An Apprentice's Travel Diary

Czere Ubireg -M- Melbourne -M- Ostanes

Quote

Shall we begin like David Copperfield? 'I am born...I grew up.' Or shall we begin when I was born to darkness, as I call it? That's really where we should start, don't you think?... -- Interview with the Vampire (1976)

The Prelude Arcana

Given the quote from above, clearly I won't be elaborating upon my mortal past. And why should I? I was a mundane enough specimen of humanity, and trust me, you should take my word for that. So where will my story begin? I think we can both agree that Louis de Pointe du Lac was right and that I should begin the narrative with my introduction to darkness. The year was 2012 and I was 43 years old. I awoke a few minutes past midnight on December 22nd in a snow bound alley close to downtown Denver.

...

My first conscious thought was: "it must be Capital Hill, because it smells like alcohol and piss and something undefinable like despair and or desperation..." My clothes were soaked through and I was chilled to the bone. Having grown up in Colorado, I knew the danger inherent in hypothermia and got to my feet. I felt groggy and disoriented with no recollection of how I might have come to be in this particular alley. Despite the dim lighting and my fuzziness of mind, I recognized the building as the Scottish Rite Temple. I have no idea how many times I walked past the place and never once walked inside, but its a memorable building.

The alley lay on the east side of the building and had once separated a particularly dingy apartment building from the temple. To my surprise, the nasty old apartment building was simply gone, in its place was a mostly empty, snow covered parking lot. There were signs of bums having recently been here, empty bottles of cheap malt liquor or bottles of inexpensive hair-spray for the truly desperate wino, broken light-bulbs and blackened copper scrub-pads for the crack addicted, single occupancy housing units otherwise known as cardboard boxes serving as the sleeping place of Denver's lowest caste.

I stumbled out of the alley towards 14th. The traffic was heavy for this time of night as I turned towards downtown. A few yards away, one of the main doors of the temple opened and disgorged a bulky looking man in his middle fifties. His gray hair was slicked back and he wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a expensive dark gray three-piece-suit, a black overcoat of heavy wool and an old fashioned walking stick. For a moment I debated walking the other way, there was just something about the man that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up - he exuded a cold menace. But then, barely formed words tumbled past my numb unwilling lips and I said: "Excuse me, do you have the time?" Thereafter, for a solid ten seconds he just stared at me and I stared back. Then he looked down and produced from under his voluminous greatcoat an antique gold pocket-watch and replied the time, precisely. I started to turn in the direction of my old apartment at the intersection of Washington and fourteenth, when he introduced himself as Professor Charles Cipher. Automatically, I returned my name and offered my hand. It was then that I realized just how grubby I really looked as I saw the filthy glove with the fingers cut out covering my hand. I have no doubt the professor noticed, but he didn't even hesitate in shaking my hand. To my utter surprise he then offered me a ride home. Normally, I would have politely refused, but when you realize that you just woke up half-frozen in a filthy alley and a total stranger shows not only good manners, but also kindness, good sense dictates not looking too deeply in the gift-horse's mouth. Had I looked, really looked, I would have seen the flash of fangs, but obviously I didn't.

The professor gestured with a hand gloved in black leather to join him at the curbside and not wanting to seem rude, I joined him. It was about this time that my body began to try to compensate for the loss of heat, the onset of hypothermia, and I began to shake uncontrollably. Despite the cold and disorientation, there was a suddenly sense of being in the right time and place, perhaps of belonging, as I stood with the professor on that snowbound corner waiting for who knows what in the midnight dark. Then that perfect memory, which will be with me always, came to an abrupt end when a 1935 Buick slide up to the curb like a black shark coming in for the kill, as it did so every little detail stood out. In a detached way, I understood that I was slipping into shock, but in another way, my senses were heightened or so it seemed at the time. Because just before the professor opened the right rear door, he called my name and as I looked towards him, I could see his lips moving as he spoke, but in the obviously freezing temperatures his breath never formed even the slightest vapor. But as our eyes connected, I felt something through the shock and his words reached me as if they came from a absurdly great distance. "Get in the horseless carriage". Without thought or hesitations, I did as I was told. I did not become conscious of my surroundings again for some minutes and when I did so, I found someone, probably the professor had draped a wool blanket around me. It was not warm inside the vehicle, but seemed so because I was slipping into a kind of comforting lassitude that washed away my cares and offered the sweet serenity of oblivion. I might have died there, had the professor not slapped me across both sides of my face with his expensive leather gloves. As I opened my eyes, the professor was gesturing over a set of antique silver tea service. It was ridiculous that such a thing might be present in the backseat of a vintage 1930s four door, but then I could see the steam rise from the glittering teapot and smelled my favorite aroma - Bergamot - in Earl Gray tea. As the professor placed a steaming cup in my numb hands, he had to help me drink the sweet hot tea laced with brandy, that went down with a hint of saltiness. Warmth spread through my body bringing life and pain, for one can never have one without the other.

When my chattering slowed enough for me to speak, I asked where we were going? The professor replied that he was taking me back to his 'rooms'. As the black Buick four-door pulled up to the curb in front of the three story brownstone off of east Richthofen Parkway, I thought I knew how Edmund must have felt as he rode with Jadis the White Witch of Narnia in her sleigh towards a castle made of ice. Stupidly, I asked the professor if this was his house. As he dragged me out into the cold night, he replied that no, the house belonged to some people he had known, but they were not due to return anytime soon. It wasn't until then that I caught a glimpse of the the driver as he exited the vehicle, a Australian aboriginal man wearing a black chauffeur's uniform and greatcoat. The professor led our trio up the snow-dusted steps to the house's medievally arched entry and produced a ring of keys from one of his great-coat pockets. As we entered a large, night darkened antechamber, the only illumination came from the verdant glow of the security console as the professor deactivated it. Then the massive wooden door seem to just swing shut and lock all by itself. Clearly neither the professor, nor the chauffeur thought anything of such a strange event, but then through the chill and weariness, I began to instinctively add up the odd events and something like fear began to seep into my mind at last.

Then the professor vanished into the dark interior of the house without another word to me. When we were alone, the aboriginal manservant introduced himself as: Dural Howell. But, before I could say anything, he went on to inform me that he preferred to be called by his aboriginal name: Dural. Naturally, for me, the first question that came to mind was to question what Dural meant in the aboriginal tongue. Dural explained that it meant: a hollow tree that is on fire. Thereafter, he asked if I would come upstairs and let him draw me a bath, while he found clothing suitable for a man my size. Numbly, I agreed as he turned without another word and went up the dark stairs without even bothering to turn on the lights. Somehow, recovering from hypothermia, hunger and what felt like the aftereffects of a serious drinking binge, I managed to follow him upstairs and as he activated a standalone heater, I took off the filthy, half-rotting rags that had been my clothes. There was a tremendous shock as I stepped into the steaming water, but as I lowered myself into the hot, sudsy water - I felt an intense lassitude come over me, as I drifted off to sleep. Later, I awakened when Dural entered with a cup of tea, sweetened with honey and demanded that I drink. I did so and with the infusion of caffeine, I began to feel a little bit more like myself. The next step of course, was to wash myself and I did so. Once clean, I rose from the filthy water and rinsed off in the shower and then dried off with a thick towel. Wrapped in the very same towel, Dural sat me down in a hard wooden chair and cut my hair with barber's tools, and then he shaved me by hand with a strait razor. These are luxuries forgotten or unknown to the masses of modern people virtually everywhere, but I felt certain it was something I could become accustomed to with a bit of effort. Thereafter, I was provided a variety of men's toiletries and when I emerged from the bathroom, a seemingly new suit awaited me. I no longer questioned whether it would fit me, such mundane questions obviously meant nothing in the house of the professor.

As I was still a touch unsteady on my feet, Dural graciously aided me in dressing. Never in my life had anyone helped me dress before, save for my parents, but its truly amazing how quickly we can adjust to the quiet assistance of a well trained household servant. I was struck by the strange sense of being out of time, except for the fabulously wealthy, house servants and their careful ministrations or their quiet presence like a beloved piece of furniture are an unknown experience. Clearly, I was becoming used to Dural and his quiet commands well obscured to seem like polite requests, when in reality they were not. His next suggestion, that I join the professor for a meal, was suddenly and more clearly a command as he held the door to the landing open for me. For the first time, I was alert enough to size up Dural, an aboriginal man in his early sixties, I would guess, he stood tall without a hint of weakness and beneath his starched white shirt I could see considerable muscle straining against the fine fabric. I nodded my assent and went down the stairs with a nonchalance that I certainly did not feel.

I found the professor in a large dinning room off a antiquated kitchen. The table was already set for one, as I seated myself. As a first course, Dural ladled out a fabulous soup, followed by a tasty salad, and fresh baked bread. The meal consisted of seven courses and I managed to eat each and all of them without seeming effort, I must have been starving. Through the whole meal, the professor just watched me eat, which is an unnerving experience. As I ate, I looked about the dining room, it was well appointed with a number of sideboards and china hutches, and an antique grandfather clock in the corner. It was nearly four in the morning and I was dressed for and having dinner, my body clock was having trouble keeping up. Its not that I haven't had a nocturnal schedule before, there were plenty of times in my life when I went to sleep with the dawn and rose in the late afternoon and I had worked nights before at the store. But this was somehow different, as if day and night had been reversed and this was all perfectly normal. I won't describe dessert, but it was delicious. The professor then led me into a kind of study, where we sat in fine chairs of soft leather and watched Dural as he poured out more coffee and a brandy for me, and then tended the cheerfully flickering hearth. It might have been my imagination, but the professor chose to sit farthest from the fire-light, while I gravitated towards it. I had begun to notice the pattern, that the professor would watch me while I ate or drank, while he himself had nothing to consume. I briefly remember him mentioning that he had already dined while I was 'freshening up', but somehow that sounded dishonest or hollow, but I had yet to pin down why I believed that. Yet, I had long ago learned to trust my instincts when my rational mind had less information than necessary to come to a calculated strategy.

Save for the crackle of the flames, silence held sway, as the professor and I both waited for the other to speak first. Then, considering all that I owed the professor, I set aside my innate obstinate competitiveness and offer my sincerest thanks for the professor's generous hospitality. He casually dismissed this gratitude with wave of his thick fingered hands, it was then that I noticed that he had calluses on his muscular hands. How had such an obviously wealthy man come to have callused hands? Its not completely unheard of, but it is rare and I sensed that whatever work the professor did, it did not involve physical labor and yet he was clearly quite athletic for a man his age. While pondering these things, I suggested that I should take my leave and try to reach my friends and family. The professor quietly considered this while looking at the complicated face of his antique pocket-watch. Then he simply offered that I was obviously tired and that a day's worth of sleep would do me good and that my friends and family weren't going anywhere in only a few hours. As I nursed my coffee and brandy, I realized that he was right, it made sense that a few hours of sleep wouldn't cost me anything. And that when I woke up, I would be prepared to resolve the mystery of why I had been sleeping in a filthy alley in late December. How such a thing had come pass was beyond me, I had known people whose vices put them in those sorts of positions, but it had never happened to me before. So without further discussion it was decided and the professor informed Dural that I would be staying in the guest bedroom that it should be made ready, at which Dural nodded and seemed to vanish into the depths of the house once more. While we waited, the professor suggested we play a game of chess and as there was board already on the table between us, I accepted. While we played and the professor trounced me, we discussed a number of subjects including history, science and oddly, the occult. It was this final subject that the professor seemed to be quizzing me upon, so rather than be rude, I played along and surprised myself along the way with my own knowledge of such an obscure subject. By way of congratulations for knowing so much about an unusual subject, the professor offered me cigar from a beautiful box. I felt a sudden urge to accept, as if I were a smoker and needed a cigarette, then my natural revulsion for smoking kicked in and I politely declined. The professor explained what a treat I was missing, they were Cuban cigars and quite expensive, I countered that I wasn't a smoker, but I understood the compliment. His apparent indifference surprised me and we spent the next few hours playing chess. I proved myself just good enough to keep him from winning until near the end of the mid-game and I learned a lot about him from his style of play which was very unconventional. Then near the end of another game, Dural made himself know and explained that the guest quarters were ready and that I should accompany him. Once again, I offered the professor my thanks and wished him a good day's rest, which provoked a genuine smile. The guest room turned out to be an entire suite and better appointed than any hotel I had ever stayed in, not that I had time to appreciate it, I was almost asleep before I undressed.

I have no recollection of any dreams from that first night, but when I awoke only a weak cindery light came through the small window high up upon the western wall. I slowly roused myself from beneath the fine sheets and down comforters and realized how quiet the house was, it seemed abandoned. I quickly showered, shaved and dressed, making my way downstairs, I found Dural in the kitchen making a late afternoon meal. I greeted him and he seemed surprised to see me, but he quickly pulled out a chair for me and prepared another plate. When he started to take it into the dinning room, I declined, preferring to eat in the warmth of the kitchen. There was of course another reason entirely, I didn't want to eat alone and Dural's company was preferable, but it also gave me the excuse to strike up a conversation. While it was a novice approach to finding out more about my host, I was surprised by how successful it was, perhaps no one offered to converse with Dural as an equal very often or he too was lonely. The meal was pleasant, and informative, I learned that the professor and Dural were from Australia, specifically the city of Melbourne and that the professor was someone of great importance to one of the city's universities. Dural explained that the professor was extremely well educated and a expert on numerous subjects, a true polymath. While he would extol professor's many virtues and successes in the field of science, he actually revealed precious little of importance at the time. We were, in fact, still discussing the professor and Melbourne history when the great man himself made his entrance. I hadn't noticed the passage of time as Dural and I talked, but it was quite dark outside the kitchen windows when the professor made a coughing noise to announce his approach. The old boy wasn't just fit, he was positively stealthy, for I had not heard even a floor board creak, nor the opening and closing of doors upstairs to herald his arrival.

The professor inquired after my day's rest and I replied that I was quite refreshed and once again I thanked him. If it pleased or irritated him that I continued to thank him, he did not reveal it, if anything, he seemed entirely uninterested in my gratitude. When Dural offered to prepare a plate for him, he declined saying that we had much to accomplish tonight and he simply did not have time to eat. Although, he seemed willing enough to await and watch me, as I finished eating. Tonight he was dressed all in black, which made him look more serious and something like an undertaker, or perhaps my imagination was running away with me. At the professor's direction, Dural when to warm up the car and within minutes we were ensconced in the leather bucket seats of the 1930s black Buick. The professor said he had business downtown, and that once he was dropped off there, Dural would drive me wherever I needed to go. Before long, we were parked in front of a shabby little nightclub called: 'The Broadstreet'. I had never seen it before or even heard of it and there was a time when I had found most of Denver's many dive bars. Nevertheless, the professor wished me good luck in finding my loved ones and without further politeness he walked away. Dural loitered on the street until the professor entered the club, and then he asked me where I wanted to go. My first stop was a house I shared with three friends at the intersection of 14th and Newport street. I was lost in thought and more than a little nervous, and I didn't pay much attention to the drive from downtown to my house. But from the moment the car came to a stop, I noticed things weren't right. None of the cars that my friends drove were present in the driveway, but there were unfamiliar vehicles in their place. Uncharacteristically, I ask Dural to wait for me, as I exited the Buick. The snow crunched beneath my fine leather shoes, which come to think of it, I had no idea where they were from. As I approached the house, I began to notice a number of little differences about the exterior of the house. My heart was beating fast as I knocked upon the door and when it finally opened I was confronted with an angry biker who didn't appreciate how hard I had been beating on the door. I tried to explain that I was looking for a group of people who lived there, but he wasn't interested in my questions and threatened me. As I started to back up, fear and rage mixed deep down in my gut in an unfamiliar way and before I knew what was happening I was on top of the biker, beating him senseless as I frothed at the mouth like an animal. If it hadn't been for Dural, who pulled me off the bloody biker, I might well have killed him. As I struggled to gain control of myself, Dural restrained me like a child. When the fit had passed, I noticed several of the biker's friends had emerged from the house, they looked like a rough lot, but they didn't seem eager to avenge their friend so much as try to get us to leave. I remember a somewhat attractive blond biker woman, crying and screaming that she had called the police. Honestly, I had no idea what to say or do and Dural led me away to the car and once I was locked in back, he drove us away. Shortly thereafter, he handed me a cloth for my hands which were covered in the biker's blood. I was in shock again, or so it seemed, I had no explanation for such a loss of control. Dural pacified me very effectively, blaming the situation on the biker and his crude language, which despite the faulty logic, made me feel much better. As I washed the blood off, I noticed that I hadn't even bruised or scraped my knuckles, which didn't seem right somehow. Despite these wild thoughts, Dural kept me calm by asking what the next destination would be. Just then, I had the strangest feeling that it simply didn't matter and I gave him the next address, but the result was similar if not the same.

Address after address revealed that my friends and acquaintances had all moved on, even all the phone numbers that I had memorized were wrong-numbers or didn't even exist anymore. I am ashamed to admit it, but it took me all of these experiences to convince me to really think and pay attention. Around midnight, I asked Dural to take me back to the 'Broadstreet', ostensibly to pick up the professor, but in truth, I needed a drink. Once again we parked on the sidewalk, and I entered the club. It was smoky and dark inside, there was this sense of walking into room filled with wild animals, more a smell than anything else, beneath the fog of cigarette smoke and the raw odor of hard liquor, I smelled something else, something familiar, but out of place, like a slaughterhouse. I approached the bar, but hesitated to sit or lean against the worn wood which was filthy with spilled booze. I caught the bartender's eye and asked for tequila, he didn't even blink as he handed me the bottle and a shot glass. As I was turning away looking for someplace clean or at least cleaner to sit and drink, I noticed a newspaper on the bar. The guy closest to it was obviously passed-out and wouldn't miss it, so I took it with me. A couple of goth-wannabees looked me over pretty hard, and at my approach, they vacated their little table, so I sat down. The kaleidoscope of lights from the stage should have made it hard to read, but the opposite was true, I could read the fine print as if I were in a brightly lit library. The headlines meant little to me, the names were unfamiliar and the subjects uninteresting, but the date reached out and really hit me. It was December 23rd...2012! For a very long moment, perhaps minutes for all I know, I just stared at the numbers as if they lied, but as I was soon to learn, the numbers never lie. By my last recollection, and it seemed like yesterday, it had been sometime in the second week of December in 1997. In an inexplicable Rip van Winkle way, I had lost fifteen years of my life. I had no memory of those lost years, not a glimmer. Was I suffering from retrograde amnesia? It might explain why I was in that filthy alley, but if so, why couldn't I remember the intervening years? It wasn't as if I remembered living a totally different life as a bum in Capital Hill.

The first shot was to collect myself, the next fifteen were for each of the years I had lost. I didn't lose consciousness so much as I lost my sense of time and place. It was a stupid thing to do and by the time I realized that, it was far too late. Someone, more than one someone was dragging me from my chair and 'helping' me to the men's room. As I was surrounded by the sudden smell of raw urine, someone, a woman I think laughed wickedly and then there was pain and pleasure mixed together like chocolate and peanut-butter. It felt so good, like the best drug, I was floating and then as the slurping noises began to fade, so too did the light. My mind must have been starved of oxygen, because I think I giggled when the screaming started. Then once again, I was floating, and there was shouting in a foreign language, I think, that or I was dreaming. Sometime later, even the shouting faded or I passed-out, which is far more likely considering the trouble I had gotten myself into, but it would be almost a day before I would begin to realize just how seriously I had bungled things.

Lost somewhere in a sea of surreal dreams, I remember seeing familiar faces in strange places, of a juxtaposition of actual memory and what could or must be a tequila fueled fantasy. Years later, as I look back, I am not so sure anymore. But, then there was a perfect moment of crystalline pain as someone forced acid down my throat. At the time, I thought it must be acid for it burned like nothing else I had even ingested including stomach acid as it tastes at the moment you vomit. No, it was so much worse, because, once it burned its way down my esophagus, it ignited my stomach and began to fan its way outwards into the rest of my body. Terrifyingly, I couldn't move enough to even scream and how I wished I could scream. I had been lucky in my life, when it came to personal injury, there hadn't been many, nor had they been serious for the most part. There were only a couple of times that I had cried from pain and I had never screamed from injury. In a sane world, I would have been flopping around like a fish or like a fool who has grabbed a live-wire. But I had entered a world that was far from sane and in my dream, I languished like Odin on the World Tree, for what seemed like days. Eventually, for reasons I wouldn't understand until later, the nightmare ended.

One Drink Too Many

During my college days, I had drunk to excess many times, so much so that I probably did some permanent damage. Had I lived a lengthy human life, those problems would eventually have revealed themselves because cause and effect are always in play and what you do always has consequences that eventually come home to you. But, somewhere along the line, someone had made a crucial decision for me and while I did indeed die, I did not die completely. Not that I would be conscious of that momentous circumstance until the following nightfall.

