The Serene

Blood Memoir: The Serene
by Matthew Barnett



The tranquil, ivory complexion of Adeline, the smaller of the two Nexian moons, peered shyly at a grassy field that was host to a cornucopia of delicate, strange flowers. It had risen at the same moment it always had, right at midnight, when the first moon, Talle’han, had come to rest in the south. In the center of that lush meadow, in a small area where the grass was slick and flattened to the earth, was a nest for stargazing.

“I don’t suppose you know what time it is?”

“Honey, does it matter? The child isn’t even born yet, there’s no need to fuss about when it gets to bed.” Two sets of pale hands embraced each other; every finger sliding into a space perfectly, like a simple child’s puzzle. Lips were also met in the silence, with no observers but the celestial bodies. If anyone cared, they might have thought it ironic. A feminine laugh escaped the more slender of the two.

“I suppose you’re right, Maximilian.” As she drew back her lips, her fangs were pearly in the lunar glow. The long incisors were swiftly hidden once more as she kissed Maximilian’s cheek. He smiled in return. A finger traced the warm swell of the expecting mother’s stomach.

“Cassie…I had never thought about having, you know…a kid until we made love that first time, in this very same spot.”

“I remember,” she crooned, running a hand down his pallid features. And she did remember. It had been one of the most exhilarating things she had ever done, and didn’t regret a second of it. Gods knew, she deserved a little wild time. It nearly drove her insane to be as reserved as she had trained herself to be in town, where that revolting scientist’s abominations pranced around as though they owned the place. They practically did, actually. Nediryo’s scaly hordes were rumored to amount up to at least three armies, and they all nested at the rear of the Panterran woodland, a forest so vast and thick it seemed from above a green field, a sight gained only by dragonback. The woodland was located a few kilometers north of the small village of Veldt, where these two careless souls spent most of their time, sleeping and eating at the town inn, or making money by playing cards with brash travelers that passed through.

One particular detail was soon to change. It was near Cassandra’s birthday, and Max had quite a surprise in store for her. For months he had been going on long treks in the Panterran, lopping down trees and slicing them into lumber. He had purchased nails from a travelling merchant, and enlisted a few others to help him. The domicile was near completion, and by tomorrow, Max would be showing her their new home.

An ideal current of cool air breathed past the lying figures, and they closed their eyes in delight. This was one of the finest nights the couple had ever had the pleasure to witness, and the day hadn’t been bad, either. There had been a cocky, inept gambler in The Lily today, and he had practically tossed his gold pieces at Maximilian. In celebration, two sweet-smelling mugs of rattler blood were placed alluringly at their usual table. Typically, Max would have his mixed with alcohol, but if Cassandra couldn’t have any for the sake of the unborn, he wouldn’t have it to hold an extra pleasure over his lover’s head.

Brushing a strand of black hair from his visage, the nosferatu arose into a sitting position, and patted the coarse grass, alerting Cassandra before she fell further into unprotected sleep. He wouldn’t have it for them both to die like fools by being deceived by nature’s savage seduction.

Who knew what could be prowling the dark, that very moment?

Using Max’s firm hand, Cassandra pulled herself to her feet, and picked a blade of grass from the convoluted design of her regally styled dress. It reminded Max of the Victorian clothing that nobility once wore where he came from, and it was under quite a bit of stretch, seeing as Cassie had no maternal gown to replace it with. As for Max, he was wearing the clothes he had been able to purchase with a meager bit of gold he had been saving from selling animal hides to Veldt’s sole shopkeeper. The fabric the tunic was made of was cheap, and also poor was the quality of the job done to sew it together. The two weren’t making much in terms of finances, but they seemed as merry as a couple of aristocrats.

On the walk back to the Inn, Maximilian spotted a glimmering coin in the dusty path, and slid it into his pocket. Cassandra smiled as he kneeled to collect the currency, and thanked the gods for small blessings. They would be able to afford three entire meals tomorrow.

OoC: Okay, that's the opening. I'm allowing comments in between posts, so feel free to comment, give constructive criticism, etc. ^^

Man... I'm at a loss of where you get your constant inspiration. Once more, an exceptional piece, and, of course, a further insight to Maximilian and his past. I couldn't really find anything wrong with it, all I can say is I'll be keeping a lookout for this fic.

Thanks, Andúrhil. I appreciate your comments, man. Don't hesitate to criticize me, because I'm trying to improve even further in my writing ability, so I can become more well-known and familiar to the other, normal BAers. ^^

Also, for anyone that doesn't know, this is a major prequel to Reminiscences.

