permanent death was probably the best thing that could have happened to Princess Chantelle. The planet was in the unquestionable last throes of life, not that anyone ever discussed it, and if she could have chosen a way to go, blown to smithereens, or lover's bite, I expect the bite might have been the favoured option. Or maybe that was vanity speaking. After all, biting was something an Eternal should not have even contemplated let alone partaken of. I stopped in my tracks, balanced on a precarious rock that overhung a vast chasm, and scratched at my chin. Was I being vain? No, I thought not.