And it would be decades before I would finally heard the story second hand from Natasha after she had fed a little too heavily from a group of Australian coeds at a party aboard a houseboat in Melbourne harbor. I had accompanied her, in part because it allowed me to avoid Seth who would have found some difficult and demeaning chore for me to fail at so he could deride me without incurring the professor's anger, and because I was in love with Natasha. The occasion was a summertime Christmas party, in the southern hemisphere, the Yule season is a hot one and there were scantily clad teens and twenty-somethings all around us as she told me what the professor had told her in confidence. I had gotten completely trashed in the most dangerous bar in Denver, the Broadstreet was a bar where Kindred congregated largely to hunt for their next meal and to socialize without enduring the stuffiness of most Elysium gatherings. The club was owned and managed by Edward Williamson, the thousand year old Toreador prince of Denver and it served as one of the Rack's best venues for feeding. Those mortals, so unlucky as to look for an alcoholic escape from their lives or searching for a few hours of companionship usually paid a high cover charge, always in blood and sometimes with their lives. I paid with both when I became the object of attention for a group of rebellious and thirsty neonates who saw an easy mark, unaware that I might be accompanied by a ghouled chaperon whose Kindred master was even then searching the bar for me.

Of course, the professor found those same neonates draining me dry on the filthy floor of the mens-room. Apparently, he was more than fair when he commanded then to drop their prey and flee, they being the rebellious youth of Denver's night-society offered sneering derision in return and were rewarded with thaumaturgically conjured fire. Had it been Elysium, the professor might have joined me in death, but the club was not and as the screaming neonates fled the scene, the professor made a fateful decision. Under normal circumstances the professor has a seemingly endless array of sorcerous tricks up his sleeve and might have saved me with a number of them, that is if I hadn't already died. While the professor and the neonates squared off, my heart had stopped and I had been dead for several seconds before he could inject me with his blood. That decision would have profound consequences for both of us.

For the professor that would mean negotiating with the ancient and angry Toreador prince of Denver at a significant political disadvantage for having Embraced a neonate without permission in the prince's own club. Luckily, for the Professor, the local regent, a man named Gideon Londoner was in attendance at the club as the Professor's liaison to the court of Denver. Between the two Tremere regents they were able to purchase permission for the Embrace at a steep price, part of which was that the neither the professor nor I could ever return to Denver. While Natasha did not specifically know the cost of the Professor's rash act, she shared her suspicion that our sire owed two life boons to Edward Williamson. After her drunken confession, Natasha swore me to secrecy and if the Professor ever suspected I knew the story of my Embrace, he has never shown an awareness of my lack of ignorance.

Like so many things in my life, I had foolishly chosen a course of action that favored me, without ever knowing what the outcome would be. As my first day as a vampire passed, I missed out on the experience of the transformation from mortal to Kindred. As I slept the day away somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, Dural cleaned my torpid body of its final filth, for mortal's defecate themselves upon physical death. Luckily for him, I had not had anything to eat since dinner and my Kindred attackers had relieved me of most of my bodily fluids. Still, formerly useful organs were shriveling into vestigial inconsequence while I was growing a shiny new set of canines and my body was aging. Yes, I said aging. You see, when I had awakened in that filthy alley in Denver, I had been twenty-eight years old in body and mind. But for reasons that seem to defy rational explanation, upon receiving the Embrace, my youthful countenance began to age until I seemed as old or older than the Professor. Of course, the appearance of being physically older was a shock, but one that I came to accept relatively quickly. Banishment from my home, friends and family, that created a profound sense of isolation that would never really fade until I left Melbourne for the last time.

The idea that vampires are sleeping during the day, is an entirely human notion, a mortal description for something they have never experienced and cannot understand without having been Embraced. The closest human concept to the day triggered quiescence that vampires suffer, would be hibernation, a complete paralysis of both body and mind. Only in very rare or stressful circumstances can a vampire dream, although there are techniques for triggering the dreaming state, its an entirely conscious process that requires years of practice to successfully initiate. And when Kindred do dream, it is their supernatural minds throwing off the effects of the sun while still being trapped in a completely paralyzed body deprived of even sensory input. Mortals do occasionally suffer a similar kind of experience, but its a aberration of their normal sleep state called: Parasomnia. Since parasomnia is the default condition of vampires during the day, all vampiric dreams begin as nightmares. This circumstance is likely bound up with the Curse of Caine, and while it would be superstitious to attribute this circumstance to a vengeful deity, the specific mechanism and the rules that govern it remain nebulous.

So as the sun began to be eclipsed by the curvature of the Earth, my newly mutated vampiric mind became fully active, but my undead body was still subject to what is called: recurrent isolated sleep paralysis. The fear generated by this kind of temporary paralysis is similar but less traumatic than that engendered by being staked through the heart. Still, for the uninitiated or weak-willed, it can be extremely unpleasant and for fledglings like me, it is a kind of waking hell. As I reflect back upon that first night, I am sure it was the turbulence that jolted the balance related centers of my mind and initiated a full blown day-terror. The nightmare, for lack of a better word, began when I found myself on an ancient battlefield, it was obviously night, and I was a soldier in the legendary lost 9th Roman legion. As I said, I was fully awake and aware of the screaming of men and horses, the snarling of the war-dogs and the howls of the pack of lupines descending upon the square Roman encampment. I could smell the sweat of the men on either side of me and the smoke of the campfires. The werewolves easily leaped over the wall of wooden stakes and the man deep trench that encircled the Roman campsite. They were terrifying beasts with pale fur that burned like silver in the light of a full moon. A trio of them landed only a few dozen feet from my squad and being battle hardened Roman legionaries we attacked even this supernatural threat with cries of 'Roma Invicta'! I was splattered in the face with the blood of the men in the first rank, but rather than react with terror, I reached deep down inside of myself and shaped a terrible fire of Oblivion with my will and the fast evaporating life-force of the men dying just in front of me. When the eldritch emerald fire exploded in their ranks the creatures reacted with an animal terror that they must have forgotten they could experience and my squad took full advantage by moving forward in formation and spearing those three werewolves with plenty of Roman iron. Despite the surprise of my necromantic attack, two of the creatures managed to escape into the Caledonian night, while the third was hacked by my brothers in arms into small chunks of gristle and hair.

As the scene began to evaporate, I became aware that I was laying prone on what felt like a bed, and I was fully dressed. As I opened my eyes, I felt the last tingling numbness flee my extremities and I nearly frenzied. For several seconds, I truly thought I was still in the midst of a battle between a legendary Roman Legion and a band of werewolves, all of whom had been dead for nearly two-thousand years. Luckily, it was the Professor who was sitting there awaiting my awakening rather than Dural. The Professor easily restrained me by animating the bedspread which cocooned me until his calm voice could pacify my beast-ridden mind. When the terror finally subsided, he waved a hand casually and the bed linens released me, allowing me to sit up and look around. I was indeed in a bedroom, but it was cabin shaped without any windows, but there were two doors, a desk with a bookcase and table with two chairs. My senses seemed to become very sharp as I looked around the room seeing intricate little details that I would have been incapable of seeing yesterday. It was as if someone had focused my eyesight down to a narrow beam that swept the room and its sole other occupant like a laser beam scanning for motion. There were other sensations as well. I could feel the sharp new canines in their recently extended position, that would have allowed me to bite like a canine or some other predator. There was a taste of human blood in my mouth. My hearing picked up the chatter of the pilots in the cockpit and the electronic chatter of the communications gear over the scream of the wind outside the plane's hull as it traveled at great speed. And I could smell the numerous cleaning agents used to sanitize all the surfaces of this cabin, the Professor's expensive cologne and the anticoagulant saturated blood contained in a plastic bag sitting in an ice bucket normally reserved for champagne.

The Professor's voice cut through the sensory overload to focus my attention on one question: "What do you remember of your dream of Roman Britain?" My first thought was, how could the man have known I had been dreaming about that? But, uncharacteristically, I replied as if I had been trained since birth to respond to his questions or commands. "I remember a battle between the lost Roman 9th Legion and a group of pale werewolves in Caledonia, ...I mean Scotland." This time, his smile was genuine and he said "Good! Now, describe the dream to me in complete detail and leave nothing out, no matter how insignificant it might seem."

I talked and the Professor listened for most of the night. Near dawn, our plane, a custom built Dassault Falcon 7X long range trijet dubbed the Hermes Falcon began its descent over the Island of Fiji. Apparently, we were running low on fuel and with over 2000 miles left to go before reaching our final destination of Melbourne, Australia - we need to land. And Fiji's capital city, Suva was the only place within thousands of miles of open water where we could rest and refuel. It was a thrilling experience as our plane landed at Nausori International Airport, a grandiose name for what could best be described as little more than a small city airport. Of course, as the capital of Fiji was less than 100,000 people this made sense.

My newly heightened senses picked up countless things that I had no name for, the speed of the plane, air turbulence and that sudden dropping sensation you get in fast descending elevator or when your custom built corporate jet carries out a high speed landing at a runway too short for said maneuver. The pilots must have been first rate because despite the sensation that we were going to crash, the landing was picture perfect. Its naive notion that if your aren't an expert at something, that you cannot really gauge a given endeavors success, this is because that innate faculty called intelligence allows you to imagine what success or failure looks like and our flight team knew their business. All this I observed from the only cabin with windows, the observation lounge the Professor called it, set directly behind the cockpit. The remainder of the Falcon's interior had been divided into small conference room with all the amenities, the bedroom in which I had originally awakened and small detention room at the rear of the plane for transporting unwilling passengers.

Once on the ground, the Falcon taxied towards a series of hangars where it was refueled and serviced. No one including the pilots exited the plane and strangely, no representatives of Fiji tried to board the plane or inspect its contents. I mentioned this to the Professor and without looking up from the book he was studying, that the plane had diplomatic immunity and the officials of Nausori International Airport could glean that from the Falcon's registry. I nodded my assent and the Professor seemed to sense this as he further explained that the Island of Fiji was a dangerous stop for us, over the last couple centuries numerous Kindred, the preferred term for vampires among their own kind, had gone missing on the island and while it was sometimes necessary to stop here for fuel, no intelligent or informed vampire would stray beyond their ship or airplane. We spent the remainder of the our time on Fiji discussing the mythology of Fiji's Polynesian background and what could possibly be behind all those missing Kindred. While I happen to enjoy intellectual exploration of speculation, I was to learn that the Professor did not, in fact guesswork and speculation were two of his pet peeves. To the Professor's mind, that speculation led to preconceived ideas, which in turn could lead to a costly or fatal error and he began right there and then to intellectually correct that illogical habit of presumption.

Near dawn, the Professor escorted me back to the bedroom cabin, where he strapped me into one of the two chairs and took the other one for himself. I nervously asked if we would be able to sleep in this position, to which the Professor gave a genuine chuckle. Even in the minutes before the sun would rise he lectured me on the Kindred condition, explaining that once the sun had crossed the horizon it would not matter what position our bodies were in, we would be utterly unconscious until the sun sank in the west. In this only, the Professor was wrong, for I dreamed often of things I had never personally seen, of conversations with strangers who yet seemed familiar but without an identifiable point of reference. These dreams would eventually begin to diminish over the coming decades and the Professor encouraged to keep a dream diary and once a week we would have a session wherein I would recount what I had dreamed and he would act as a kind of guide. There were two consistent things about these sessions that always bothered me, one - that neither Seth nor Natasha were ever present or even in the building and that the Professor always knew what the dreams were about and if I ever left anything out, he would point out the discrepancy.

Apprentice of the First Circle

More than anything, I would have liked to have seen Melbourne from the air, but as we arrived during the day, I missed out on that experience. When next I regained consciousness, I lay on a old fashioned four-poster bed in a well appointed Victorian room measuring about thirty foot square. There was a strong, but momentary sense of disorientation as my mind jump-started into full wakefulness and as my heightened senses fed my consciousness all sorts of unorganized data: several smells - of dust suggesting the room had not been in use for some time, the recent use of some kind of citrus furniture polish, the familiar odor of camphor from the mothballs in the closet and beneath it all, the reek of old blood sunk deep into the floor boards from long ago feedings.

As I sat up, I took in the room, and found I was completely alone. The room had three doors, two based on their size had to be interior doors, and the third might exit outside or into another part of the building. Close to hand, I could sense movement in another part of the building, although I couldn't tell exactly what manner of activity it might entail. Further out, I could hear numerous conversations, but they came to me only in pieces as the wind would shift first this way and then that. There was also music and more distant still, the roar of early evening traffic so familiar and reassuring in its normalcy. The bed was covered in a traditional quilt and the pillows smelled like goose down. As I rose and explored the room, I found I was right about the two interior doors, one led to a walk-in closet filled with clothing decades out of date, the other door led to a lavatory outfitted in 19th century tile and brass.

It was then that I stopped before an antique mirror and looked at the new 'old' me. In just 24 hours, I had aged over forty years. I guessed that I would pass for my late sixties, a grandfatherly face with white whiskers looked back at me through blurry lenses. I took off my glasses and the distortion vanished immediately. In stunned realization, I understood that I would never need glasses again, one of the pluses of my new condition for which I was imminently grateful. But it did raise certain questions: what other surprises lay in store for me? Would they all be good? Common sense suggested that all circumstances had negatives to go with the positive points, I would have to be wary of those as I became aware of them.

I do not know for how long I lingered there gazing into the mirror like Narcissus, but the sound of a skeleton key in the exterior door lock snapped me out of my fugue. I found Dural waiting for me with a clean cloth and a shaving kit. Once again we went through the ritual of shaving. Dural said nothing, so I prompted him with basic questions, yes we had arrived in Melbourne around noon or so. Yes, we were 'home', whatever that meant. Home was a old dormitory of Queen's College called "Old Wyvern Hall," itself a lesser school of the University of Melbourne.

I must have brightened visibly, because Dural asked if that pleased me and I realized that it did indeed make me feel better. I explained that I had spent a handful of years at a small American college, and living on campus would be return to the familiar in an altogether unfamiliar world. He nodded, and began to cut my hair with a old pair of scissors. When he was done, he bade me bathe and he would return with new clothing and he left. There was no shower, just a porcelain bathtub and a oval curtain ring hanging from the ceiling, but I made do. When Dural returned, he came lugging in a half-dozen trunks, as I was standing around in a terrycloth robe, I helped him and found lifting the trunks no effort at all. To my surprise they were completely full of clothing in my size, obviously not new, rather used and discarded apparel - hand-me-downs. I knew this shtick all too well, but I knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. And I disrobed right there and dressed in whatever he handed me. When I was done, he removed all the old clothing from the closet and repacked it into the empty trunks, save for a few items I saw and asked about like an old silver headed walking stick and antique gold pocket watch with a jeweled fob. I asked who had stayed in this room last, Dural shrugged and said that numerous apprentices had stayed in this room, though none recently. Despite his native stoicism, he seemed pleased by it having a new occupant.

While Dural and I were talking, a woman entered the room on silent feet, it was her perfume that gave her away, a scent of sea-salt and hyacinth, she stood there in skin-tight black athletic apparel, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And then she spoke,welcoming me to "Old Wyvern Hall" and introducing herself as Natasha. Just as I was about to reply, the Professor's voice carried from the doorway making an official introduction between Natasha and myself. But, the Professor named me Czere Ubireg, a Turkish national emigrated to the United States when I was very young. Caught in momentary hesitation, I was speechless and then the moment passed and I was Czere Ubireg. Natasha just nodded in blithe acceptance, clearly whatever the Professor said was as good as gospel. Then as she turned to go, her eyes became misty and seemed to lose focus, and to me, she said: "Tonight you are Seven, lesser and incomplete, but as you are winnowed away, all the stronger you will become until only one remains. The question is - what face will you wear?" Without another word, she turned upon her heel and pushed past the Professor as if he weren't even there. Dural, myself and the Professor were all struck silent, each of us looking from one to another, trying to make some sense of such a strange pronouncement. Finally, the Professor cleared his throat and asked me to come downstairs and meet Seth, the other apprentice I would be working with. He turned without waiting for my acquiescence, as if my assent were already a foregone conclusion and as I fell into step behind him, I understood that of course, it had been.

We found Seth in the laboratory located approximately a hundred feet below "Old Wyvern Hall". The Professor had led me down to the ground floor and then into the basement where the Professor approached a plain wall of red brick mortared together with slowly crumbling concrete. As he stood before the wall, the Professor waved his hands in some sort of arcane pattern and mouthed some words that might have been Latin. Then he stepped into the wall as if it were insubstantial. Faintly, from the other side, I could hear the Professor calling me to hurry through. While I was hesitant, I knew the Professor must be obeyed, so I stepped forward into the wall. As my face entered the wall first, as if I were trying to look where I was going, I could feel myself passing through what should have been solid brick, but which felt closer to cool, dry dust suspended in a layer a few inches thick. When I opened my eyes, I could see into a old stairwell constructed of that same red brick and concrete spiraling down into the dark earth. The impassive face of the Professor was illuminated by a cold sphere of light that floated just above his head. The landing upon which he stood was just large enough for the two of us and as I stepped through slowly, he turned away without further fanfare as if this were an everyday occurrence, and as I was soon to learn, it was just that.

Several turnings later, we stood before a closed set of double wooden doors. Half inscribed upon each door and forming a whole only when the doors were closed as they were now, was a strange geometric symbol painted in gold. The figure was a perfect hollow circle containing a hollow square that touched it with its corners and a solid right triangle mounted at about fifteen degrees pointing north-east, or so it seemed to me. The Professor said: "Behold, the sigil of the Clan and House Tremere." For a couple of moments, we both just stood there gazing at its perfection as it glittered in cold metallic hues from the Professor's conjured ball of light. Then my sire, pointed out the line of glyphs that ran all the way around the doors, its rust colored paint was matted, seemingly incapable of reflecting the light. But as I looked harder at it, there was a sense of something familiar about it, as if I should know what it meant. I stepped closer and it felt like a faint breeze had picked up in that small threshold and was blowing faintly in my face. The scent that the inscription gave off was one of dust, death and slaughtered beasts. A shiver passed through me, both of fear and anticipation as I turned to the Professor and voiced the obvious question: "Is this blood painted around the frame of the door?" Professor Cipher nodded and proffered: "Blood is all to the Kindred, sustenance, an intoxicant, and a source of power. For most Kindred, that power translates into fuel for their Disciplines, the powers that the curse grants them based on their clan or lineage. But for those of Clan Tremere, your clan, blood can be channeled like other natural forces, such as electrical current to fuel ritual workings and path magic."

Follow me, Seth is within and the night is wasting. Then he uttered another string of Latin phrases and pushed the double doors inward. The scream of rusting hinges in need of oil, greeted us as we entered the laboratory. We stepped into a domed room approximately twenty-five feet in radius, with seven walls and in each wall an arched doorway. Seven Roman arches held up the dome a good fifty feet above us and on the floor were inscribed seven concentric circles forming a round labyrinth. Cold white light, steady enough to be electricity, illuminated the chamber and emanated from seven magical orbs similar to the one conjured by the Professor, but far larger as they floated equidistantly about the room just before their respective archways. The Professor pointed out the labyrinth of concentric circles on the floor: "These are the seven circles of initiation, as you circumnavigate each, you must find passage from the outermost circle to the one it enshrines. Do you understand?" For the space of several human heartbeats, I just looked at the labyrinth trying to puzzle it out like a maze. Then I realized it was a symbolic matter and obviously Clan Tremere was like a cult; the word cult, has taken on a negative connotation in the modern world, but in the ancient past it simply denoted a small group of adherents who shared the same faith. So the circles were steps of initiation, gained through sacred knowledge passed from teacher to student like the Mithraic mysteries. Unlike Christianity and other monotheistic faiths, which required the acceptance of the unprovable as a necessary truth - in other words faith, gnostic religions brought their members into progressively deeper truths through experience. The Greeks had a special word for such knowledge: Gnosis. I explained my supposition to Professor Cipher, who smiled, nodded and offered a small compliment: "Most Excellent!"

Then the Professor pointed to a spot, gesturing for me to walk to the space, and I quickly complied. When I turned to face him, he said: "You have passed through the first of seven gates, the gate of blood and immortality, primordial and elemental, without passage through the first gate, you could not hope to be able to understand or control the mystical energies that bind our world together. You must now prepare yourself to walk the first and outermost circle of mystery. With my help, as your sire and you regent, you will learn to master those lessons and techniques that we call the discipline of Thaumaturgy. At the moment, you are nothing to the Clan and House of Tremere, just a rude vessel that demands to be filled with sacred knowledge and the wisdom of the ancients."

Somewhere along the way to meet the more senior apprentice Seth, I had entered into a ritual of initiation for a vampiric mystery cult. I stood there dumbfounded, uncertain of how to act and what I should be saying, doing, or thinking. As the unnatural florescence began to dim all around the exterior of the room, a single large orb above us, enshrined in the dome, began to glow brighter casting illumination over the Professor who stood at the center most point. From the archway directly behind the Professor a sinister figure swathed in black approached my unsuspecting teacher. I tried to alert him to its presence, but he ignored my warnings and stood patiently with his back turned to the figure. Then the figure stood directly behind the Professor, holding a black cloak out for him to pull over his western style business suit. Once my sire had donned the black robe, another black cloaked figure emerged from a different archway and brought a bejeweled golden chalice to the Professor. Then the same figure came towards me, holding forth another black robe, this one meant for me and its outstretched hands guided me into the velvet cassock. My attendant's touch was feather light, but the scent of sea-salt and hyacinth gave Natasha's identity away, and that meant the attendant who aided the Professor must be Seth. Natasha drifted away to stand slightly off to one side and behind the Professor, opposite Seth.