Oh, man. I love it! ^^ Once again, I can totally connect with this. It all flows really well, and it keeps me engaged and interested. Wonderful piece of work, this is. You'd better finish this, or I swear I'll wring your neck. *innocent look* Oh, yeah, I also can't make any promises that Mari won't find out about this. She might just infiltrate my memories any second... *looks around nervously*

Blood Memoir: The Serene
By Matthew Barnett



Part II
The Serene: Old Threads

Maximilian and Cassandra arrived at The Lily’s blue-tinted, wooden door about two hours before dawn. The walk from the gazing field was tedious, listless and dull. After stepping up the surprisingly clean porch of the building, the tunic-clad vampire raised a finger to the locked door, and with a click, it revealed the cozy sanctum within.

The tavern, which was situated on the first floor, was accessible by walking on the cobblestones through the doorway on the immediate right. However, that was definitely not the aim of the two undead arriving so late at night. They took the stairs, which were straight ahead, up to a long, narrow hallway lined with two doors on each side. Their room was the last one on the left.

Max once again did the honor of willing open the door, letting Cassandra pass into their current home with all of her typical grace. As she passed through the doorframe, her hand clutched her husband’s, and guided him inside. Her long white hair, very unusual for a youthful looking vampire, swayed gently as she easily found the bed. The room was always dark, as every window was masked with thick black cloth, to absorb and thus keep out the horrid sunlight that oppresses all vampires.

When Max had accomplished the feat of undoing every strap of his tightly adhering boots while at the same time anxious for sleep, and his tunic was also removed to nakedly reveal his sinewy, yet slim physique, he climbed onto the slightly coarse mattress and wrapped his arms around the contrastingly yielding flesh of his wife’s raw form.

As the hours passed and night was born again, Maximilian gently twisted his body upright and allowed his bare feet to rest upon the cold wooden floor. Making not a sound, he almost tip-toed his way to the large wardrobe that kept only two things; the little purse which held all of their gold, that Cassandra had opened no more than last night, and a black sack. After willing the wooden panel that served as the door to swing out of the way, he grabbed the sack, and pulled the knot in the thin rope tied snugly to it, allowing it to fall to the shadowed floor in a slight tangle.

It’s been a long time…

--------------------------------------


“I don’t mean to be rude, Sir Cran…Cron--“

“Cronqvist.”

“--Sorry.” A balding man in a nice suit wipes at his brow fervently with a napkin, his watery eyes obviously anxious about something. A figure sits at a desk, somehow calculating, menacing, and yet casual all at the same time.

“It’s a common mistake. Think nothing of it. Now, what were you about to say?” The man with receding hair winced, and tucked his napkin into his left pocket.

“Yes…Sir, I was going to tell you, that, well, your last shipment of coke was seized, and I think it was because the c-current smuggling method is poor.”

“You think so?”

“Yuh-yes, sir.”

“Hmm…and what would your proposition be?”

“I think a—“ The door to the office swayed swiftly open, slamming loudly against the wall. A bullet tore through the back of the balding man’s head, passed through his forehead, and continued on a path with the man at the desk. A silence ran thick like the blood dripping from the chubby, shocked visage on the slumped form of Mr. Owen Fairfield.

The man at the desk was slightly alarmed, and pulled his lips back to reveal the bullet clenched between long incisors. Indifferently, he spat it out, and stared at the gunman in the doorway.

“Solomon, do you mind telling me why you killed our employee?” He appeared calm, but Max felt a small pang everytime he saw a human slain for no apparent reason.

“He’s a mole. He’s wired, check him if you want. He was the one that notified the police about the last shipment, and he came here to organize a bust that would have us both on the run.” Striding over to the lifeless body in the chair, Vice President Delgado of Immortal Eye put a finger to the back of the corpse’s head, before licking it clean.

“Eh…horrible. Tastes like buckshot.” Solomon, obviously a vampire as well, had auburn hair that came down wavily on his head, and wore a white suit. Far older than Max, he had a tendency to be cold and indifferent towards the lives of humans. Maximilian had always been taught to treat them with at least a bit of respect, and that lesson that stuck with him far after he had left the house of his father.

With an almost tangible irritation, Max reached over to a panel of buttons on his desk, positioned on his desk beside a silver speakerbox. He pressed the black one. Five minutes later, an employee in a white uniform entered the room, unbuttoned the man's shirt, ripped off the wire, ripped it apart, and rolled the swivel-chair containing the mole’s carcass out of the sight of the company’s heads.