Then as one, they approached me. When the Professor stood directly before me, he commanded me to kneel and I did so. The cold stone floor should have hurt my knees, but didn't. As I waited patiently, the Professor held the glittering chalice at the height of my head between us and chanted again in Latin, this time, it seemed I could almost understand what he was saying. He held the cup with his left hand and gestured in strange ways over it with his right hand. I felt a growing buildup of energy in the air, as if lightning were about to strike, then the Professor grew silent. Then in a grand and formal voice, an exaggeration of his normal deep baritone, he commanded me to repeat after him, a sacred litany. In truth, the "Oath of Tremere" as it was called, seemed more like a courtroom document chanted in archaic English than what I had imagined as a sacred oath. But, despite the dry and dusty pronouncements voiced by the Professor, I understood the grave character of the oath I was being administered. The initiation ended with my paraphrasing the final part of the oath: "I, Czere Ubireg, swear this oath on this night of December 25th, in the year of 2012. Woe to they who try to tempt me to break this oath, and woe to me, if I succumb to such temptation."

Once more the Professor spoke in that grand, but dread voice: "Czere Ubireg, you have sworn the Oath of Tremere, now you belong to the Pyramid forever more until your final death. Within this chalice is the commingled essence of those who lead the Pyramid and take guidance only from great Tremere, the Seven Councilors." In order, he named them each with all their titles: Abetorius, Elaine de Calinot, Etrius, Grimgroth, Meerlinda, Thomas Wyncham, and Xavier de Cincao. I know that I heard and registered the names of the final two councilors, but with the utterance of the name Meerlinda, the room seemed to disappear and I could see her face, so beautiful and so cold. Somehow, impossible as it might seem, I knew her, the sound of her voice, the scent of each of her carefully calculated perfumes, her long luxurious dark chestnut hair and eyes like emeralds frozen or fiery as suited her mood. I knew then, somehow, that it was my sacred duty to kill this woman who was one of a kind, ancient and powerful. She had broken one of the highest laws, but which one and those who had given me this impossible mission, were just shadowy figures out of distant memory. This sudden purpose changed everything, my focus snapped into being like a sword crisply drawn from its sheath to glisten coldly in the light.

Of course, in just a few nights word would come telling us that Meerlinda's chantry in Dallas had fallen to the vile forces of the Sabbat and the great lady was dead at the hands of the traitorous former councilor Goratrix. Instinctively, I knew it for the lie it was, because deep inside me, I could feel that she still existed out there somewhere and she was waiting for me. I was fully cognizant of the necessity of absolute secrecy, I dared not even think about this except when I was totally alone and somehow I must never, ever dream about it. Then time resumed with a sudden stutter and the Professor said: "Drink of this cup and become one with all Tremere everywhere." And with his cold left hand, he forced my lower jaw open and with his right hand, he poured the essence of light and fire past my lips, igniting my body and opening my mind to mysteries undreamed of...

I must have lost consciousness...for when I did wake, hours had passed. By the antique clock on the mantle over my bedroom's small and immaculately clean fireplace, it was near to three in the morning. While I heard nothing unusual, I knew that I wasn't alone in the room. When I opened my eyes and sat up, I saw the Professor sitting in one of the bedroom's two antique brown leather clad wingback arm chairs. I expected him to be reading, but he was watching me over his steepled fingers. With just a small gesture he caused mystical flames to fill the grate, throwing flickering illumination across the room, but I didn't like the way the flames seemed to reflect in the lenses of his tortoise shell horn-rimmed glasses.

"Czere, please take a seat and join me." With this utterance the Professor gestured towards the other wingback chair. The note of command in his voice suggested I hurry and a quick mental calculation on my part made me realize that it was only few days after the Summer solstice in the southern hemisphere. In other words, very short nights, and a very limited activity cycle for the undead, including myself. I immediately slid off the bed and took the proffered seat as the Professor began to speak. "Czere, I have been called to Vienna to attend to some necessary administrative details that must be handled in person. Do you understand?" I nodded my understanding and I took his immediate silence as a opportunity to ask questions. The moment he spoke of Vienna, my anxiety spiked, I wasn't certain why, but the name evoked images of nineteenth century intrigues carried out from elegant cafes to the opera and personal palaces befitting royalty. "how long will you be gone?"

The Professor studied me for several long moments, long enough for me to become distinctly uncomfortable under that cold gaze. "Of that I cannot be sure Czere, likely a week or two at most. I should be back shortly after the start of the new year." I hesitated and then pressed forward. "What am I to do with myself while you are gone Sire?" The Professor smiled at the previously unused title and gently corrected me. "My title is Regent, and from this point forward you will address me as Regent Cipher or just Regent." I quickly nodded. "Among the other clans, the title of Sire is common parlance, although, it has been falling out of fashion for the last century. Despite that, Clan Tremere uses that term far less often and usually only under informal circumstances. You will follow suit." Once again, I nodded.

"While I am gone, senior apprentice Natasha is in charge. I have given her instructions on what your duties are to be and I have drawn up a syllabus of subjects I would like you to study." The folder he handed me was as thick as the Denver phone-book. As I scanned through the extensive body of scholastic material the Professor had drawn up for me, I noticed several of the primary works were in languages I did not know, primarily Greek and Latin. "Um-mm, Regent, I don't have any background in ancient languages. How should I proceed?" He looked at me as if I had just sprouted two heads and replied. "Czere, you will need to adapt quickly to your new existence and if you find that there are circumstances wherein you are short of proficiency, then you will need to make greater your efforts and expend as much time and effort as may be required to complete the scholarly regimen I have assigned you. Clan Tremere has no room for lallygagging or laziness, the course of study I have given you is meant to bring you up to snuff with your peers and is far from advanced course work. Am I understood." I replied in the affirmative.

"Excellent. Then I need to make ready for my journey. I would like you to exercise special caution with Seth, he has been the least senior apprentice of the chantry for many years and he might try to take advantage of you in this regard. While I am absent you can turn to Natasha for advice and aid in dealing with him. However, he is your senior in the pyramid and thus you are bound by your oath and laws of the pyramid with obeying his orders, unless they violate the Code of Tremere. Do I make myself understood?" I stood for a moment processing that one, then offered a slight nod, which he took for assent. "One more admonition, the chantry is filled with mystical items and texts that have been enchanted or curse to protect them, most of the dangerous items are set aside in the restricted section of the library or are under lock and key in the repository below, but this chantry has been active for over one hundred and thirty years, so there are likely to be a few lost items that might make it into your possession. Not all my apprentices have taken the correct attitude in dealing with certain kinds of knowledge that I would deem dangerous for anyone short of a true master of Thaumaturgy. As this chantry has had dozens of apprentices in its thirteen decades, some prohibited works or items are likely hidden away in the building somewhere. You have received fair warning from me, something I only provide once. If harm should befall you in your explorations of the chantry, the results are of your own making. Any unidentified items are to be brought to my attention or handed over to the most senior apprentice, in this case, Natasha. That is all the instruction I have for you tonight. See Natasha tomorrow evening about your duties to the chantry and advice on your course work."

As he was about to walk out the door, he turned back and locked gazes with me and said. "Czere, I want you to make a special effort to learn Turkish, to further the deception surrounding your past." And then his eyes seemed to draw me in, as if they were infinitely deep pools reflecting me. "You are forbidden to leave Old Wyvern Hall under any circumstances, until I deem you worthy to explore the campus." I momentarily lost awareness and when it resumed, the door was shut and I was alone in the dark.

I did not hear the Professor's retreating footsteps, nor his descent down the great stair of dark wood, with its spear-like posts located at every turning of the steps. As I sat alone in my room with my eyes closed to the darkened room, I pretended to be calm. It took me a few seconds to realize what had just happened, then rage and fear washed over me in equal parts. Why had the Professor done this to me? Had I done something wrong? What should I have done? Without realizing it, the Professor had somehow filled the void of the father figure that I had never had, and all I wished to do was please him.

But his callus use of compulsion to make me a prisoner to the four walls of this old house made me feel like he was arbitrarily punishing me. I racked my mind for what I could have done to displease the old man, but then as separation anxiety and self-loathing tore at my insides like two poisonous snakes, I realized that something was fundamentally wrong with me. Why was I so emotionally dependent on the Professor? Yes, he had rescued me from hypothermia in Denver, and then shown me further kindness by taking me in, even giving me the Embrace rather than letting me die the fool's death I had earned at the Broadstreet. But, that just did not explain my sudden love for the old Tremere. So, what was going on? Was I under a spell? Would the Professor have used some kind of medieval love philter on me to guarantee my good behavior? I must have lost control, for a red haze rose up in my mind and all I could think of was destroying whatever I could get my hands upon.

When the fit of anger finally subsided, I heard a hesitant knock upon my door, then a feminine voice chanted soft and sibilant until the door lock gave an audible click. My reason must not have fully returned, because the fact that the Professor had wizard locked my door struck me as hilariously funny. And when Natasha entered what remained of the chamber, she found me sitting on the floor chuckling to myself like a madman amid a jumble of broken things. Natasha stood there in the doorway, highlighted by the hall lights, he face in shadow and her expression unreadable. "Czere why?" And because such an emotional outburst had left me momentarily empty of feeling, including shame, I told her.

For a few minutes, she just stood there, then she shut the door leaving us both in the dark. Despite the lack of light, she managed to pick her way through the mess with nary a misstep, until she stood next to me. Then she knelt down and put her arms around me until the shaking subsided. On the first floor, I could hear the Professor's final instructions to the chantry's subservient house staff and their meekly murmured assent. Then the front door opened and with the change in pressure within the house, a draft passed close enough to my room carrying with it the sounds of far off traffic and closer by the energetic sounds of young people dancing to unfamiliar music. I could also hear the distinctive purr of an old fashioned V8 engine as it pulled up just outside the front door and the sound of luggage being loaded, probably by Dural. Then I heard the car door slam and its engine revved up as it pulled away to eventually blend seamlessly with that far off sound of traffic.

When all traces of the Professor's conveyance had diminished to nothing, Natasha took my grizzled old face in her soft young hands and I felt her thoughts as they searched my mind for the reason for my destructive tantrum. I was so startled, that I did not know what to do, rather I sat there paralyzed with indecision, until she telepathically explained what had happened to me. "Czere, for reasons unknown, the Professor has bound you to him with the blood blood. It is an ancient method by which one vampire can make another love and obey them. It was used by ancient vampires to control their progeny long before the wizards of House Tremere decided to become vampires themselves. And as members of Clan Tremere, we are particularly susceptible to its effects. Where most Kindred need to taste the blood of another vampire three times, we can be bound with only two tastes, its our curse. I don't know why the Professor would do that to you, but there must be a rational reason. The Professor would never do that to you unless it was absolutely necessary, in part because it violates the Code of Tremere and because if it were revealed to his superiors, he could be punished quite severely. You must never speak of this to anyone, not to Dural or the other servants and never to Seth. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Natasha." I spoke the words aloud and left the question of how she could read my mind and project her own thoughts into my mind as an unvoiced question. Her thoughts whispered to me that it was one of the many higher gifts of Auspex and that in time, I too would be able to do such amazing things. As my rational mind took over, I asked how she knew such things about the blood-bond and the history of the vampires. Her reply to me was that there were books about it in the library and that if I kept this conversation between us, she would show them to me some night soon. With so many dark miracles in play, how could I refuse her? I was a babe in the woods, a fledgling, a fetal supernatural being, immortal but virtually helpless before the powers of older vampires. Of course, I readily agreed.

Then, with little more than a whisper and a snap of her fingers, a pale globe of light cast cool illumination over the mess that was my room. This time, Natasha spoke aloud. "Seth left the Hall shortly after your induction ceremony. He avoided the Professor, but stopped to tell me he would be back soon. We need to clean this up before he returns or he will expect me to punish you for making such a mess. According to the peripheral code, I should, but luckily for you, I am not a fan of rules and harsh punishments. But Seth will want to put you in your place, so we had best hurry." Together we removed every trace of broken furniture from the room and replaced it with odds and ends taken from several different rooms filled only with dust and old memories. When Seth did return just before dawn, there was no evidence of my first frenzy and his rude entry into my chambers came as no surprise, nor was he any the wiser and I kept the Professor's dark secret to myself as Seth took me deep below the chantry to indoctrinate me.

Old Wyvern Hall

The following night, as those too real dreams came to their appointed conclusion and my mind became fully conscious, I had yet to open my eyes. As I lay there, I sensed...something indescribable. I suppose the best way to describe it would be as a vibration. It seemed to reverberate through the house and while it defied the usual five sense, despite their heightened state, it persisted none-the-less. I sat up and opened my eyes, but the only thing I perceived was the chamber's light-less state. As yester-eve returned in total to me, I recalled where each of the furnishings were and flicked on the lamp on the left bedside table. It was a 1920s Miller table lamp, with six shades of caramel slag glass under filigree with a bronze metal base. As the light chain cast a dangling shadow upon the floor, the room was dowsed in warm caramel light.

Each piece of furniture that now filled the room was mismatched, odds and ends from the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth, the hand-me-downs of a unknown number of older apprentices. For a moment as I looked about the room, from one furnishing to the next, I wondered who they had been, had the Professor made them or were they the childer of other Tremere regents who had been assigned to train with my sire. The previous night, Natasha had revealed to me the evolutionary steps of our various disciplines, that in time with the discipline of Auspex I would soon see the spiritual auras around people, places and things. As my skill with Auspex increased, I would be able to touch objects and feel the emotions of their previous owners, even see memories associated with them, if I was talented or lucky. And eventually, I would be able to read minds and loose my spirit into the astral plane, whatever that might mean. She had even told me that vampires as powerful as the Professor could manifest unique abilities with the psychic discipline.

But that was not all she told me, as her thoughts poured into me, I could see myself looking other people in the eyes and compelling them as the Professor had compelled me. Initially, I would be limited to a single word, but that with practice, I could squeeze just a little more detail out of such a command by artfully placing the compelling word in a carefully constructed statement. In time, I could stretch the force of my will out into a command a sentence long, then add and remove memories, and then reduce some poor wretch to a drone who could only follow my commands, and finally I would be able to joyride in a human body by turning another human-being into a sock-puppet. Her mental images came with a scary warning that chilled me to my bones, the discipline of Dominate was addictive and could quickly turn a normal person into a soulless monster; I had been warned.

Most intriguing were the images she showed me of the ritual magic we the Tremere were infamous for, the hermetic shapes, the strange ingredients and complex recitations needed to achieve the proper state of mind and the honing of the will in order to make changes to the world around us. She did not show me any of the deeper mysteries, but she did show me enough to wet my appetite for more. In those few minutes that we shared one consciousness, I saw the occult library where the lores of this dark world were found and actual manuals of magic were kept on what seemed like endless shelves. I also saw the laboratory where I would soon labor as the custodian and the mystical vault that housed strange and dangerous artifacts. But clearly, there were places Natasha had never been, for they were shadowed rooms that her mind feared to visit or she had been warned not set foot in on pain of punishment.

But in the last few seconds of our link, I saw bits and pieces of Natasha's life. I do not know whether she meant for me to see them or if in some way I had reversed the flow of her psychic link. I saw her walking barefoot on the beach in the bright sunlight of some earlier decade, there were flashes of her making love to Seth and the bitter end of things between them, of her first meeting with the Professor and her own journey into darkness. I felt blessed to see such personal things and in return I opened my mind to show her some of my life and in doing so I revealed the first pangs of my love for her. When it was over, I suddenly felt hollow, lonely as if without her thoughts melded with mine, I was an empty vessel. It was a very personal and intense experience that left me in shock, but then I was not alone in this for I could see tears in Natasha's eyes. But she did not let either of us linger on these things, rather she got me up and moving and within the hour all the old furniture was disposed of and we moved all the odds and ends into my room. We were barely finished when Seth entered without knocking and demanded I accompany him into the subterranean sanctum below the chantry.

Al this I recalled as I looked about my room. And then I forced myself into motion and as I did so, I felt first light pains that I would find normally accompanied the hunger. I tried with little success to ignore it, so unlike human hunger, the sensation was of the constricting of tiny blood vessels all over my body, a kind of itching that started in the skin of the hands and feet and worked its way deeper into the flesh and bone as it moved towards the trunk of my body. From the start I established nocturnal rituals of shaving and showering, an attempt to reconnect with my lost humanity. When I emerged from my shower, I found a completely new wardrobe, shirts, pants, socks, underwear, shoes, ties, everything I would need. As I dug through all the boxes and bags, I realized that someone had ordered seven sets of exactly the same outfit. I laughed out loud as I stood before a beautifully engraved and frosted oval mirror in a hand carved wooden frame. The outfit veritably screamed "Welcome to Old Wyvern Hall, this is your new uniform, wear it with pride." And that is what it was, a school uniform, how ridiculous it seemed to me, at the time.

In the final minutes of the previous night, Seth had warned me, that my room must be kept spotless or he would heap additional work onto my already lengthy list. So my first task was to put away all my new clothes in a orderly fashion, then I threw away all the boxes and bags that had been delivered from fashionable Australian boutiques to cloth me. I took all the trash downstairs to disposed of it in the basement furnace room. Then I returned upstairs and sorted the room out, made the bed, cleaned the bathroom and polished the furniture, etc. Once these personal tasks were completed, I decided not to press my luck with the "Hunger" as I was starting to feel the first faint beginnings the more severe cramping that followed the intense itching of the flesh and I made my way to basement once again, but rather than visit the furnace room, I entered the cold storage room.

The cold storage room was actually a hermetically sealed and refrigerated room that contained months worth of blood bags stored in glass cases according to blood type, the date of the blood draw and its degree of rarity. There were only three pieces of furniture in the room besides the glass cases, all made of perfectly clean, shiny stainless steel: a long steel table, another table with a triple sink and a trash receptacle that looked frighteningly like a Dalek. As I entered the room, I felt the cold but in a rather distant way, as I looked around I saw a temperature gage in metric of course and with a quick calculation realized it was only a few degrees above freezing. Only nights before, I had been reduced to helplessness by such a cold temperature. But now, as one of the undead, I barely noticed it other than to register the difference.

On the long steel table in the center of the room lay three bags of blood in a steel tray with my name engraved upon it. The message was clear enough, so I stepped over and lifted the first bag to my mouth and before I realized it, my fangs had descended. As I bit through the plastic, the cold blood entered my mouth, setting off orgasmic little shocks through the muscles of my mouth and traced its way down my throat and into my stomach. So amazing was the taste, it took a few seconds to realize all the bags were empty. And yet, each bag had been a memorable, sensual experience unto itself, I immediately sensed that I need more. I did not feed the blood bags to the Dalek until I had ripped them open and licked them clean.

Then I proceeded towards the glass cases that actually turned out to be made of Plexiglas. Just as I reached out to open the nearest case, I felt a disturbance in the air before my hand. I only hesitated a moment and then grabbed the crystalline knob and drew my hand back in agonizing pain, it had stung me! As I sucked my throbbing fingers, I noticed for the first time, the crimson sigils painted on the inside of each case. I had read about such things in Dungeons & Dragons, but never imagined I would encounter them in real life. They were wards, or mystical symbol of protection versus a variety of supernatural things, apparently this one worked against vampires - including me. I could immediately see the Professor's hand in this, another lesson learned. I cursed silently to myself, but turned away and licked clean the table and tray where I had splattered blood. Then I washed my hands in the industrial sink and went downstairs to begin my night's labor.

I approached what appeared to be a random section of the old red brick wall that surrounded the basement of "Old Wyvern Hall", it lay on the same wall as the basement stair but at the opposite end of the building, in a largely abandoned corner of the basement. There were no windows anywhere near here, and no rooms either. Just a empty corner, but the floor here was far too clean, in a real basement, especially in a building this old, there would be lots of dust and cobwebs. I raised my hands and began the complex gestures used by the Professor only last night, it seemed so much had happened since then. Then I began the chant in Latin, I had no idea what it meant, but then I felt that vibration from earlier like a special little shiver or someone was walking over my grave. As I felt that strange vibration, I stepped forward and through the wall. There I stood on the landing, in the darkness, but I had used the mystical passport correctly the very first time. I was so proud that at first I did not notice the light rising upward through the stairwell to ever-so-faintly illuminate the landing where I stood. Instinctively, my senses had attuned themselves to the low-light conditions and as they did so, my other senses seemed to kick in as well. The light from below was a combination of cool, steady illumination and a faint flickering. Accompanying the light, was a scent of sea-salt, hyacinth, and dust? My ears picked up a low sibilant chant in Latin, the dulcet tones were those of Natasha. She must be "casting" a spell or ritual. Not wishing to disturb her, I walked as silently as possible down the stone steps and into the main sanctum chamber.

At the bottom of the winding stair, the great double doors with their inscribed seal of Clan Tremere lay open revealing the great sanctum chamber with its seven arches and the circular labyrinth upon the floor. All was I remembered it, the seven magical globes floated above their respective arches casting a dim illumination upon the chamber floor. But as I entered, I felt that shivering moving through my body in time to Natasha's recitations. What was she casting? I could see that her ritual space occupied the three innermost circles of the labyrinth, and that tracing that outer circle -- actually the fifth circle of initiation, was a circle of white sand and just inches beyond its border another circle of water. Which struck me as strange. What kind of ritual would require both sand and water?

Unconsciously, I had drifted across the breadth of the room and stood before the circle of water as Natasha gestured in extremely complex ways as she seemed to stalk about a large brass hourglass. The little shiver had evolved and my whole body seemed to tremble with the rhythm of her cadence. While I am sure she was aware of my presence, she barely spared me a glance for she seemed totally absorbed in watching the ghostly figures that moved and spoke within the circle. It struck me that there was something strangely familiar about the tableaux that was playing itself out in front of me and then it hit me like lighting from Zeus' hand, she had cast a ritual that allowed her to see into the past. In this case, she was watching the events of last night, of my initiation into Clan Tremere. Why would she do that? She had been there herself and surely remembered all that had occurred. I felt cold watching the figures of myself, the Professor, Natasha and Seth as they went about their predestined actions. I could ever so faintly hear myself replying to the Professor in that ritualistic way and then he poured the contents of the cup into my mouth. I have always found it strange to hear recordings of my voice or watch video tapes of myself saying and doing things, probably because I have never seen myself the way others do. But what came next was something else entirely.

As my spectral self finished drinking the blood from the chalice, a voice or should I say, a multitude of voices rose up out of him. A chorus of masculine voices, blended together, speaking at great volume in a totally unfamiliar language. I could not truly understand what I said at that moment and I definitely did not recall anything so surreal as this scene that could have been edited from a horror film. While I could not understand the words spoken, it evoked in me a sensation akin to that of my strange dreams. My strange outburst did not last long, and then my spectral self collapsed on the floor, exhausted, but conscious. What was going on here, I specifically recalled losing consciousness after drinking the blood from the chalice and yet, my sensed seemed to reveal a different truth. As the temporal recording played itself out, the Professor lifted me up and holding me close spoke to me. As I stood there watching the scene from the outside, I could not hear what my sire said to me, but I did not miss the overly long eye contact or my own dazed expression. I had been dominated. Something ugly like rage stirred itself inside me, the compulsion to stay inside "Old Wyvern Hall" had not been the first time he had compelled me. In that moment, the beast had control of my motor functions and involuntarily I stepped forwards with my hands stretched forward like claws to rend the Professor for stealing my freedom from me.

Distantly, I heard Natasha's scream for me to stop, but it was far too late. As I moved forward in a rage to grab the spectral Professor, I came into contact with the circle of water on the floor just outside Natasha's ritual space. I heard myself scream and then I smelled the stench of my own burning flesh, for inadvertently, I had crossed a ward versus the Kindred. The results were not pretty, my hands, chest and face immediately blistered as if I had been exposed to open flames. And the pain, the pain was like nothing I had ever experienced as a mortal. The moment I took injury, a terrible fear leapt up from some deep recess of my mind and I fled that place for the dark upper reaches of the winding stair. It was as if those parts of me that had been burned by the ward were still on fire, as if I could still feel the ward's searing touch even minutes later. Seth and Natasha found me at the top of the stair, crouching down in a corner hugging my burnt arms close to my chest and screaming still. It was a powerful lesson, that I would never forget.

Seth cursed me for a fool even as Natasha tried to calm me with soothing words. Neither strategy seemed to work. But then Seth hit upon a tactic that did work, literally. I never saw his fists and I would not have had the presence of mind to try to evade his attack if I had detected it. As I slid into the soothing bliss of unconsciousness, I had reason to thank Seth for the first and only time. I did not dream and awoke to a mixture of sensations, pain and pleasure in equal measure. In a detached way, I was sure I had been to this party before. But as full awareness asserted itself, the memory of mistake and the pain of my burns returned fully to me along with the strange disconnected sensation of feeding which sent shudders of ecstasy through my body, making me wish Natasha would lay down with me.

Upon opening my eyes, there was just a moment's disorientation and I realized that I lay on the cold steel table in the cold storage room. An I.V. was inserted into my chest and I traced the plastic tube to two bags of dark fluid that resembled blood. They were feeding me, but in a very unconventional way. I caught the tail-end of a argument between Seth and Natasha. The moment they realized I was awake, they ceased their squabbling and walked over together to gaze down at me. Seth was the first to speak to me: "Well-well, Old Man, you are a fool, but a lucky fool, it could have been worse." As he laughed to himself, he walked out of the room, closing the door upon Natasha and I. Natasha was beautiful as fear and anger warred with each other upon her face. And she said: "For once, I agree with Seth, you are a fool. What were you thinking of entering my ritual space as I cast my working?" I lay there, my body feeding from the bags as I tried to process everything at once. Natasha's scorn and beauty accentuated my body's ecstatic response to blood and the terrible pain inflicted by the ward. I just wanted to lay there gazing at her forever. As she studied my reactions, she let out an unattractive snort and leaned down to look me in the eyes. Next she said: "The curse has already healed all the damage it can without your conscious participation. To heal your more serious burns, you must focus your will upon the Curse of Caine to push the healing process further tonight." When I did not immediately respond, she very rudely ripped the I.V. from my chest and as I gasped at the loss of my blood-source, she repeated herself.

In a effort to comply, I focused my will in the only way I knew how. I took a deep and unnecessary breath and thought about the blood inside my body where it pooled close to my heart and spine. The Professor had already drilled into me the necessity of consciously controlled imagery as a tool in aiding the manipulation of mystical processes and forces. As Natasha spoke, I focused on her words rather than her intoxicating presence and imagined the blood flowing through the arteries, veins, and capillaries on its way to the sites of injury. As the exercise took hold of me, the room fell away and my only awareness was of my body. It was as if, I as a vampire were innately equipped with electromagnetic resonance imaging. I could sense the damaged areas of my body and what they should look like as opposed to when they were damaged and I just made the millions of tiny blood cells repair the damaged tissues. Time stretched out into infinity and flickered past at light-speed and then I opened my eyes as the last of the pain vanished with an equally vast wave of itching that made me want to rip my own skin off. But I just willed my body to remain utterly still as the healing process completed itself. Even as I heard Natasha's involuntary intake of breath, I knew why she was surprised. I had healed myself, completely.

As I sat up on my elbows and then swung my legs over the edge of the table, the last of my burnt skin was turning pink and taking on my normal sallow complexion. No trace of the burns remained, not even scars and as she watched it happen, she spoke to me in her uncertainty. "How are you doing that? You have healed all your burns completely!?!" Then when I said nothing in response, she looked me right in the eye and demanded I tell her how I did such a thing the very first time. Her compulsion was was not subtle, but I did not resist it either. "I am not sure exactly how I did it, I just followed your suggestion, but it was as if I had done it a thousand times before." Every word spoken was the truth and she knew it. She threw my clothes at me harder than was necessary, but I could tell her anger was gone, it had been replaced by an entirely different emotion. As she left the room without looking at me again, I realized what that emotion was...fear."

I Stood there naked in the cold-storage room, feeling cold inside, but not from the temperature as I had forgotten all about it. But rather from Natasha's reaction to my success at healing myself. Had not that been the exercise she wished me to complete successfully? Intrinsically, however, I realized she had never expected me to succeed fully the first time. Why? Did not all vampires innately know how to heal themselves of all injury, folklore suggest that was why they were so hard to kill. I had missed something critical in our last conversation and I knew I needed to talk to Natasha again to understand what that thing had been. However, I could see she would need time for her fear of me to fade, whatever its source, it had been all too real and going to her now would only make matters worse. That left me with a growing familiar sensation, the hunger for blood was upon me again and if anything, it was worse than when I awoke this evening. I polished off the remnants in the blood-bags that had been left for me, but that wasn't nearly enough to satisfy this new thirst.

After disposing of the blood-bags in the trash, I realized that I was still naked, so I dressed on my way to the door out into the basement. It never crossed my mind to go to Seth for aid with Natasha or in satisfying my thirst. Between his native arrogance, caustic response to everything I did and the little voice screaming at me not to trust him with this new information, I set upon a entirely different course of action.

I was barely dressed as I emerged into what felt like the tropical warmth of the basement. In reality, it was probably quite a bit colder down in the musty old basement than upstairs or outside where summer and subtropical heat held sway. I noted with curiosity that my new clothes were completely undamaged. The ward had destroyed my flesh as if by fire, but the expensive cloth showed no signs of being exposed to either extreme heat or a caustic substance. It was something worth noting and happened to give me an idea. So I went upstairs looking for the household servants. To my surprise, all were locked in their rooms tonight, all save the security guards that protected the front door and fire-exit. Was I the reason for that? Was it my imagination or what I getting paranoid? I concluded that the Professor or Seth or Natasha had ordered all of them to stay in their rooms tonight for their own protection, from me. What did they think I was going to do, exsanguinate the household staff? As I thought back to earlier tonight, I realized that was exactly what they thought I would do. I was a addict now, my drug of choice was blood and I would be a addict for the rest of my life. It was an emotional moment for me. But the "thirst" was growing on me again and I instinctively knew I could not tarry if I did not want to add murder to my list of tonight's mistakes.

I found the fire-exit guard reading a fantasy fiction series I had never heard of. Fire and Ice, whatever. As I approached his security booth, of all too modern construction, with a inch of Plexiglas between us. I smiled and nodded to him. He did not smile, but he nodded back and he did not avert his gaze as he looked at me, thankfully. As our gazes locked, I focused hard on his eyes and willed him to do my bidding. "Leave the security booth." I stressed the word "leave" and to my shock he did as commanded. As he stepped out of the booth, I was feeling giddy with success and failed to anticipate the danger my thirst represent for this guard's life. When I stepped closer to him, I could hear the steady throb of his heart, its rhythm erotic and hypnotic. Worse still was the smell of his blood, just below the surface of his skin, warm with a human heat as it rushed here and there through his veins, its metallic scent salty in a way that just about triggered a bestial response from me. I knew he sensed his danger as I felt my fangs descending, but as he reached for one of his weapons I caught his eye again and command him to stop. Once again he complied, but I could sense resistance starting to build in him as he tried instinctively to avert his gaze. Fearing that I might kill him before either Seth or Natasha could stop me, I settled for the direct approach.

"You know what I am, yes?" Without looking at me, he nodded. And suddenly I could smell his fear, an acrid scent that somehow made the moment almost unbearably erotic. I was running out of time and resistance to my own animal instincts, so I said: "I am so thirsty, and rather than try to feed upon you my friend, I need your help getting into the blood stores found in the cold-storage room. Will you help me?" His surprise was palpable as he readily agreed to help me. I know we were both relieved, but neither of us was out of the woods yet, so to speak. I brushed past him, leading the way to the cold storage room, in part to put him at ease and for myself, to avoid his alluring scent.

When we entered the cold-storage room, I half expected Seth or Natasha to be there to admonish me against raiding the blood stores, but the room was empty. The guard whose name was Sean Hunt, I almost had to laugh at the irony there. Did not hesitate or wait for further instructions, he opened the first storage cabinet and pulled out a half-dozen bags and tossed them down on the table between us. He wisely stepped back as I snatched up the first bag and tore into it like a lion ripping into a gazelle on the African savanna. I feasted and when I once again became fully aware, he was gone. But he had thoughtfully emptied a couple more cabinets for me. I did not stop feeding until I had emptied more than a dozen blood-bags. As I sat there on the freezing floor, blood smeared on my new clothes, on my hands, my face and on the floor where I had dripped -- I began to laugh uncontrollably. I was a messy eater. But as hysteria started to take hold of me, another thought immediately sobered me, this could have turned out entirely differently, two or three of the household staff could be dead right now. The upside was that I had resisted my urge to feed long enough to compel the guard's assistance in bypassing the wards versus Kindred. The downside was even more thought provoking, neither Natasha, nor Seth had anticipated this most obvious result of my mistake downstairs. An older vampire would have seen this coming and been prepared, neither of them had experienced babysitting a neonate before. As illogical as it might seem, I was a better judge of how to conduct myself in dealing with my fledgling instincts than either of them. Why was that? Was it tied to my innate understanding of how to heal myself of even grievous injuries? How could I know these things when I had been undead for all of two days? Questions that would haunt me for years to come.

Of course, I cleaned up my mess, disposed of all the evidence and got washed up. Then made my way to the main sanctum. I found a uncommunicative Natasha cleaning up her ritual space. Remembering an incident from you mortal youth, my grandfather was a stoic old man and if asked would say he needed and wanted no help in whatever endeavor he happened to be working upon at that moment. At first I had taken him at his word and gone off to do my own thing, until one of the women of my family explained it to me. Never ask, she had said: "Just walk up and start doing something, your grandfather will be pleased and if you do something wrong then he will correct you." For my part, I never did like this method, but I found that it did in fact work, especially with those individuals who thought of themselves as particularly capable. Natasha and Seth, I was to find belonged to this same group of strong willed individuals, the difference being that Seth would readily command me to aid him as a matter of course, whereas Natasha wanted me to volunteer my assistance. So, as she was sweeping up the sand, I made a loud approach and stated that I would take care of all the remaining sand if she would give me the specifics of its disposal. Initially she was terse, but warmed up fairly quickly. I in turn familiarized myself with all the duties of a Apprentice of the First Circle, obviously Natasha had been one decades ago and knew the ropes, so I asked for instruction got my start as an immortal custodian.

The remainder of the night went smoothly enough, discounting Seth's constant barbs. I did not know it then, but in this regard, he would be as constant as the Northern Star. The next evening was a different matter entirely, as Seth was the first to notice and investigate the number of missing blood-bags, which he promptly brought to Natasha's attention. After a brief interrogation, I confessed and was duly punished with more work. While Seth took great pleasure from my suffering, it was the servants that seemed most put out by the situation. You see, I was taking away all their work and house's majordomo felt this was an unacceptable situation, which he presented to Natasha forthwith. In a manner rather unlike her, Natasha brusquely told him to deal with it and not interfere again, offering a nonspecific threat as motivation. He was angry and left their meeting, which I had spied upon while cleaning carpets. Its true what they say about servants being invisible, everyone except Seth ignored me, in time even the servants began to do so.

In imitation of the damned of Tartarus, I was forced to repeat my nightly labors with minimal variation or the vain hope of cessation. Ever so slowly, the long dark hours added up to nights, which in turn piled up into nocturnal weeks and the weeks seem to merge becoming long months of darkness. With constant mind numbing labor to be done, my duties as janitor and repairman kept me busy without any real sense of achievement. However, I became all too familiar with the layout of "Old Wyvern Hall." Compelled as I was, I could not really imagine what the Hall looked like from without, but its gloomy and austere interior became the whole of my world.

The foundation of "Old Wyvern Hall" was laid during the winter solstice of 1887. Officially the hall was meant to serve as the original dormitory to one of Australia's first colleges. In reality, the Tremere Clan of vampires used the excuse of its creation to establish a chantry in Melbourne. It took three years of constant construction to finally realized its regent's vision. But in 1890, the newly minted "Wyvern Hall" opened its doors to the young men of Australia who did not necessarily reside in the fast growing metropolis of Melbourne or whose homes lay far away in the vast reaches of the Outback. Little did the Methodist founders of Queen's College realize that they had invited a monster to teach their young men and that their sons slept within the very walls of that monster's sanctum. While the original first class of 1889 scarcely required a dormitory of such magnitude, as there were only twenty-four students, Melbourne was in the grip of a population explosion and the college's founders believed they were acting with foresight when in reality they were simply following Professor Charles Cipher's hypnotic suggestions. The period of 1897 to 1920 saw almost daily expansion of the college complex. By the "Roaring Twenties", Wyvern Hall had gained its title of "old" and could scarcely house the male student body. Other dormitories were constructed and it was believed that "Old Wyvern Hall" was razed to make room for a number of other important campus buildings. Somehow the faculty and students of Queen's College simply "forgot" that the Hall was still there. While references to the Hall still remained in countless college ledgers, old photographs and the original blueprint for the campus, it simply vanished from the awareness of the campus residents. Over time, a grove of trees grew up around the chantry, providing shade from the hot Australian sun and screening it from public view. Yet some other otherworldly mechanism must have come into play for a three story Jacobean mansion built of quarried gold limestone and containing a hundred rooms to simply vanish and remain unseen decade after decade.

One of my first big "projects" took me to the Hall's dusty and cluttered, rough timbered attic. After my catastrophic interruption of Natasha's "Past Watch" ritual, she give me the unpleasant and herculean task of cleaning out the attic, of sorting through the last hundred years worth of old clothing, antique furniture, memorabilia, outdated gadgets and trash. While I had sheepishly accepted my punishment, I was astounded at the sheer clutter I found with my first visit to the upper reaches of the Hall. The attic was two hundred feet long, about forty feet wide, with a deceptively low ceiling space at just twelve feet and every inch of space seemed to be filled. I took a flashlight the first time and in the windowless gloom, the attic seemed far more like a long low dusty wooden cave.

At first glance, the jumble was without reason or rhyme, but as I began to explore by climbing over furnishings and random boxes or luggage in successive waves, I began to see that there was a kind of mad order to the layers of forgotten items left to gather dust over the last century. The farthest reaches of the attic from the hidden stair that led up from a third floor bedroom were where the oldest items had been initially stored. Items from the late nineteenth century...

Over the coming nights I explored every room in "Old Wyvern Hall." And as the nights became weeks and the weeks turned in months, I learned about the Hall's other architectural features. Its secret rooms, similar to the priest-holes of the counter-reformation, and the hidden passages that allowed the Tremere to move from floor to floor without ever being seen. The rooms below the Hall constituted the main sanctum with its great dome, seven Roman arches, and labyrinth inlaid floor. Off of the Great Sanctum lays six other rooms reached through their respective archways, one of which was the alchemical laboratory where Seth carried out his most dangerous experiments. Another was the Mystic Vault that contain dangerous or unpredictable enchanted items, and about this room and its contents I was especially curious, but the turn-or-the-twentieth-century bank vault of which it consisted, along with a long list of wards, discourage my interest somewhat. There was also a scrying room, where Natasha did much of her work in the area of divination and dream magic. Of course the Professor had his own personal laboratory where he carried out his own secretive experiments, and although I was occasionally asked to enter and clean up a mess, he never told me what he was working on and I was not foolish enough to ask. Despite this, on certain occasions I would pass the door to the private lab and through the door I would feel that old shiver and I knew that he was tinkering with temporal magic, a truth I could neither confess nor discuss with the other apprentices. The last two rooms were fairly practical in nature, if a touch grim in their intended purposes. One of the rooms was meant to detain certain mortals or animals used for specific rituals or in case a difficult mortal managed to breach the Hall's elaborate security and the other was a vault that served as the panic-room of "Old Wyvern Hall."

Five Years of Indentured Servitude

The Professor did indeed return after the turn of the new year, although it was near the end of January. Unfortunately, he was spot on about Seth and how he would respond to my presence in the chantry. It was almost classical sibling rivalry, except that by the time I was Embraced he was eighty-two years old and had been a vampire for fifty-seven of them. Still, the month the Professor was gone to Vienna was easily the worst month of my unlife. The moment the Professor and Dural left for the airport, he came to my room and demanded I accompany him, which I did. We went directly to the sanctum below "Old Wyvern Hall", there we passed through the Vault of Sevens as I called it, through another archway into a hall I had yet to visit. The hall was about fifty feet long and only illuminated at the end, before the thick metallic double doors which were thickly inscribed with arcane symbols that I wasn't prepared to decipher.

Seth stood before the doors with purpose and began to chant in Latin while gesturing in strange ways with his hands. "This is the laboratory where the Professor, Natsha and I do our research. Watch what I am doing carefully, its called a passport, as in a mystical phrase, gesture or both that will allow you to bypass mystical effects like wards or curses. You need to learn how to utilize the passport if you are going to get started on your chores...'boy'." If his terminology hadn't been enough, his tone of superiority said it all. There would be no physical hazing, the Professor would never permit that, but Seth was allowed to use me as menial labor to his heart's content and no one would interfere provided it was something legitimate. And over the next month, he found a backlog of legitimate 'chores' that he needed completed, including a complete scouring of his personal chambers, which were far larger and more lavish than my own.

At first, I thought it was just a form of hazing, but nights of unremunerated drudgery turned into benighted months of the same, then years of it. The best way to describe those long, dark, monotonous years is for you to image an endless, light-less, groundhog day. I was an indentured servant in all but name. Over the next five years, my time was taken up with either study or apprentice-work, a delicate phrase for any disgusting, menial or mind-numbing chore the Professor, Natasha or Seth needed doing. For five years, I never stepped outside the walls of "Old Wyvern Hall", long after the Professor's mental command had faded, I was forbidden to go outside for any reason on pain of more drudgery. Learning the mystical secrets of the universe was to come at the price of heavy labor. In numerous books, I had read that in many chantries there were creatures called gargoyles who did all the heavy lifting, if not, sometimes there were other types of animations like the Golem which came in a variety of forms for the same purpose. But I was to learn that it was a tried and true tradition handed down through the hallowed centuries from before House Tremere had become a clan of vampires, that apprentices paid for their education with menial labor. This fact in itself wasn't so bad, after all, it made a kind of sense. It was tangible proof that the initiate was serious about staying the course and dedicated to whatever tasks were set before him or her by those who held the sacred knowledge to dispense as they saw fit.