"I tire of this...particular drug game. Risks are risks, and the profits are decent, but with the government all over it, I say we blaze a little trail of our own."

"Like it or not, Solomon, the vast majority of revenue comes from said drugs. Fifty-three percent, if I'm not mistaken. The rest is petty thieving, dealing illegal arms, hired assassinations, stocks in other companies, like Dime's Haven. I'm not willing to give it up so easily."

With one gloved hand, Sol tossed a large envelope onto the center of the gleaming mahogany before him. With one raised brow, Max tore the manila paper down on one side, and slid the contents onto the table. Several large photographs, glossy and fresh, piqued his curiosity.

"Mave-Rx? A pharmaceutical company?" He inspected the next image, and it still left him with just as many questions. "Just what is on your mind, Solomon?"

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it? You see, Max, as we both know, vampires are far from invincible. Sunlight, silver, crucifixes, you name it. But...if we could distribute a drug to our brethren that would eliminate such ridiculous weaknesses, or at least make them think they're immune, we could make quite a hefty sum. Do you have any clue how many vampires exist today? Do you? And how vulnerable that makes them to humans, all paranormal abilities aside? They need insurance. Our species is incredibly paranoid these days."

"I'll keep this in mind. Send a detailed prompt file on the entire issue to Thompkins, if you're so inclined to get the project underway." The vampire's elbow purposefully nudged his PC's mouse, and he glanced at the screen. "Hmm...almost dawn. I suppose I am a little tired. Goodnight, Solomon."

"Sleep well, Maximilian. I won't be occupying my bedroom tonight, thanks to some research I need for that report, so if you get scared of the monsters under your bed, you'll have to be a big boy and tough it alone." And with that, and an effortless wave, the Vice President was gone.

"Monsters..." A smile danced around the corner of his lips, while slowly, his thoughts jumped to that green, draconic statue he bought in honor of his second century in existence. It was so realistic it almost gave him shivers. On some level, he knew something was strange about his reaction to it, but he didn't let that get to him, due to a strange sentiment: it reminded him of home. The regal, yet cozily grim design of the house of Serghei, in a Romanian forest no longer visited by intelligent men. Too many had gone missing, too many search parties had come back empty-handed. Max had always been taught that his home was unique. The manor was inherited by Adrian Serghei in the 1800s, when his father died by the blades of the Godhanders, famous vampire slayers. This was quite a shock, considering Max's grandfather was one of the most feared among all of the Vampire royalty. At first, Adrian believed none of it, but eventually came to terms with his father's death. When the castle and the land were rightfully his, he took a wife soon after. A vampiress named Callisto.

The statue of the serpentine beast stared at Maximilian with frozen fierceness. Unexhaustibly entertained, he stared back. He was in his bedroom now, the largest in the entire building. Immortal Eye's finest, only for the most vital member, the founding father. The walls were a glossy black, and the dark carpet furry and agreeable. Oddly, all that seemed to catch Max's eye, among all that wealth, was the lizard-like figurine. It seemed to have nearly every reptilian characteristic. So realistic, and yet so fake. No such being existed, but somehow, this object made the lie believable, perched on the nightstand beside his king-sized bed. "Lively, aren't you?"

In place of its eyes were two stunning emeralds. The craftsmanship was without compare. Maximilian's eyes got lost in the pure beauty of each and every individual scale. Taking it into his hands for another look, he payed no attention to the hotel rooftop slightly lower to the ground, but nontheless visible through his window. A figure was setting up a rifle, attaching the scope and other necessary tools of professional execution. Vulnerable when he would otherwise be formidable, it was almost like Max was volunteering to die. Just as he began to notice the glorious effort put into the fangs, a shot guided by a stand, a careful aim, and a thermal scope tore through Max's shoulder. Clenching his teeth, he went so far as to gasp as the statue fell out of his grip, and when he kneeled to catch it with his other hand, a searing numbness entered his palm, and he watched with bitterness as the statue struck the floor. With a noise rivalling the sound of a grenade, the stone creature shattered.