What bothered me most was that Seth took such pleasure in using me as his personal serf, for him I cleaned beakers, scrubbed the scorch marks off the marble of the casting chamber, disposed of dead animals and mortals, you name it. If he could have learned to defecate again, he would have done so just to force me to empty his chamber pot for him. I cannot lie, after a month, I hated him. After a year, I considered suicide by sunlight, but it was the Professor and Natasha who convinced me otherwise. She showed me compassion, which was in rare supply in "Old Wyvern Hall." And, in the Professor's case he was just too cold and intellectual to offer anything like emotional comfort, but where his humanity failed, he understood the concept of risk and reward. So every so often I was given a free night, I still couldn't leave the chantry, but my time became my own and Seth would have to wait until the following night to punish me with more labor. On those rare, free nights, I would watch television, read newspapers or surf the web, for while I was an ageless servant of nocturnal blood magicians, time was passing and the world outside was changing.

My adjustment to unlife went smoother than most, for I did not seem inclined to make all the little mistakes that fledglings do, like trying to eat food, testing the effects of sunlight/fire and or binging on blood. The last was perhaps the most difficult, for as a mortal, I had definitely enjoyed eating a little too much. However, for the first five years I fed exclusively from blood-bags, the taste of cold blood saturated with anticoagulants made over-feeding highly unappetizing. But I was pleased to discover a new-found slimness, likely do to the atrophy of my vestigial internal organs. And all the extra physical labor was bringing out the definition in my musculature, ironically, it was Seth who unwittingly helped me in this department.

On one of my free nights, I was chatting with Natasha and she was complimenting my physique. He must have been passing her room, randomly of course, when he heard her comment. A moment later, he leaned against the door-frame, as an apprentice of lower station he needed to ask permission to enter he chambers, while he could enter my chambers at will. Since the door was open and he was not about to ask Natasha's permission for anything, he leaned there and derided every compliment she had just offered. As he did so, he pulled off his wife-beater and barred his magnificent chest for both of us to admire. While I did indeed hate Seth to the core of my being, it did not stop me from admitting he had a nearly perfect body.

Its not that I find men appealing, but rather that I can appreciate the sheer hard work and effort that must have gone into developing a superb physique. As he was deriding me in a lecturing fashion, Natasha pointed out that he had not always possessed a perfect form, as a mortal he had been good looking and fit, but not perfect. For a moment he was pole-axed by her commentary, I took that moment to smile, not to further embarrass him, but just to see his expression. But he took it a entirely different way, seeing the need to prove himself, he lectured me on my foolish assumption that the vampiric body was anything like the human body, it wasn't the labor that built undead muscle, at least not labor alone, but rather the expenditure of blood into the correct muscle groups while performing said labor. He explained to me in excruciating detail how I was wasting blood by using it to accomplish heavier labors, without gaining the benefit of expending it into the specific muscle groups correctly.

Like wisdom freed from the rotting corpse of a dead Greek philosopher, or the Greco-Roman tradition of consulting ventriloquists as interrogators of the dead, I gleaned a bit of gold from the night soil of Seth's lecture. While I had not been blessed with the angular features needed to possess the face of Adonis, the long years of surfing necessary to be so tan, I could have a physique as good as Seth's with the proper study of anatomy and the micro-infusions of blood focused upon the specific muscle groups necessary to look like Hercules. Later, much later, I was to discover that this same technique could be used to infuse another set of masculine muscle groups and that constant application of this method led to a permanent increase in size as well...the phallusy of magic.

Still, it was a most valuable lesson, the realization that in unlife there are no friends or enemies, just teachers - a lesson well worth what I paid for it, many times over.

Perhaps this apprentice thing was not a complete crock. As the years progressed, the Professor steadily piled up the workload in mundane academics, but he did not stop there. He tested my psychic potential, discovering that in addition to the usual powers of Auspex, that I possessed the raw ability of mystical awareness. This talent was rare outside Clan Tremere and uncommon even within its ranks, but the Professor saw potential in it and thus compelled me to practice it by handling a vast assortment of mystical seeming items, honing my senses towards these things. In time, I became quite adept at picking out items of a supernatural character and distinguishing them from the mystical seeming, but ultimately mundane objects.

When I first came to “Old Wyvern Hall” my memory was about on par with your average American, after all, in the modern world why would one need to commit anything like an entire book to memory? However, Clan Tremere had strong ties to Hermes Trimegestus (Thrice Great Hermes), the Greco-Roman name for Thoth, the Egyptian god of scholarship and magic, via the ancient Hermetic orders of the dark medieval age. As a former history student, I had read about the Sack of the Library of Alexandria and that many of the librarians had committed more than one book to memory and were able to recreate them in total because of this skill. Thus, the Method Loci and Hermetic philosophy were both born in or around ancient Alexandria and the mages of the later Order of Hermes often committed entire volumes of rare occult lore to memory via this method. The method itself was pretty simplistic if a little unusual. The essential idea behind the Method Loci, is that the practitioner must pair a place (imagined or real) with an idea, at first simple ideas are best, but in time entire books could be added to the user's memory palace. The Professor was quite taken with the old Order of Hermes and its practices and put me through constant memory exercises, slowly building up my capacity until I could memorize pages of text at a single sitting. The benefits of this constant practice would prove quite useful and sped up the process of study, retention and interpretation of the most ancient works.

I was to find that the Professor was equally serious about his commandment to me to study Turkish to further the deception surrounding my past. I could only speak a few phrases by the time he returned from that trip in late 2012 to Vienna. At odd moments he would quiz me on my vocabulary, pronunciation, and grammar; he went so far as to bring in native tutors with which I could practice, though never when Natasha or Seth were around. One night, about a year into my studies, I was working my way through a Turkish children's book in the library when I noticed him looking through some volumes of ancient Latin. I decided to gather my courage and ask the one question that had plagued me for months: “Why Professor, must I, pretend to be of Turkish ancestry and speak their language?” Unfortunately, at the time, the Professor demanded that I phrase all questions to him in Turkish; it was his way of speeding my command of the language, that in retrospect, I believe worked.

Curiously, I was to realize, the Professor spoke no more Turkish than I originally and he had to struggle to make himself understood. “Czere, you were born special. Think back to when we first met. You know its true. Natasha and Seth are older, more skilled and talented members of the clan than you. But in a way, you were born of magic. Its a fire that lights your way, but it can burn you if you handle it wrong. No other Tremere, but I can accept you for what you are. Do not ask me about this again, ever...”

When I was able to workout the Professor's reply, for it was already of a more advanced level of Turkish than my own elementary capacity, I was chilled. Every language has its nuances, in Turkish, the Professor's reply seemed to hint that first meeting with him in Denver had been the result of dark magic. Of course, I understood the implicit threat behind his directive to never ask about the subject again, but that did not erase my curiosity, rather it inflamed it. However, all my further investigations into that subject would require the utmost caution and a high level of subterfuge.

Despite that one instance, I was encouraged to pursue any and all linguistic interests, but only if I was dedicated to studying them at a conversational capacity. The Professor was especially critical of my English, he loathed my American pronunciation and constantly corrected me, expecting only the Queen's English from me. I often wondered what queen that might be? How old was the Professor, he had never given even a hint. In any case, as I studied other languages: German (a familial interest), Greek and Latin of the ancient variety and of course modern Turkish, my capacity with new languages improved immensely. Yet, the Professor was never satisfied and always demanded greater proficiency.

In other areas, I was drilled on the history of the House and then Clan Tremere, as well as the history and lore surrounding mortal mages of the Hermetic Orders. In tandem with these subjects the Professor constantly lectured me on the limitless manifestations of the occult: mythology, rites and rituals, curses, demons, ghosts, werewolves, the fae and most importantly, the arcane principles behind the workings of Thaumaturgy.

I was told to learn as much about the mundane sciences and after five years, I had the equivalent of a Bachelors degree in the subject. I was given leave to study other subjects as well and I devoted myself, for aforementioned reasons, to studying medicine, specifically anatomy.

It was near the end of my fifth year after the Embrace, that my studies in Thaumaturgy were initiated. Honestly, I had come to the conclusion that the Professor had written me off as a true apprentice and that I would spend the rest of eternity, or as much of it as I was lucky enough to get, as a highly educated house servant. What were they called in the world of Harry Potter, a Squib?

The Test

Five years had passed, but for the undead the passage of time is a far different thing than it is for the living. For mortals, five years is enough time to grow from childhood to young adult, or to master a degree, build a romantic relationship or create a career. From the mortal point of view, time passes quickly, minutes blend into hours, and hours into days and then months into years. Humans trapped in the brevity of a limited lifespan gloss over little details, often forgetting the specifics of day-to-day life in their quest to reach certain goals and it is this glossing over of minutia that allows them to live their lives, forget past wrongs, move on, grow and eventually die with some sense of the finality of mortal existence.

For the Kindred, memory of past events and the narrative of consciousness is perceived of as one long infinite moment only divided by recurring lapses of consciousness, that register the passage of an entire day as nothing more than a barely remembered hallucination. In the mind of the unliving, that first night upon which they were cursed and failed to die, is the same night in which they dwell years or even decades later. An insult offered centuries ago is still fresh in the thoughts of the vampire, past successes and failures hold ever present sentiment for the Children of Caine, because the singular night of undeath possesses countless hours. While the past merges almost seamlessly with the present, the future seems to rush forward at a steadily advancing pace like a roller-coaster slowly building speed but never slowing; this point of view creates a unconscious genetic fear of sudden changes that might herald the final hour of the endless night which is the sum total of undead experience.

And so it was, on that long-ago summer night in December, in the still humid air of Old Wyvern Hall's attic, upon my habitual perch before the attic's small double casement window, I ruminated upon these recently realized truths. An old vacuum-tube radio left behind by some unnamed apprentice from in the 1930s and tuned into a local Melbourne music station poured out the latest songs by bands whose names I barely recognized. The singer's soft baritone lulled me into the old hypnotic habit of reading to the beat. The attic was dark except for those bars of light generated by the sodium vapor bulbs illuminating the campus green far below. In that queer chemical light, I perused the first book of Herodotus' nine volume 'Histories' titled 'Clio', named thus to honor the muse of history.

That particular night, the muse of history was with me as I tried to work my way through the book of Clio. My mind kept returning to the events or lack thereof of the last five years while before my eyes Io, her descendant Europa and the witch Medea were abducted by the Persians and subsequently raped. According to Herodotus, these three crimes, it part or in whole led the Trojan prince Paris to seduces the Spartan queen Helen and elopes with her, thus triggering the Trojan War and framing Herodotus' historical account of the struggles between the Achaemenid Empire and the Greek city-states in the 5th century BC.

Perhaps my inability to concentrate was a function of my profound boredom, I had devoted five years of my existence to academic pursuits and while I was unquestionably educated in both the modern and classical sense, I couldn't celebrate my successes. In Clan Tremere and specifically in Old Wyvern Hall, success in any endeavor simply earned one the right to another title, deeper courses of study and progressively more complicated tasks.

When I was young, I had always enjoyed social gatherings and intoxication, the two always seemed to conjure a heightened sense of camaraderie and filled me with a sense of family or community, later I came to understand on an emotional level that intoxication provided a euphoric unity with the divine. But the Bacchic rites had been denied to me, the Hermetic ideal did not allow for such things, the will to power, study and constant discipline were the touchstones of that oh so dry philosophy. Perhaps that is why I failed to obtain an academic degree in my mortal lifetime.

As my mind wandered over all of these things and I continued to read, a strange juxtaposition occurred in which I was like Io, Europa or Medea, abducted from my mortal life and raped by the Professor. The Embrace had stolen something essential, elemental, and ephemeral from me that I could not define. The subconscious grief of that unnameable loss left me bereft and in the vacuum created by its absence my attention lay with those people close to hand, the Professor, Natasha and Seth.

In so many ways the Professor was the father figure I had always needed, he was not particularly kind, although on a rare few occasions he did show me unexpected kindnesses, rather he provided two important things in a father, the first being a strong role model and secondly, a dedicated task master who never let me slacken in my pursuits. In some ways, I loved the Professor for saving me from a early death and giving me immortality, two debts not easily repaid. But any attempt to form a emotional relationship with the Professor was doomed to failure as he was a distant figure who shared not the slightest of his thoughts or feelings with his apprentices.

Natasha was another matter entirely, what had begun as little more than a crush had grown into unrequited love. It was the pattern, of those few romantic experiences of my existence. Freud would have said this was in part due to a poor relationship with my mother, a difficult woman whose life had contained more than her share of personal tragedies. Or perhaps is was due to a stunted childhood and a lack of early social experiences. Either way, Natasha was aware of my feelings, and alternatingly discouraged them as inappropriate between colleagues of different stations and subtly encouraging it because it created a pseudo-sexual rivalry between Seth and I for Natasha's attention. That Natasha was my only friend in a very small chantry must have played its part as well. But I believe our friendship was something of real importance to her and in those times when she struggled emotionally with her own demons, my attentions granted her a sense of being fought for, of being desired, of being a woman.

In the five years following my Embrace, Seth gave me no end of reasons to hate him. Ironically, I don't think Seth hated me so much he was divided in how he felt about me. As the chantry's newest apprentice, my arrival signaled a long overdue rise in Seth's status, at least in Seth's mind. My presence also allowed him to finally divest himself of all those onerous chores that the Professor and Natasha were able to foist off on him. I was the new beast of burden and that was good, but as the newest apprentice and the Professor's latest childe, I was also taking the Professor's attention away from Seth. In time, I believe Seth came to see this as a double edged blade. On the one hand it allowed him more opportunity to pursue his own research and more free time in which to court Natasha. The downsides, largely the product of Seth's narcissistic personality, lay in that I was 'stealing' the Professor's sacred tutelage and that Seth's extra research time was having positive results that the Professor would then appropriate for his own uses, thus blunting Seth's ambition. In the end, Seth's ego would not allow him to see me as a true opponent, I was just the 'hired help', lower in many senses than Dural as the chantry's chief ghoul and beneath contempt.

For five years that was the dysfunctional state of the chantry's relationships and despite its less than ideal circumstances, it was a safe and stable arrangement. But then, a turning point was reached. It is hard to say exactly when it came upon us all with any real certainty, but I believe it came with the approach of summer.

It had been warm wet spring, monsoon season in Melbourne and the constant downpour darkened moods, shortening tempers and confining all of us to Old Wyvern Hall. The weather being what it was, the students were all cooped up in their dorm rooms and that made hunting difficult for the Professor, Natasha and Seth. Thus we were all raiding the cold storage room for meals and while I fed exclusively on the cold vitae from the chantry's blood bank, the others obviously despised feeding in this manner and that did not help the situation any.

The Professor took the opportunity to intensify my studies in arcane principles and thus I found myself in his study undergoing rigorous examination upon the four major thaumaturgical principles: blood, will, knowledge and identity. The test lasted a week, the first night began reasonably enough with the principle of blood, which is in short the power source for thaumaturgic workings. The second night was spent on the principle of will, the essence of which is just that no mystical working can function without the presence of intent on the thaumaturge's part. On the third night, the Professor grilled me on the principle of knowledge which is the means by which a blood magician shapes a sending, this is because magical energy like all natural forces seeks the simplest course and without the proper manipulation it can go awry with devastating consequences. Night number four was spent in exhaustive testing on the principle of identity, the core concept of which is that all things have a unique essence which can be used to target the effects of blood magic.

When I had exhaustively recited all that I knew of these principles, the Professor moved onto the lesser principles and their application: sympathy, inherency, and contagion. The major principles are axioms used to define the creation of thaumaturgical works, both paths and rituals, the four principles are the underlying foundation of thaumaturgy. While the lesser principles are used as a framework which upholds all blood magic.

It is worth noting that all the lesser principles are more specialized functions of the major principle of identity. The fifth night covered the lesser principle of sympathy which simply states that once something is a part of something, it is always part of that thing. Interestingly enough, this can also mean that items have have emotional importance and have regular contact with a subject take on that individual's identity and can serve as a tangential means of targeting a subject. On the sixth night the Professor pressed me on the lesser principle of contagion. A variation on the use of proximity in thaumaturgical paths, contagion serves to communicate the sending to a subject through contact, seemingly 'infecting' the victim. It is primarily used in creating arcane traps and can be used to refine triggering conditions in such a way as to exclude certain individuals from a specific casting like a ward. And while rare, the principle can be used in reverse to attune certain workings to trigger for a single individual or a small group.

On the seventh and final night of this exhaustive oral test, I was pressed to explore all the permutations of the lesser principle of inherency. Unlike the other two lesser principles, inherency is not a method of directing a blood magic sending, but rather uses the essence of a given ritual's components to describe the qualities those ingredients possess to create the desired effect and focuses it through the thaumaturge's will.

The conclusion of the week long thaumaturgic test was strangely anticlimactic. The rain finally ceased, with its end the students of Melbourne University were either attending various beach party barbecues or hitting the city's club scene. As such, both Natasha and Seth had left Old Wyvern Hall and were presumably out for the night. The test had begun on a Saturday night and had ended at almost dawn on the following Friday morning. That night after I arose, the Professor sent one of the acolytes, a potential apprentice, a young woman with strawberry-blond hair and eyes the color of jade to the attic to ask me to attend the Professor in his study on the second floor. I showered, dressed in my university uniform and descended two floors via the servant's stair.

Four years before, after completing the Herculean task of cleaning up the attic, sorting a century of other people's cast offs and furniture, I took one wing of the attic as my residence. When I had initially made the request, the Professor had seemed dubious about granting an apprentice so much space, from his point of view it was a luxury that apprentices had to earn. But after a night of reflection, he changed his mind and granted me permission to move. Of course, Seth, ever jealous, was the one to complain for now I had far more space than he had. The Professor in his pragmatic way acknowledged the complaint and asked Seth when he would be moving into the attic? Seth, of course did not want to move out of his luxury apartments on the second floor, he just did not think it proper that a lowly apprentice of the first circle should be given so much space. Once again the Professor pointed out the lack of amenities to found in the attic, and effort that would be required to make it comfortable, and whether Seth was going to take the attic as was his privileged? Seth in a huff, declined and I was allowed a wing of the attic, but I was also made responsible for it upkeep in perpetuity.

The study was a large room on the second floor, it was windowless and near the center of the building. The only obvious entrance was single Tudor style arch door, the wood was almost black from numerous applications of stain and it was varnished to a fine sheen. It possessed eight panels depicting scenes from mythology, arcane symbols of protection and obfuscation were deeply carved into the top and bottom rail, along the vertical and horizontal muntin and completely around the door sills and across the threshold. I could not imagine why the professor would need a mystically hidden and warded door, but I knew better than to ask. The door nob was a beautifully polished piece with the sigil of Clan Tremere deeply etched into it. Indeed, the lock-plate was also inscribed with a shield over the key-hole, curiouser and curiouser. Of course, I had seen all this the first time I entered the Professor's study eight nights ago.

Not a sliver of light betrayed the door's location and there was no movement of air before it, nor did vibrations giving away the presence of someone walking or working within. As I approached the door, I felt a strange vibration deep down in my bones and it seemed as if the mythological figures of the door panels were looking directly at me. And for the eighth time, as I reached for the door-nob, the door just opened all by itself, as if it were the door that were expecting me. Perhaps it was, after all.

Just as it had been the previous seven nights, the room was immaculately neat and tidy as if the Hall's servants spent time in here everyday. But I knew from having walked the corridors of Old Wyvern Hall for one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five nights, that simply was not the case. The servants never went near that door and most did not even know it was there.

I hesitated to enter until I was bade do so. Candle light from a trio of chandeliers illuminated the room in a rosy-gold light whose flickering lent the room an otherworldly air and granted the Professor a almost human coloration. The room was rectangular, thirty feet deep, sixty feet wide and nearly every inch of wall space was covered in beautiful bookshelves of dark mahogany. But those goreous shelves held more than books, there were an abundance of curiosities and most numerous of all were the clocks – antique clocks from all over the world all ticking away in perfect synchronization. The only space not covered by bookcases were the entrance, a mirror opposite it, a fabulous replica of the Antikythera mechanism crafted from brass and crystal plates situated upon an ornate stand in the middle of the east wall and the Professor's 18th century Abraham Roentgen writing desk to the west.

The door opened in the middle of the south wall and directly opposite it, hanging upon the wall is a antique Italian glass mirror resting in a grotesque rococo black walnut frame. Before it stood the Professor in a black silk robe sewn with thread of gold in arcane patterns about the sleeves and collar. At his nod, I enter as he removes the ritual robe and sets aside implements recently used in casting, placing them into a matching cabinet resting just below the mirror.

Once more he was dressed in his usual tailored double breasted suit of navy blue, simple but elegant. I realized again how strange it was for him to wear horn-rimmed glasses when he has not the slightest need of them, a pure affectation. That was when he noticed my interest in the mirror. “The Eldritch Glass, it has a long and bloody history. I chased it for many years before I found it in an auction house in North America. In many ways, the glass and I have moved through history together, its fitting that it should now hang in my study. But I wouldn't spend too much time looking into it, you might not like what you see.” As usual, my sire and teacher was correct, however I am not at all sure which of us was more unsettled, the Glass or I. Each of the previous seven times I entered this room, the mirror revealed a different version of my face and form. Was it mocking me? Testing me? Or was it in its own special way offering some kind of sick praise?

I drew breath to speak. “Its a Spontaneous Talisman is it not?” The Professor stares hard at me for several minutes, and then when I think I am about to be scolded, he smiles his cold smile and says: “Czere, the bestiaries are much too advanced for an apprentice of the first circle. How did you come to study the Folio of Gideon Nils? Did Natasha let you look at it when she check it out of the restricted section? No? Ah, perhaps Seth left the folio in the library again?”

I shook my head. “No Professor, I found a hand written copy with illustrations in the attic when I cleaned it out five years ago.” I could not tell if he was angry or what emotion if any he might have been feeling. With barely a perceptible inclination of his head and I realized that I was neither in trouble, nor required to give up the treasured folio.

“Czere, as a apprentice of the first circle, you cannot have access to any bestiaries. However, as you passed your oral examinations this week, I am promoting you to the second circle. Let me be clear from this point forward, should you find any other arcane items, grimoires, reference works or other occult miscellanea in the course of your duties, I expect you to present them to myself or Nastasha immediately. This is as much for our protection as it is for yours, these items may seem harmless but they can be treacherous if mishandled. Am I understood?”

I offered my meekest ascent and the Professor presented me with a thick book bound in red leather, my test result from the oral exam. “Czere, I will present your results to my my Lord this week and you should expect to undergo the ceremony of investiture before the winter solstice. As I have other matters to attend to, you will excuse me and let yourself out and take the remainder of the night to do as you will. I expect you to return to your regular schedule of duties tomorrow night. Good night." And without further ado, he sat down behind his desk and began leafing through a thick stack of notes. I offered a murmured “Good Night” in return and moved to the exit. Just as I was about to leave, from the corner of my eye, I noticed the mirror reflecting something different yet again, the image reflected there was of a younger appearing version of myself in a late 19th century suit and glasses. I had not needed glasses since my Embrace and why would the mirror display me in retro-style clothing. Yet the mirror's trickery was far from finished, for as I continued to gaze into it, I noticed that my chest rose and fell. Something that simply could not be.

Welcome to the Second Circle

During the fortnight that followed, I could barely contain my excitement over my promotion, but I found the discipline to keep this news to myself. I think I was looking forward to seeing the look of disgust on Seth's face and receiving congratulations from Natasha. But the truth was, that I was secretly afraid that it was all just a hoax, it was an irrational feeling, but would persist up until the ceremony took place.

By comparison, the student body of Queen's College had gone into overdrive studying for the end of year exams, saying their goodbyes to new made friends and ending short-term romantic relationships in anticipation of returning home for the Christmas holiday season. As the temperatures continued to rise, clothing and inhibitions were shed in one last effort to enjoy the freedom of university life before returning to their more cloistered home-lives.

From the attic's casement window, I could hear a multitude of conversations coming to me from across the college green. Most of the sounds were of genuine merrymaking, or the frenetic release of pent up stress built up over the last month of intense academic effort. For most this meant imbibing large quantities of alcohol, heavy pot-smoking sessions or the pursuit of sexual release in cramp humid rooms upon too small beds and minimal privacy.

For four years, from the attic window, I had listened to the night-life of Queen's College and over that time, my supernatural senses had grown stronger, allowing me to follow more of what was happening as time progressed.

I know how sad it sounds, that I spent so much of my time listening in on other people's private conversations, because I felt so isolated and lonely trapped inside Old Wyvern Hall. I realized belatedly that in a way, I had become a ghost, unseen and unheard, able to perceive the world around me, but unable to affect it. And that fact lay at the core of a slowly growing madness, a kind of reckless restlessness urging me to escape the claustrophobic confines of Old Wyvern Hall.

In the nights leading up to the ceremony of investiture, when the madness of claustrophobia would for one reason or another rise up in me, I would enter a little used section of the attic furthest from my chambers and there pull up a section of floor-boards and withdraw from the hidden space within a highly polished box of cedar-wood. The box was about two feet long, eighteen inches wide, a foot deep and weighing precisely twenty-six pounds. It was bound in brass at each of the corners, and its hinges and lock were made of the same material. Into the soft golden metal, I had etched arcane sigils at precise intervals, thus surrounding the contents on all sides with a spell against rituals and path powers that detected for mystical residue. The ritual was of my own devising and drew such sorceries away to a duplicate box made from the same source materials as the box I held. The second box was carefully stowed at the foot of my bed in that section of the attic that I called my bedroom. I had enchanted both boxes at the same time and indeed needed to renew the enchantment each and every night in order to evade detection of the box's contents.

Arranging time in which to recast the spell on both boxes had proved the most challenging portion of the deception, but required little more than knowing where each of the other members of the chantry might be at any given time, and that, as the primary drudge of Old Wyvern Hall was fairly predictable.

I brought the box back to my bedroom and placed it next to its mate on the makeshift altar of my dressing table. My skill with thaumaturgy was still far too basic to conjure mystical traps, but I had spell-locked the second cedar box. I barely breathed out the chant that would release the locking spell and then I slipped an ornate brass key on a chain from around my neck and turned it in the box's lock until I heard a satisfying series of clicks. I opened the lid and peered inside. The bulk of the interior space was consumed by a series of leather bound books, half of them personal diaries and the other half a motley collection of arcane works left behind by previous apprentices including a crude copy of the Folio of Gideon Nils. The remaining space was taken up by a silver chalice, my athame, a velvet covered ring-box, a candle of black wax and an old brown leather bag.

During my excavations of the attic five years ago, I had found a host of interesting and useless items. Some of those items, like a couch carved from teak in the shape of a reclining oriental dragon and covered in brilliant red and gold velvet served to decorate my living quarters. Those few items of real value I had immediately handed over to Dural to dispose of, while the most mundane were handed over to the domestic staff to do with as they pleased. A few items had been too weird to keep. A good example would be the beautiful porcelain music-box that once wound-up would cause subtle but terrifying hallucinations. I found an excellent way to destroy it when I arranged for one of Seth's female acolytes, a girl named Arin to find the box, apparently she thought she could bribe him with it. I could hear his screams and later his cursing two stories below and half the hall away. Sadly the music box's effect on mortals was far more intense than I realized and Arin went insane and shortly thereafter disappeared from the chantry altogether. It had been a expensive if valuable lesson in the subtle dangers of enchanted items.

A few nights later, Natasha had been tutoring me in Latin verb conjugation and had subversively perused my thoughts to discover my hidden guilt. To her credit, she did not scold me or reveal my guilt to the Professor or Seth, rather she handed me the girl's taped therapy sessions and a copy of her obituary after she committed suicide. Decades later, long after Seth had forgotten Arin, the memory of those events would sometimes bring on a sense of regret like a dark worm slowly crawling about the now still chambers of my heart. It would always serve as a reminder that blood-magic always comes with a price and I wouldn't always be the one to make those payments.

Bypassing the diaries, and the occult miscellanea as the Professor described them, I withdrew three grimoires and settled on the dragon couch to study each. One was a shabby leather bound copy of Das Tiefe Geheimnis, otherwise known to most Tremere as "The Dark Secret" a fifteenth century German workbook on Thaumaturgy for new circle apprentices, copies of which could be found in every chantry in the world. The second was a beautifully bound leather tome with the imposing title of: Veneficorum Artum Sanguis. This grimoire was one of only sixteen copies in the world, written in Latin, the original had been penned by Inner Councilor Etrius probably sometime in the 11th century. I had to research the book's title carefully in the reference library without alerting the Professor, Natasha or Seth. I had learned the hard way that an unseen enchantments on the reference library's books would reveal which apprentice had looked at which reference work and when -- apparently the Professor did not entirely trust his apprentices.

The final grimoire was a summary, a Cliff Notes version if you will, of "The Journals of Thomas Bremond." The summary had been penned by one of the previous apprentices of Old Wyvern Hall in a time long before either Natasha or Seth had been Embraced. The apprentice in question, Silver Barret, a young Tremere who had traversed the ocean for months on a clipper ship from London to Melbourne in 1890. For one of the Kindred, he had taken serious risks with his immortality to cross the world aboard a cargo ship. One bad storm and the ship could have sunk in the middle of the Indian Ocean and he would have been trapped in torpor, perhaps forever. Or a nosy crew member might have gone looking for valuables in his possessions during the day and discovered the truth. In short, there had been significant risk and yet, he had still made the perilous journey. It was during that long passage that he had penned the summary, from memory no less, all to prove his worth to the Professor over a century before my own Embrace. There was a lot of history here.

Thomas Bremond, a native of Louisiana, had been the heir apparent to a sizable sugarcane plantation in the decades after the American War of Revolution. The journals recall almost no useful details about the man at all, save that sometime after his Embrace, he had returned to his ancestral home and turned his mind to thaumaturgic research. According to my own extensive research, Thomas Bremond is the only Tremere in the history of the clan to make a serious study of Voodoo. Originally, there had been two leather bound research journals, written in Bremond's elegant calligraphy as described by Silver Barret upon the occasion of his visit to the chantry of New Orleans in 1887. Sadly, Barret could not claim such elegance with a pen, his calligraphy was extricable. But the important details were these, Thomas Bremond spent fifty years from the turn of the nineteenth century until 1850 interrogating countless African slaves on the matter of their religious magic. He had discovered that Voodoo was a collage of African religious beliefs brought with the slaves from Africa centuries before and fused with native American spiritualist practices and Roman Catholic rituals. Bremond began to explore these practices with the aid of his sole childe and apprentice, and the unwilling slaves as subjects. He delved deep into the names, essences and summoning rites of the various Loa, their Veve, charms, curses and abjurations. Then shortly after the American Civil War, the journals just stop. No further entries are made and my research into the fate of Thomas Bremond revealed only that he disappeared under mysterious circumstances and investigators sent from Vienna ruled his disappearance to final. Of course, with the announcement of the Emancipation Proclamation, he most likely died at the hands of his own slaves. It is worth noting, that the powers-that-be in Vienna made no rule against further research into Bremond's work, but in the century and a half after since his disappearance, no other Tremere has bothered to pursued the rich occult lore of Voodoo. I found that both curious and ominous. It also did not explain why a rare and valuable treatise on a rare occult practice was gathering dust in the attic for over a century.

Ironically, there rare moments in life and unlife that hold a kind of serenity that is almost Zen. Years before, I had purchased four cast iron candelabra online and had them delivered to Old Wyvern Hall. The beeswax candles that I had lit upon my return to the attic filled the air with their subtle warmth and light. For countless hours, the candles had illuminated my attic sanctum, as they dissolved in the heat of the flame the hot wax would slowly wash over the side of the bobeche forming stalactites of cooling wax. All the way down the support shaft, between the base of the candelabra and the branching arms, rivulets of the warm wax would trace their way via gravity on a race to the floor. After years of the same, the wax had formed stalagmites of varying heights and symmetric. Much needed serenity came upon me as I skimmed "The Journals of Thomas Bremond" as I had so very many times before. There was nothing new to discover in the body or spirit of the text, but the action of scanning through the work brought a necessary peace of mind. And the hissing of the candle flames served as a kind of white-noise, drowning out all the other little sounds, only punctuated by the soft, sibilant plinking of wax droplets making the fall from the top of the candelabra to the base. As above, so below.

My frenetic anxiety required a constructive outlet and with so little time left before for the ceremony of investiture, I badly needed to practice every ritual, path power and cram my gramarye. My goal was no longer to simply pass the bar, I needed to excel and in so doing, impress my superiors. Without question, the local lord and his or her retinue would attend the ceremony, and that meant the possibility of forming contacts outside of Old Wyvern Hall. That I told myself was the crucial point. I was still a agent of the Tal'meh'Ra, lost in time, Embraced into Meerlinda's clan, and in many ways lost to myself. But I told myself, I still had a mission to complete and I could not kill Meerlinda if I was trapped in Melbourne or Australia for that matter. I would need to garner enough reputation, status, or celebrity to earn a visit to the prime chantry in Vienna. And once there, inculcate myself as indispensable to Councilor Etrius. From the libraries of Fortschritt or perhaps Ceoris, I would be able to glean why I failed the first time I tried to kill the infernal woman and finished the job, once and for all.

But this was only part of the truth, for by my very nature, I desire to distinguish myself from those around me, and in so doing, influence history itself.

With such ambitious thoughts, I set aside "The Journals of Thomas Bremond", for while Bremond's workbooks illuminated the subject of Afro-American animism, I could not use hoodoo to impress my local Lord or my sire. Instead, I opened the arcane workbook known to every Tremere apprentice the world over as "The Dark Secret." Written in the fifteenth century by a member of the Cologne chantry, Johann Kloepfer, Das Tiefe Geheimnis is probably the most common work on the subject of hermetic blood magic. Originally penned in Early Middle High German, the "Secret" had subsequently been translated into a dozen European languages. My copy, courtesy of Seth -- its last owner, was written in modern German, thank the gods. My command of EMHG is spotty at best and as a parallel evolution alongside Middle English, the two languages share much in common, including their dual ability to frustrate me. As languages they date back to a time when English and German were still evolving and lost letters like ash (Æ, æ), eth (Ð, ð), thorn (Þ, þ), wynn (Ƿ, ƿ) and the Tironian et (⁊) were common parts of loan words. From that time, only the Ampersand (&) remains in English and the German survivors are the Ärger (Ä), similar to the letter Ash, Ökonom (Ö), Übermut (Ü) and Eszett (ß).

Ironically, as the contents of "The Dark Secret" are anything but a secret to my fellow Tremere, I spent the next couple of nights working my way through its material. Essentially, the "Secret" contains the most common paths and rituals originated by the Tremere. Paths of thaumaturgy like the Path of Blood, Lure of Flames, Movement of Mind and of course Weather Control. I knew two of these and practiced the powers of the paths as if my life depended upon them, which ultimately, it did. During each of those two nights, both before and after practicing my path powers, I would descend to the basement level of Old Wyvern Hall and feed within the confines of the cold storage room. Its strange, but as a vampire (the word Kindred is just so...ridiculous) I am unusual in that I actually like the taste of cold blood. I had long grown accustomed to the taste of anticoagulants, which are to blood what artificial sweeteners are to diet soda, they always leave a unpleasant after taste that remains in your mouth for hours. I had of course tasted warm blood on many occasions, but I regularly avoided drinking from the hall staff and fresh blood arouses in me something animal like and hard to control, the Beast. Thus, it was safer and simpler to feed from refrigerated bags of blood. However, my dogged practice of the thaumaturgic paths meant I was using up the blood contained in my body at a vastly accelerated rate and I fed all the more heavily. My drinking of so much blood from the cold stores wouldn't go unnoticed, senior apprentices are required to keep an accurate count how much blood is on hand within the hall at any given time. The question was how long would it take Natasha to notice and would that happen before or after the ceremony of investiture?

Of course, I was not worried, so much as hoping to keep my little secret just a few more days. Whether I succeeded or not, I had to practice, but the following three nights saw me practicing rituals which in general require minute amounts of blood. It took me the better part of a night to caste all the rituals found within the "Secret", that is all those I could master, for many were entirely too complex for me to learn yet. If anyone else in Old Wyvern Hall noticed what I was up to, they never let on, for I was left entirely to my own devices save for those nightly chores that must be carried out by an apprentice of the first circle. Of course, there could be many reasons for that, perhaps the Professor had told the older apprentices to give me space, but that just did not seem likely. Another probable possibility was that Christmas time in Australia is summer, and as we approached the summer solstice the nights are the shortest they can be Downunder. The other apprentices were likely out hunting or just enjoying the few hours of night that remained after their own tasks were completed.

And so, with only two nights remaining before the solstice, I turned my attention to the third and final grimoire, the Veneficorum Artum Sanguis. It was the magnum opus of Councilor Etrius, written a thousand years ago, in Latin and contained the earliest experiments and iconic examples of how blood magic was combined with hermetic theory to create thaumaturgy. Luckily for me, of the sixteen copies extant, five are written in eighteenth century English. My copy was hand written in a heavy dark script that was identical to the Professor's cursive notes tonight. Clearly, at some point the Professor, probably an apprentice himself had been allowed continuous access to the original or one of the ten Latin copies. Had it been a reward? Or had the Professor himself secretly gained access to an unauthorized copy? Nothing within the work revealed the circumstances of how it came to be, and I found nothing within the body of the work to suggest that the Professor might have taken license in his version. Rather as I worked my way through the Veneficorum, I sensed a entirely different personality in the wording of the text and the ideas presented. The Professor would never imply any spiritual qualities to thaumaturgy, rather he saw it scientific terms, but Etrius on the other hand laid out his lessons in elegantly ephemeral terms that made understanding thaumaturgy sublimely simple.

The "Veneficorm" was broken down into three parts. The first part consisted of a dense recitation of medieval hermetic theory which would framed later revelations like the pillars and rituals that made up the core of blood borne hermetica. Many concepts which are now completely alien to Clan Tremere and thaumaturgy were critical details necessary for the survival of the mortal House of Tremere, like: Vis (magical energy), the daemon (a mage's mystical muse), the Feast of Nettles (mystical backlash) and far too many others to easily recount. The second part, of course, concerned how the leaders of House Tremere combined ancient hermetic theory and blood magic to create the first five pillars (paths) of thaumaturgy. The third and final portion of the grimoire was what I like to call the cookbook, a hodgepodge collection of the earliest thaumaturgic rituals set down by Etrius. Such rituals were far from what I would have expected given that I had learned thaumaturgy in the 21st century. The recitation of medieval rituals concocted by the first Tremere was something frighteningly different from the carefully sanitized rotes I had learned. These older rituals were often fusions of alchemy, animal experimentation, self mutilation, torture and vivisection, to name only a few of the horrors recounted. The least offensive rituals consisted of experiments with strange clockwork machines, fetishism, iconoclasm and sacred geometry. The most horrifying portions revealed the mindset of the original Council of Seven and their apprentices as they pushed the envelope of thaumaturgic possibility with experiments that clearly pointed in a direction that would ultimately conclude itself in the fabrication of the first gargoyles.

It was not the first time I had read Etrius' opus, but each time I did, I learned something entirely new. Like an epiphany inscribed on vellum, the Veneficorum revealed a point of view on thaumaturgy that could only be described as genius in the way it portrayed complex ideas and rendered them down to their component parts, clearly making problematic concepts elementary. The work always left me feeling as if I was in the presence of one of the great philosophers like Aristotle or Plato, and inspired me to achieve so much more that I thought myself capable of. Thus I delved into rites little used in the modern era, but nonetheless served as foundation stones for modern thaumaturgy. According to "The Shadowed Art", the English title for the Veneficorum, the original Council of Seven conceived of five fundamental pillars of thaumaturgy. These pillars represented the five most important ideals to the House of Tremere: Creo (creation), Rego (control), Intellego (perception), Muto (transformation) and Perdo (destruction). With each pillar (path) the original Tremere created thaumaturgy as it is currently practiced.

In the past, I had studied each of these pillars carefully, but had never dared more than simple experimentation with each. Despite that, I had made leaps forward in my practice of both path magic and ritual workings. And unknown to anyone, including the Professor, I had created my first ritual and called it: "Light of Yesterday's Sun". It took weeks of research and months of combining the pillars of Creo and Muto in novel ways, to produce the results I had been looking for. In essence, the ritual allows the thaumaturge to capture just a tiny bit of the light of the sun within a piece of clear crystal quartz. The reality of carrying out new thaumaturgic research under the noses of two senior apprentices and the chantries' regent without getting caught was far from easy. I had to carefully arrange every stage of research at intervals when some or all of the other Tremere were gone from the chantry. It had been one of the most frustrating challenges I had ever pursued. Yet within six months, I had managed to summon a ghost of sunlight from a bit of rock crystal and it made me feel like a god. There had been a few missteps along the way and one serious miscalculation which blinded me for a night. But it would all be worth it when the ceremony of investiture took place, I could reveal my first original ritual. And if my luck would hold, I might just impress a few of my superiors.

After very carefully practicing what little I had mastered of the five pillars, I turned my attention to a comprehensive review of Etrius' cookbook. While in theory, I knew most of the simplest rituals, I had never dared to actually cast any of them. I told myself it was because such rituals simply couldn't be hidden due to their grotesque and violent nature, but the truth was that they terrified me on a moral level. Each time I read over these rituals, I reminded myself that thaumaturgic experimentation was often a dangerous, messy and sometimes wasteful process. But what these ritual asked of me to enact them was simply monstrous, it clearly revealed the first Tremere to hold little or no regard for human life. And they touched something deeply buried in me, memories of my past lives or more specifically those of my last iteration. They came to me during my daily slumber, dreams like demons that mocked my humanity. They whispering to me of bloody feasts and murder without guilt. As I dreamed, the horrors of barbaric cruelty and intellect without moral limitation seemed to transform the nightmares into elegant erotica. Such sweet terrors left me shuddering as I awakened covered in a sheen of blood-sweat.