"Guess VAMPIRES can't dodge every bullet, eh?" The muffled voice of a man named Norris Henge delighted in the slight buck of his weapon, the object of power that smote men like a thunderbolt would serve Zeus. He felt invincible. He had received the hint of a possible job for an anonymous client(oh, the government is so clever)to terminate the President of Immortal Eye three months ago. According to what he was told, government agents had tried to bust a drug deal in California. They failed. And what was said by a surviving agent, who had escaped, made the situation even more intriguing.Apparently, one of the men came unarmed, wearing an expensive suit. Every shot fired missed target. The agent who made the shots was dead at least five minutes later. However, it didn't stop there. According to the remaining agent of three, the man in the suit seemed to blur forward, and he was before the fallen agent in less than a second. And he began to bite said agent's neck. Agent two became frightened. He ran off. Agent three chose to continue duties, and what happened from there is not confirmed. However, any trace of currency was gone the next day, and so were any sign of illegal substances. The place was clean. So, they tried to set up a different bust, by getting some poor bloke to play them two-face. This was planned a month ago. Plan B, in case the mole was discovered soon after being wired, was quite more direct; kill the company head as a warning. These guys were professionals, anonymous figured that by how long they've been evading arrest. The company started in America, as far as the records say, and that's why they just didn't leave it to the Japanese. So, plan B it became, and Henge was alerted by headset from his sniping point that it was time. Owen Fairfield, a man with three children and who ate far too much was no more, all thanks to Americans and their need to get into international affairs.

In a way, Norris himself was also a puppet to the government; after all, he was doing work for them. Unfortunately for them, he had more of an allegiance to currency than any country. Used to be, the only work he'd do was for England, but work there was incredibly slow. It wasn't worth being patriotic. He made himself known to the dirty dogs of the U.S., the ones that will do anything to bring "justice," including hiring others to break their own laws.

"Elimination not confirmed. I repeat, elimination not confirmed. Target has moved out of sight. Confirming neutralization..." Reaching down to grasp the steel handles of some gun-like tools that were holstered in dual pouches on his pantslegs, the mercenary came to his feet. With perfect precision he fired upwards, and the grappling hooks spiraled up, tearing into the concrete several feet above the damaged window. Releasing his hold on the triggers, he was propelled jerkily, to the point where he almost lost his grip. Good thing he had remembered to take the steroids. This technology was efficient, but hardly worth the risk. Within moments, he was dangling before the reinforced glass, the ghosts of his two bullets perfect piercings on it's smooth surface. Cautiously, he put his feet down on the thin bit of concrete "shelf" that jutted convieniently out for him, and he retracted his grappling hooks and stored the guns with the air of an expert. After this, he drew out another interesting item, this one a black box with a suction cup on one end. After sticking it to the tinted glass, he hit a small button on the device, and gave a rather imperative statment.

"System command. Enable sonic fragmentation level detection, and execute." The device began to whirr, and after finding the frequency required to shatter the glass, he hit the button one more time, and it fufilled it's purpose rather nicely.

"Anyone home?"

Norris Henge, mercenary, anarchist, protestant, and bachelor, had his very last job that night, and in a way, he suceeded. Maximilian Cronqvist had been erased from this world. It is doubtful that Henge's soul found any respite in that. He never received his payment. What he had come upon in that room was more than damaging to a typical human. To a mind which has established the so-called laws of reality, it was terrifying. A heart attack, well due, considering his clogged arteries, struck him first, but what killed him was his mad leap from the window in attempt to escape. Escape from everything. His eyes were victim to a closing hole in the world he had always seen as the only one. At the same time, he had gazed into another world, one that was a fantastic dream. He wanted nothing more than to escape from this dying world into that vibrant other, but he knew that the only way to get there was already too small for him to pass through. He watched the hole dissipate into thin air, shortly before casting himself from the window, mistaking his own chestpain as a physical yearning for the world he would never be a part of.

-----

At first, the statue had expelled smoke upon being broken, as if some ferocious djinn from within was free at last. Then everything turned inside out, and Max was drifting through what felt to be stream of neverending oddity. Not even his eyes told him what he was seeing, nor was he sure he even possessed his sight anymore. Uncertainty filled his heart. Secluded and stolen from Earth, he was alone. Before the feeling of loneliness could begin to creep in on him, something new came crashing, all around. A flood, the tumultous sound of it suddenly rushed through him, as though he were somehow intangible. Without warning, he became manifest, and so did the flood; the current of the water was incredibly powerful, and it didn't make it easy for him to free himself from it. He was inexplicably exhausted. Once he had finally pulled himself ashore, his lids grew heavy, and a strange sort of sleep smothered his thoughts into a deep, dreamless lull.

---

Heh...my old threads...my old life. Satisfied that they were still in decent condition (aside from the bullet hole in the shoulder) and not moth-eaten, he returned his clothing to the sack, and the sack to the wardrobe, before returning to the bed still cradling the sensual, gorgeous shape of his wife, and first true love.

*applauds* Wonderful, wonderful work as always, dear. I always love getting more of a glimpse into Max's past, and I can't wait for more. ^^