Of course, this was not the first time I had awakened thus. Each and every time I read the "Veneficorum", I experienced these same dark emotions and the memories would well up for days afterward. In truth, after the third or fourth time, I had been certain it was over. But it was as if my other self, Benesj Cherno, were trying to live again. Immediately upon awakening I experienced a profound confusion, an inability to remember where I was or where I should be. Sometimes I expected my first sight of the night to be subterranean crypt artfully decorated with the bones of countless victims. On other occasions I would become aware that I was in my attic apartment in Old Wyvern Hall, but would fail to recognize the layout or exits as if I had never been there before. While these experiences were problematic, they were also manageable. On two occasions, including this one, I found myself losing time. I found myself seated at my desk, a old fashioned mirror in my hand. Like Narcissus, I would be deeply enmeshed in the study of my face which seemed wrong somehow and the mirror would seem to ripple like the surface of a pond and another me would be staring back at me. The first time, a servant found me talking to myself or rather the mirror. This time, I was utterly alone. And an urge came over me to pick up my athame which was lying on the desk next to my hand. Before I realized what was happening, I had opened a bloodless gash from the corner of my right eye to just under my chin. I did not feel the pain until later, but my reflection seem to be whispering to me, coaxing me to pull the skin away and see the real me behind this timid mask.

Ceremony of Investiture

I came to with a shudder and stood up, consequently dropping the blade to the table with a metallic clatter. The sound shocked me into full wakefulness and I realized that I was hearing considerable movement on the floors below me. Several conversations came to me at once. As I listened more carefully, I disentangled the conversations out into their separate dialogues and realized that Old Wyvern Hall was expecting visitors. The servants had been given strict instructions by the Professor to tidy up and prepare several of the unused suits for very important guests. I could also hear the Professor giving Dural specific instructions for picking up one of the guests at the airport. The other guests, the Professor said, would be arriving by train or by their own automobiles and he gave Dural the specifics of picking up each of the other guests. I had expected the local lord and his or her assistant to attend my investiture, but now it seemed as if several members of Clan Tremere were going to attend. I immediately realized something else was going on, while I might be self-centered to the extreme, I was not foolish enough to believe all these Tremere were coming here for a low ranking ceremony of promotion. What lay behind this gathering escaped me, I had been far too absorbed in my own preparations to pay attention to what else might be happening in my chantry.

On any other occasion, I probably would have cursed myself for a fool as I threw myself into one of the downstairs showers in a panicked hurry. Tonight however, I was of a different mood or mind entirely. I calmly returned to my desk of pleasant smelling cedar, seated myself and picked up the mirror to study my face as the self-inflicted wound healed itself without conscious effort. As I gazed into the mirror, I realized that I needed to know who these visiting Tremere were and for what reason they were actually visiting. Of course, there was only one person in Old Wyvern Hall who would be willing to impart that information, but Natasha would not do so just to satisfy my curiosity. I would need to give her the right kind of motivation. And a completely alien smile crept over my old man's face.

The servant's stair, is so much like the inside of a Nautilus shell, was a very tight spiral staircase. Ordinarily I avoided it, for the tightness of its confines seemed to breath life into an old mortal fear of confined spaces. It should have left a impression, yet did not and I found myself before the door to Natasha's suite. Of its own volition my hand paused as I raised it to knock upon the door. In the periphery of my vision I noticed a silver flickering and it seemed as though the air before me stirred with static electricity. The door frame and threshold, had been warded by Natasha. But against whom?

Rather than knocking, I spoke aloud, asking Natasha's permission to enter. My voice seemed to echo strangely in the hall and did not sound like me at all. From within there was tinny metallic sound of 1940s jazz. While I do enjoy late 19th and early 20th century music, I am far from a expert. But it came to me that the tune was the "Twelfth Street Rag" by Pee Wee Hunt. Pee Wee had been born in Ohio around the turn of the 20th century and become a accomplished jazz trombonist, vocalist and band leader. This version of the "Twelfth Street Rag" by Pee Wee had become a billboard number-one single in 1948 and had sold more than three million copies.

Natasha was feeling nostalgic.

The volume dropped and through the thick wooden door I could hear the soft click of high-heels on old carpet and the sexy rasp of Natasha's silk dress as it flexed with her movement towards the door. By contrast the metallic clicking of the old fashioned tumblers sounded more like a arcade pinball game. Then the door opened and the mingled scents of sea-salt, hyacinth, and recently consumed blood waifed between us creating an intimate space. For just a moment, without my mystically enhanced senses, I could have been human. She was just a feminine silhouette against the subdued lighting. And the yearning to touch her, hold her, taste her was nearly overwhelming. Then that other me seemed to rise up out of the Underworld like the shade of Tiresias' ghost.

As I peered past Natasha into her drawing room, I glimpsed a 1938 floor model Philco Radio Phonograph in mint condition. The redish-brown woodwork polished to a fine luster and atop it, a black-and-white photo of Natasha sandwiched between an older looking version of herself and a dapper gentleman whose love for his daughter couldn't be missed. I had intruded upon a special time, perhaps it was Natasha's mortal birthday or the very anniversary of her Embrace. I couldn't know which, not without asking, which would ruin the moment. I had yet to master the ability to read thoughts, but my previous incarnation did not need supernatural powers to know how to manipulate the feelings of others. Before I could stop myself, he spoke:

"Your parents would be proud of you Natasha, for the woman you are and all that you have achieved."

My beloved stood there unmoving and the seconds stretched out, until she stepped aside and invited me inside. As the door closed behind me, I hated myself for using the memory of Natasha's parents to coax sensitive information out of her, but the previous me cared nothing for Natasha or virtually anyone else for that matter. As I turned around to look at her, Natasha leaned against he door. She had defied Tremere convention to wear a beautiful black one-piece cocktail dress and she was stunning in it. It was impossible to miss the rise and fall of her chest. Her breasts were those of a young woman, creamy and pale, time had bleached out all the tan lines laid upon her by Helios. As I glanced upward, her eyes glistened with blood and her she was biting the pink velvet of her lower lip. Half of me was on fire and the other half cold as ice, as I stepped within that space reserved for those we trust, I felt her arms around me. I made no attempt to kiss her, it wasn't what she wanted, she was already pursued to distraction by an old lover who couldn't take the hint or had it bad for her. Instead, I held her as a father would and stroked her hair, murmuring reassurances and listening to her sobs. I don't know how long we stood there, it could have been seconds or minutes, but eventually she firmly pushed me away and I acquiesced.

Then she spoke: "Czere. What brought you downstairs when you should be getting ready?"

From the floor, I retrieved my leather book satchel and produced "The Journals of Thomas Bremond". As I handed the 19th century workbook to her, Natasha looked both surprised and wary. Then she asked: "Why are you giving this to me now?"

I waited the requisite few seconds, as if I were formulating an appropriate response and then launched into the opening phase of my deception. "During my recent testing with the Professor, he discovered that I had a unauthorized bestiary in my possession and he strongly suggested that I turn in all such unsanctioned grimoires to himself or you. As I know he is currently consumed with preparations for tonight's special guests, and would not appreciate me wasting his time with such a small matter, I thought I could turn this over to you."

A small frown ruined the sensual beauty of her face. In another life, she could have been a 1950s starlet, she would have been stunning on the big-screen. By bringing her clan business when she needed to be vulnerable, I had made her angry. Which had been the point of the exercise. In her normal state of mind, she was as calm and calculating as the Professor, but unfortunately for her, she still retained her human emotions -- which made her manipulable. As she spoke, I could see her fury. "You bring this to me now? How long have you had this grimoire?!?

I averted my eyes as if ashamed and told her the truth. "For the last five years..." Her explosive reply told me the time had come. "What?! Czere! You know that is a egregious violation of the lesser chantry code! As a apprentice senior to you and responsible for you tutelage and conduct, you know I will have to punish you for this. You have timed this very poorly indeed. I am disappointed in you for not bringing this to me sooner. Did you not trust me?"

I locked gazes with her. Senior apprentice Scheinberg. Natasha. Please? I am to be raised to the second circle tonight. I can't stay a first circle apprentice forever. Isn't there something I could do that would allow this to be forgotten for tonight?

She virtually shook with suppressed anger, I was adding insult to injury by suggesting a bribe. And with that she took the bait. Her voice was as cold as ice as she explained the circumstances. "You fool! Did you really think that such distinguished guests would come all this way to attend your ceremony of investiture? Tonight the Professor is going to unveil his new path of Rego Temporus before the assembled clan dignitaries of Australia. Its not just the lord of Victoria, Aidan Lyle. The Pontifex of Australia, Oliver Thrace and his sire Thomas Wyncham, the councilor of the Far East will be here tonight! And worst of all, the Professor's sire, your grand-sire, Karl Schrekt will be attending to toast his success in creating the first ever temporal path of thaumaturgy..."

As she exhausted herself in her rage, she had revealed what I needed to know. The next phase of my plan was already half-formed as I got down on my knees and groveled for forgiveness. "Natasha, I am so very sorry, I did not know. I swear it!" For a moment she was utterly still, the shock of my kneeling to her had stilled her anger, my previous incarnation knew just how and when to pull Natasha's strings. Then she reached down and lifted my to my feet. Looking in my eyes, she compelled me: "You will never do this again! Do you understand?" As the compulsion took effect, I nodded, but kept my head bowed in shame. Then her voice softened: "Now, go get ready for tonight's party, and we will discuss this with the Professor after all the dignitaries have returned home." As she opened the door, I once again thanked her as she shut the door in my face.

I hated my old self for ruining my relationship with this woman who was not only my teacher and my friend, but the only person left in all the world that I actually loved.

Natasha's revelation had filled in the crucial, missing pieces in a puzzle that had thus far eluded me. Now I needed to finish my damage control and turn any enemy into something like an ally, if not a friend. Turning down the hall, I walked like a cat to Seth's suite. A Victorian runner in maroon trimmed in gold carried me directly there and placed me in twin pools of amber light cast by two crystal lamps fueled by neither gas nor electricity. From within I could hear the prattle of Seth's latest pet, Bonnie. I had heard him claim that he was grooming her for apprenticeship, but then that was always his way of keeping lovers or servants past their appointed time, when they would inevitably realized that Seth loved only himself. Curiously, Seth seemed incapable of seeing this central truth of his own existence. If he had, he would quite naturally have realized that what he felt for Natasha was simply possessive infatuation due entirely to the fact that she was the only woman who had ever dumped him.

As I stood there, once more poised to knock upon a door, I wondered why the Professor who was so utterly pragmatic had not dispelled Seth's infatuation directly, thus ending years of pinning on Seth's part for Natasha and saving Natasha from Seth's endless pursuit. And then it dawned upon me, the Professor must have know within seconds of meeting Seth, who and what he was and used that information to snare for himself and the clan, a young genius. If so, then the Professor had deliberately allowed it to continue because if bound Seth to Natasha, and by extension the Professor. Such an arrangement ensured the Professor of productive thaumaturgic research that would provide decades of breakthroughs with which he could enhance his status within the clan hierarchy. How clever and indirectly, cruel.

The monster that I had been, smiled with delight, for the old clan of the Tzimisce enjoyed cruel irony the most, next to the screams of their victims, of course. And I rapped upon Seth's door like the raven, Nevermore.

Bonnie's silvery voice dimmed to a whisper, as a man's steps approached from the opposite side of the door. I heard hushed words of magic, little more than a mouthing of the passport that would release the wards upon the portal. Then the soft clicking of brass fixtures as the lock gave over, in the amber glow the elegantly engraved porcelain knob turned, and the door opened inward revealing Seth in all his masculine beauty. I had once heard Natasha use the word Adonis to describe Seth, since that time her terminology had stuck with me and I had come to see him as the epitome of youthful masculinity, but he also embodied other traits of youth, namely the cruelty and hubris so common to young men. If indeed Seth were metaphorically Adonis, then like that beautiful god, he would perish to an equally allegorical wild boar, bestial traits that would drive him to such lengths of exquisite ego and narcissism. The idea had found root in my fervid imagination and I was smiling as Seth's face swung into view

Tonight however, as the amber illumination paired back the dimness of Seth's apartments, it revealed Seth dressed in a grey Brunello Cucinelli' tuxedo of lightly blended wool and silk, a pristine white Ermenegildo Zegna shirt of brushed cotton, hand made Berluti shoes, a black silk Lanvin bow tie, and maroon silk Marwood pocket square to round out the finished look. I drew in a calculated, but honest breath of astonishment. After all, the kit Seth was wearing would set a man back a modest ten thousand Australian dollars.

As the door opened and Seth laid eyes on me, his initial reaction was everything I had come to expect, he batted his perfect blond lashes as his hazel eyes hardened, and he quirked his mouth as if tasting something unpleasant. He reeked of utter disdain. Which, as fate would have it, would serve my purposes perfectly.

"Apprentice Petocs of the fifth circle, might I have a moment of your time? In private, if you please?"

Seth looked me over carefully, likely noting my lack of fine dinner apparel and my stuffy, officious use of his titles and the plain brown leather satchel I still clutched in my left hand. Then like Shere Khan the Bengal tiger antagonist of Rudyard Kipling's Jungle Book, he flexed his superb musculature and turned to Bonnie. His tone was cool and unemotional. "Bonnie, get out...And shut the door behind you." Bonnie radiated hurt feelings as she stood up from her seated position on the bed and her eyes blazed with rage and jealousy as she passed between us and out into the hall. The door slammed shut with unnecessary force and left the two of us warily watching one another as the silence seemed to gather with a pressure of unspoken words.

Murder Most Foul

Wherein Czere is sent to help investigate the murder of three kindred.

Enthusiasmos

Wherein Czere is given prophesy from his Natalia.

Saucy Jack

'

And then there were Six

'

Paris 1900

Monday - April 30, 1900

What is it like to be backhanded by a god, you ask? Let me tell you a little bit about that... Saturn's strike came out of the blue, in an instant he struck Blake who seemed to take on the characteristics of a film negative and then Saturn appeared before me. I have no recollection of the moment of impact, perhaps because it never really happened, in line with temporal mechanics, I was never there in the first place. I did not even have time to feel fear, then I was flying backwards, through time. In fragmentary flashes I recall the sensation of striking individual plates of glass, but those plates of glass were years that I was crashing through. I felt each and every one of them, only later of course, but then the trauma of pain lies mostly in the recollection. Still, each of those years cut me, deep, and left scars upon my very being that will survive until the day I die and perhaps beyond.

My next sensation was of laying upon my back and staring up into the rafters of something like a garage or warehouse. My vision was distinctly blurry and only slowly came into focus. Antique electric lamps hung from the rafters in regimented rows providing steady illumination that I had briefly mistaken for stars. Then a face teetered into view, handsome and thirty-something, with kind eyes and a distinctly mischievous smile. I tried to speak, but nothing but nonsense came out, as if like a baby, I was learning how to enunciate for the first time. A distinct tinnitus made hearing difficult and my body felt far too heavy for flesh, as if gravity had taken a distinct dislike to me and was punishing me for some forgotten misdeed. Like a fish out of water, I was gasping, learning to breath again and I was definitely out of practice. The taste of blood in my mouth was the only thing that seemed correct and natural. And as with those benighted souls who have lost their sanity, or become the victim of a high fever, or the delirium of drug addiction, I turned that thought around and around searching for inherent truth in the chaos of my mind.

Then I was distracted from my query by the sound of the kind man's voice as he spoke to me for the first time. Initially, the words were gibberish, mostly due the scrambled state of my thoughts; I knew deep down that something was terribly wrong, but as in a dream, reason is madness and insanity makes the plainest sense. With each recitation, the man's speech took on more meaning. It was a question. Addressed to me and with some urgency behind it. "Êtes-vous bien?" ("Are you ok?") Such a beautiful and irritating string of consonants and vowels. Beautiful for its musical quality over the fast fading ringing in my ears, and irritating because it took the man four or five repetitions to make himself understood. He was speaking French. A coherent thought formed itself and I mumbled like an idiot. He patted my head and inspected me for injuries as I tried again to make myself understood. It took several tries and by that time, my frustration was mounting as I finally rasped out: "Je ne parle pas français!" ("I don't speak French!") Then the man laughed, spontaneously and wholeheartedly, sitting next to me on the floor. It would be sometime before I understood the source of his humor, but at least I felt I could make myself understood.

After his fit of laughter subsided, he repeated his question: "Are you well?" This time, the question made sense. It took a little more time, but I framed a reply and rasped it out, for my mouth was now dry as a desert. "I'm thirsty!" His face took on a serious expression and he immediately stood up and strode away and returned with a glass of clear liquid. Water?? Instinctively, as he lifted my torso to help me drink, I tried to turn my head aside. "I cannot drink that." His face took on a questioning expression and then a look crossed his face that told me he thought I was delirious. In trying to press the glass to my mouth and my struggles, he spilled half the water on me before any entered my mouth. The first drops to touch my parched tongue imparted a long forgotten experience of cold, clear liquid moving over my tongue and washing away the dust of centuries. Speaking and breathing both became suddenly easier and the taste of blood vanished in an instant. And he helped me drink the rest in measured doses. Perhaps I drank the water too fast or my body's long habit of rejecting such liquids came into play, for I leaned away from the man and noisily vomited. Then the world vanished into the bliss of unconsciousness.

Later, as partial awareness returned, the blond man was buckling me into a stretcher. I thought to protest, but nonsense came again and he nodded as if to humor me. But we were not alone. The warehouse's lights had taken on form and stood around the man and I. There were twelve of them, because I counted each. They stood in even glowing pairs around us, the Dii Consentes, the Olympian gods. Stern Jupiter stood arm in arm with tempestuous Juno, Neptune dripping with salt-water and seaweed stood next to brilliant Minerva in her shining armor with an owl upon her shoulder, next came Mars in the blood covered armor of a centurion standing close to a vision of feminine perfection - Venus - whose hot gaze would have ignited sexual fire in me were I not half-dead, brightest of all - Apollo blazed in my sight as he stood by holding the hand of the virgin huntress Diana in whose left-hand lay a bow, next came dark skinned Vulcan with eyes of fire and a twisted leg and holding the hand of the fiery virgin matron Vesta and last came Mercury in his winged shoes and hat holding the caduceus in his left hand and arm-in-arm with matronly Ceres, lady of fertility.

While the stretcher seemed to rise of its own accord, the gods began to speak among themselves, as if neither the blond man, nor I could see or hear them. Through the divine couples, I could see the ceiling of the warehouse moving like the clouds above Mount Olympus. But the speech of the Dii Consentes bore little resemblance to mortal conversation, coming as it did in the natural phenomena that I had long taken for granted. Jupiter's voice rang out like thunder and as he spoke I could see the incandescent flickering of electrical discharges. With such an utterance did the King of the Gods begin a discussion of cosmic proportions. As I shivered and sweat, my delirium seem to grant me more than an inkling of what transpired between the gathered deities and not all the gods of Rome were in accord.

Wise Apollo had through divine foresight observed the eventual death of faith and in turn the very gods. To forestall this, he broke a sacred truce between the previously defeated Titans and the victorious Olympians by releasing one of their number, Saturn, into the world. Through this action he believed that not only the death of the gods could be averted, but that the current order of the world could be reversed and mankind would once again become submissive beneath heaven. This reversal of events could erase the corruption of Prometheus' gift of divine-fire to mankind. Apollo's revelations and his breaking of divine edict did not sit well with the Capitoline Triad of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva. Neptune Earth-Shaker backed his brother's outrage, while Mars - Mercury and Vulcan sided with Apollo. Three of the four remaining goddesses: Vesta, Ceres, and Venus seemed uncertain as to the correct course of action, each offering divergent advice. Diana the Huntress backed her twin brother without doubt or reservation.

From these discourses, my fervid mind contrived to understand all that this might mean, but before I could to any conclusions come, Apollo directed the collected pantheon to pathetic me. Like the sun come out from behind storm driven clouds, Apollo's illumination fell upon me with both warmth and weight. For the glare of his light, I could not behold the faces of the deities as they looked down on me. But I felt dissected by their collective stares and an ancient fear of the unknowable began to devour my guts, causing my teeth to chatter and my flesh to pimple.

Apollo's next words, though seemingly not meant for me, were entirely unforgettable.

"Behold this wretched specimen of mortal kind, formerly the offspring of the get of Nyx. Through Saturn's gyre and my divine fire he has been purified to serve as the opening piece in our great game. I have placed my mark upon his breast so that each of you will recognize him as my servant and to interfere with his mission is to work against my great vision."

At this statement the other gods became restless and argumentative. But it was at this precise moment that my stretcher came to a standstill and began to sink. I felt certain that the other gods had decided against me and that I was bound for the Roman hell of Tartarus. I made supplications to the gathered Twelve for pity and did so in the old Roman Latin that only scholars now know. I have no recollection of precisely what I said, but there is no doubt I begged for my life as countless men and women had done before me back to the beginning of time. The gathered gods, grew silent at my pleadings and then they erupted into chaotic argument all over again. As I prayed, the blond man with the roguish smile was anything but idle. Peripherally, I was aware his clothing had changed as he wore some sort of lab-coat, goggles and a metallic backpack that was attached to my stretcher by a series of old fashioned cables. In the room's dim florescent illumination, the man's goggles seemed glow almost as brightly as the gods.

I must have been overcome by fever, for all my senses were distorted, including my sense of time. The journey by stretcher from wherever I had originally awakened to this much smaller and darker room seemed to take hours and when the man transferred me to a bed, it seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. The Dii Consentes were now moving away and I quickly lost track of their conversations, all save Apollo whose glowing form began to dim and fade. His last words to me were the only thing I would clearly recall from my time abed.

"Do not forget mortal, you owe me not only your life, but your soul as well. My holy plague already courses through your veins, it will complete your purification and reveal your genius, but betray me and you will die screaming and Tartarus will be your new home, forever. When you awaken, come find me and I will gift you with my visions."

When I glanced around, the room was empty except for banks of glowing switch panels similar to the ancient Colossus computer used by the allies in W.W.2. The clicking of all those tiny switches created an almost hive-like hum that lulled me into most uneasy sleep.

Fever Dreams

My feverish slumber was punctuated by graphic nightmares of all the darkest stories of Greco-Roman mythologies and lurid dreams of places and people I could not name. Sometimes those phantoms that haunted my sleep seemed familiar and would say things that seemed terribly important, but whose meaning escaped me and vanished with the advent of each new awakening. Betweens periods of dreaming, I would awaken to find the blond man feeding me broth or helping me drink. My throat was always sore, probably from the screams that would accompany my night-terrors.

The room seemed to have only two doors and no windows and being made of stout red brick, which probably muffled my bedlamite behavior. Sometime in that interminable period of delirium I became conscious of not being alone. Belatedly, as I looked into the darker corners of the room, I realized my benevolent host had bound me to the bed for my very own protection. While I could not see it, I could hear it moving towards me out of the dark. As it came, it made a distinctly slithering sound, like reptilian scales over concrete. The sound grew closer and I called out into the dark. "Qui est là?" ("Who is there?") I cannot say for certain how long this went on, but then the rasping noise changed and the bed began to faintly vibrate. It was crawling into bed with me.

My heart felt like it would rip itself free of my chest, while sweat poured off of me in rivulets, and my muscles were all cramped from trying to tear free from the bed.

Then it spoke to me, first in Greek and then progressively through a host of languages too numerous for recollection or perhaps it spoke to me in tongues. This last thought made me giggle for some reason and the creature laughed as well, a sound like dead leaves rustling in the autumn dark.

{"Hsssksss."}

As it crawled towards me across the bed. It slithered over the woolen blankets, now sodden with my sweat, like an Egyptian asp meandering over the endless dunes of the Western Desert.

{"Oh...Hello...there."}

I could barely see for the sweat pouring into my eyes. But as it swam into focus, I could see that it was a huge constrictor, like a anaconda, but skeletal. Through numerous ruptures in its scaled hide, I observed the protrusion of the serpents countless ribs and even its spine. As it crawled up between my legs and onto my chest, it felt surprisingly light, more like a giant centipede than a snake. But its form was unmistakable as an undead ophidian, with an ivory colored hide and faintly florescent green eyes.

{"Such...a...pleasure...to...meet...you!"}

Once again my mouth was dry, but I managed enough spit to speak. "Who or what are you and what do you want?" This was greeted by more serpentine laughter.

{"Is...that...any...way...to...greet...an...old...friend?"}

My fevered brain could not summon the creature's name, but if we were friends then I figured it would come to me eventually.

"I apologize, I am not myself lately. I think I have been sick and I do not know where I am." The snake seemed to vibrate as it hissed out its laughter again.

{"No...Ostanes...You...really...have...not...been...yourself...lately. So...I...shall...not...hold...it...against...you."}

As if reading my mind, the giant undead serpent went on without pause.

{"My...name...is...Python...formerly...of...Delphi. And...I am...here...to...help...you. If...you...will...have...me?"}

{"As...to...where...you...are. I...can...supply...that...information. You...are...in...Gaul,...specifically...Lutetia,...known...in...later...years...as...Paris."}

"Paris? What would I be doing in Paris? And you say you are here to help me? Help me how? And what is in it for you?"

{"Hsssksss."}

The undead serpent Python seemed a merry creature in a sarcastic kind of way, amused by my questions or the mystery surrounding them. It acted like it knew all the answers and it was waiting for me to ask them, each in turn.

{"you...are...in...Paris,...Ostanes,...because...of...Saturn...and...Apollo."}

{"Saturn...struck...you...to...obliterate...you...by...spreading...your...essence...across...all...of...time...and...space."}

{"But...Apollo,...for...his...own...secretive...reasons,...anchored...you...here...in...the...year...1900...of...the...Christian...calendar."}

"Alright, suppose I say I believe you Python. Where do you fit in all this? Why are you helping me? And why do you keep calling me Ostanes?"

{"Hsssksss."}

Ever the bemused snake. I seemed to have reached the punchline of our dark little comedy. And in that moment it rose from where it coiled so lightly upon my chest, to gaze directly into my eyes with its gelatinous green glowing orbs.

{"I...am...Python. Serpent...of...Wisdom. Formerly...of...Delphi. Slain...by...Apollo...when...he...coveted...my...temple...and...priestesses."}

{"After...Apollo...killed...me...with...his...golden...arrows,...he...threw...my...corpse...down...into...the...underworld. And...there...I...languished...for...millennia...to...plot...my...revenge."}

{"In...helping...you,...I...am...help...myself...or...us,...if...you...prefer. Of...old...it...was...I...who...supplied...mankind...with...with...wisdom...from...the...earth."}

{"I...have...no...more...priestesses. No...more...temple. But...if...you...accept...me,...you...alone...will...be...the...recipient...of...my...ancient...wisdom. Your...body...can...become...my...temple."}

{"I...can...help...you...survive...in...this...great...game...the...gods...are...playing. And...you...can...help...me...get...my...revenge...against...Apollo."}

{"I...would...become...you...tutelary...deity,...your...genius,...your...eudaemon,...if...you...will. And...I...call...you...Ostanes,...because...that...is...your...name."}

{"You...are...the...master...sorcerer,...the...third...and...last...of...the...Hellenistic...Magians."}

{"When...you...came...to...Greece...with...Xerxes...the...son...of...Darius,...you...brought...the...secrets...of...the...dark...arts...and...taught...them...to...the...Greeks."}

{"In...emulation...of...you,...wise...men...such...as...Pythagoras,...Empedocles,...Democritus,...and...Plato...traveled...abroad...to...learn...more...of...those...secrets."}

{"Down...through...the...centuries,...your...writings...on...alchemy,...astrology...and...necromancy...gave...birth...to...western...magic."}

{"It...is...your...theories...on...alchemy...that...will...be...quoted...among...the...Arabs...and...Persians...who...will...eventually...synthesize...the...Philosopher's Stone."}

I lay stupefied, staring into Python's hypnotic gaze. I had no memory of those events, or of any events whatsoever. Could such a ludicrous story be true? I knew the legends of serpents whispering lies from countless myths and the bible, and I said as much.

{"Hsssksss."}

{"Ostanes,...you...are...confusing...me...with...Typhon,...my...brother. And...you...know...the...mind...of...Christian...mystics. Do...you...really...believe...what...they...have...to...say...on...any...subject?"}

{"From...India...to...the...American...south-west,...the...serpent...is...an...ally...and...teacher...who...aids...mankind. You...know...this...to...be...true. And...ask...yourself...this,...can...you...afford...to...trust...the...gods?"}

{"They...are...jaded...and...full...of...hubris. You...know...the...legends...as...well...as...I. Are...they...not...tragic...figures...whose...mortal...associates...suffer...dark...fates?"}

I found myself agreeing with Python on that score. The gods for all the good they supposedly did, were not trustworthy companions, but rather the agitators of divine events. Those poor fools who became their closest companions usually paid a terrible price. And the gods themselves were rarely virtuous. Jupiter was a philanderer and his wife Juno was the epitome of the crazy ex-girlfriend. Apollo himself was no saint, he took sides during the Trojan War and launched plague bearing arrows into the Greek encampment. In the matter of Niobe, the queen of Thebes who boasted of her superiority to Leto (mother of Apollo and Diana) on the subject of motherhood, for she had fourteen children (seven sons and seven daughters). In response to this, Apollo came to Thebes (in Greece) and with poisoned arrows slew all her sons while his sister Diana did likewise to Niobe's seven daughters. There is no point mentioning his numerous and disastrous love affairs, the most famous of which, the story of Apollo and Cassandra sets the standard. The other gods were no better and some were far worse. So with this argument, Python had won me over.

"Alright. You have convinced me that you are correct. What now?"

There was a hiss of satisfaction and Python turned away and began to crawl towards the floor. Suddenly afraid I was being left behind, I called out to Python to take me with him.

{"Hhsssss...Silence!...Apollo...or...the...other...gods...might...hear...you...when...you...yell...like...that."}

Then in whispers, I called out again.

"Where are you going and can I come with you?"

{"I...travel...now...to...the...Sacred...Caves...of...the...Underworld. You...are...invited...to...come. But...first...you...must...realize...that...you...aren't...bound...by...anything...other...than...your...fear."}

I could see a hole had opened in the concrete floor of the room and that Python was heading directly for it. The hole I reasoned, was how Python had gained entrance to my sanitarium cell.

"What do you mean by that Python? I am tied into this bed and cannot escape without your help."

{"Ostanes,...how...can...you...be...tied...into...a...bed,...when...there...is...no...bed,...no...bonds...and...in...fact,...no...brick...lined...room? You...are...dreaming,...nothing...less...and...nothing...more."}

To say that I was overwhelmed by this revelation, is a cosmic understatement. But when I looked up next, the room with all its little glowing switches and the bed, were simply gone. Instead, I stood naked in vast cave chamber. The walls were of volcanic stone, the floor was level and we stood next to an oblong block of black basalt that must serve as an altar. Like giant teeth in the mouth of the world's largest dragon, stalactites and stalagmites formed crude pillars to uphold the chamber's ceiling that was lost in darkness hundreds of feet above us. Python lay curled up near me on the floor before the basalt altar. The only light came from a hole hundreds of feet above the altar and formed a rough cone of illumination. More distant from us, cracks in the stone floor allowed copious amounts of steam or smoke into the room and made me sweat from the heat and moisture.

{"Ostanes,...you...haven't...answered...my...original...question?"}

Startled from my observations. I turned from the immense room to look at Python. The undead serpent was hundreds of feet long and as big around as my thigh and had curled itself into a mess of coils that dwarfed me. Through its ivory colored hide I could still see the pale hoops of bone that made up its skeleton and sticking out of its body at intervals were golden arrows sized as if for a child. I imagined they must hurt as they would catch on anything that it crawled over or through. After an unknown period of time elapsed. I spoke.

"Yes Python, you can be my tutelary deity, I accept you. What must I do to gain your help?"

Python hissed again in satisfaction, a sound that seemed to blend completely with the sound of steam escaping from the cracks in the floor.

{"Ostanes, pull all of Apollo's golden arrows out of my body."}

I nodded to the creature, and began by tugging the first arrow free. Python's screams quickly followed. But such screams were both of pain and ecstasy. And as I removed each golden arrow, the cavern vibrated. It wasn't long before the tremors became constant and dust and small stones began to rain down upon us. As I pulled the last arrow free from Python's body, the entire room shook like it was going to come down on us and at the same time, impossibly, I could hear the great serpent's exultations.

{"Free! I am finally free! I am no longer bound to the Underworld! Ostanes, together will will accomplish the unimaginable, new legends and myths will be born and Apollo and the other gods will come to rue this day. But we must be away before the break of day!"}

Around me, the chamber was collapsing as huge chunks of volcanic stone were falling from the ceiling and debris rained down everywhere. The dust was so thick that I could no longer see Python, although I could somehow still hear him. It never occurred to me to wonder how I could still breath. Then the head of Python was level with my stomach, as its slimy tongue licked my navel and covering it in clear sticky saliva. I had no time to think before the ivory serpent pushed its entire head into my torso. My body, like the chamber around me, began to convulse as if I were an epileptic. I know I screamed with both pain and ecstasy, as my belly was pierced by the giant pale constrictor. I should have died instantly or at least shortly thereafter, but the pain and pleasure continued to mount far beyond human capacity. Python's initial attack had knocked me to the floor, prone and as I lifted my head to look at my abdomen, I could see the serpent was still crawling inside me. It was flatly impossible for something that big to sheath itself in a man my size or any size, and yet I was frozen in place as I watched in paralyzed horror. The moment seemed to last forever, far longer than it would take for an level ten earthquake to flatten this cave. Still the ceiling did not give way until Python had completely crawled inside of me. And with the final parts of the ceiling collapsing, the light above became impossibly bright and I could not see or think anymore.

Tuesday - May 01, 1900

Breakfast with Vargo Zamtredia

Consciousness returned by degrees. I was still on my back, but I was in a small bed or perhaps a cot. My skin was very sensitive to the touch, a sunburn or a long fever both do that to me. The absence of restraints was immediately obvious, but I could not see anything as my eyes were crusted shut. It would take a damp cloth to removed the dried mucus. Initially, I began to fumble about with my hands. Then something curious happened, a image of the room appeared in my mind, as if I were looking at the room from without by some unknown means.

As I scanned the room, I noticed a small table next to the bed with a pitcher of water and a basin on it. Folded neatly on the edge of the basin, was a neatly folded cloth of woven cotton fiber. I did not try to stand, I just sat up in bed and I felt my stomach roil and vertigo kicked in, leaving me dizzy. But that ended as soon as my bare feet touched the concrete floor. The cold contact with the earth, seemed to clear up any sense of confusion. I had felt the room spinning one moment and then lock into place, but that was not as important to me as the sudden sensory overload.

By touch, I could tell the cotton content of the washcloth, the percentage content of the cement and even how clean the air was. Equally, I could tell precisely dimensions of the room, the cardinal directions and that there was a powerful magnetic field nearby. I sat for a couple minutes, just feeling out with my new sixth sense. I should have felt wonder or surprise, rather I felt intense curiosity as my mind began to store all this new information for some later purpose.

The room in which I lay was dim, but enough light existed for me to pick out details. The ceiling was of similar construction to the warehouse, but far smaller and a bank of multicolored lights and dials cast a faint, but steady alien illumination over the whole room. One of the most interesting of the rooms details was a mechanical eye fitted to a metallic stalk, it was poised precisely one meter from the bed. Clearly someone was watching me, given what I recalled from my few brief periods of lucidity, the blond man was taking care of me. That had been most kind of him, I would owe him a serious favor for that.

Resolving to find answers to all my questions and I had many of those. I stood, unerringly poured the stainless steel basin half full and wet the washcloth. I wiped the dried mucus from my eyes and looked about the dimly lit room, it was just as I remembered it from my dreams. I could not help looking over to the place on the floor where the hole had been, but this morning it was solid several feet down. And it was morning, a seventh sense told me it was ten minutes past six in the morning and the sun had just risen. That information brought on a sudden wave of panic.

But why? Why was I so scared of the morning? My heart rate had just spiked to 160 beats per minute and my lungs were drawing in far too much oxygen as the adrenaline hit my system. I was missing something. My first action was to turn off the adrenaline, slow my breathing and reduce my heart rate. Still with so much energy, I needed to stand up and walk around. In the south-west corner of the room, there was a old fashioned, full length, oval mirror in a wooden frame. As I gazed at myself, I saw an attractive old man, probably in his early sixties and in fantastic shape. I was naked and the muscles stood out in fine definition as if I had recently been training for a body-building competition. My first thought was that if I wanted to maintain that level of conditioning, I was going to need to watch what I ate and workout regularly.

My narcissism was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. I quickly stepped over to the bed and pulled the top-sheet around myself as the door closest to the analog computer opened. The blond man who had taken such good care of me entered.

"Bonjour (Good morning). Comment ça va aujourd'hui? (How are you doing today)?"

While he spoke, I looked him over fairly carefully. My initial assessment had been correct. A young man, just barely in his thirties, with disheveled white-blond hair and mischievous smile framed by a Van Dyke. He stood precisely six-feet and one inches tall, and being on the gangling side, he was exactly one-hundred and fifty pounds sans his dapper gray suit of worsted wool.

I framed a careful reply because I was still coming to grips with knowing French. When and where had I learned French?

“Bonjour. Je m'appelle Ostanes. Je me sens beaucoup mieux, merci. (Good morning. My name is Ostanes. And I am feeling much better, thank you.)"

“Fantastique! Je m'appelle Vargo Zamtredia. Et, si tu te sens en train de manger? Je déjeune dehors.(Fantastic! My name is Vargo Zamtredia. And, if your feeling up to eating? I have breakfast outside.)"

With introductions and pleasantries now dealt with, Monsieur Zamtredia stepped out and returned with a folding table and two chairs. He set them up with precision and called out in French to a servant. Through the door came a mechanical man carrying a silver tray and the smell of warm food wafted its way to me on the still air. The growling of my stomach competed with my complete surprise at seeing a robot waiter.

Surprisingly, my curiosity overcame my hunger and I asked M. Zamtredia: “You own a robot?”

We were both seated on folding chairs as the automaton made its approach. He smiled at me with even white teeth and proudly replied.

“You mean Vaerti?”

I nodded towards the robot again. Its exterior was made of aluminum, bore a humanoid form and a single mechanical eye, like the mechanical stalk that watched over me while I was ill.

“Yes.”

His face bore an expression of bemused confusion. But clearly coming to the conclusion that being a good sport was in his best interest, he replied.

“Monsieur, I have never heard that term used for automata, but yes, Vaerti is my creation. I have shortened the name Vargo Automata Erti, the word Erti is the number one in Georgian, the langauge of my mother country.”

"I see. So, you are mechanical engineer from Georgia, living in Paris?"

He smiled and nodded once before loading our plates with a delectable spinach omelet, several pieces of bacon and hot croissants slathered in fresh butter and strawberry jam. For the next several minutes we simply ate in companionable silence. I ate much faster than my companion, even while trying to exert some self-control, and helped myself to seconds before he finished his first plate. It seems I did not manage to consume much of what he tried to feed me while I was sick. After the porcelain plates and the silver platter were picked clean, the robot Vaerti removed them and returned with fresh coffee. I hesitated to drink any because I could not recall whether I like the beverage. In fact, I could recall absolutely nothing of my past and only knew my name from the dream. I felt sure if I spoke of the dream aloud, M.Zamtredia would have me committed to an asylum, so I did not mention it in our upcoming conversation.

Monsieur Zamtredia poured us both a small cup of coffee from a engraved silver pot, the smell was divine.

"Monsieur, having grown up in Georgia, I have a fondness for Turkish coffee, but not everyone does and it can be bitter if not prepared to taste. How do you like your coffee?"

Seemingly from nowhere I replied. "orta şekerli" Instinctively, I knew that Turkish coffee is ground to a fine dust and boiled until pitch black and sugar in various doses is added to the boiling coffee until it becomes a reduction, after which it is served. My reply, I realized meant two things, I spoke at least some Turkish and I had ordered this drink before. Orta şekerli means medium sugar or one level teaspoon, one a scale of one to four, almost as sweet as it can be served. I liked sugar!

M.Zamtredia offered a large smile and proffered a silver bowl filled with Lokum (Turkish Delight). Lokum is a family of confections based on a gel of starch and sugar. Premium varieties consist largely of chopped dates, pistachios, and hazelnuts or walnuts bound by the gel; traditional varieties are often flavored with rosewater, mastic, Bergamot orange, or lemon.

I took three pieces and savored each as we sipped our coffee, the warmth of the dark brew and its bitterness were offset by the Lokum, especially the lemon and Bergamot-orange. Such succulent fruit flavors and the crunchy treats within was quite delectable. While I savored each bite, I forced myself not to reach for additional pieces, after all as someone had once said to me: sugar is the devil.

M.Zamtredia held his porcelain cup between his hands and continued our conversation, but switched languages.

"Fransızca lehçeniz oldukça iyi, ancak Türkçe'niz kusursuz. Konstantinopolis'in vatanı, evet?" (Your French dialect is quite good, but your Turkish is flawless. You are native of Constantinople, yes?)

Without hesitation, I replied: "Bilmiyorum. Hatırlayamıyorum. İlk anılarım dün gece başlıyor." (I do not know. I can not remember. My first memories begin last night.)

Switching back to French, M.Zamtredia said: "Amnesia? I have read a little about it. It is triggered by traumatic events, head injuries and high fevers. The world's foremost expert in the matter is Dr. Théodule-Armand Ribot. He teaches at the Collège de France, right here in Paris. Perhaps I should make an appointment?"

"Monsieur Zamtredia, please do not! You have done so much for me already. I am a stranger to you. It is simply too much."

His reply was instantaneous. "You are not a stranger, you are my guest. We are past introductions. You are Ostanes and you must call me Vargo. No more Monsieur Zamtredia. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Vargo. As you wish. Thank you for all you have done. I do not know how I will repay you."

He gestured as if waving away a fly, thus dismissing the subject. And turned the conversation a different way.

"You cannot wear bed linens all day however, we must find you some masculine apparel." Saying thus, he stood up and summoned the robot Vaerti with a remote control in his coat pocket.

Moments later the robot returned and awkwardly bowed to us or rather him. "Bring M.Ostanes my day-robe and lead him to the workmen's lavatories where he can shower. While he does that, you will remove all the bed-linens and wash them. And I will find suitable clothing for Ostanes."

Vaerti bowed again and left the chamber. After its departure, Vargo turned to me and asked me to stand so he could take my measurements. He left the room for a few moments and returned with a strange device. He rolled it in on three wheels and it had a pressure tank attached, along with what looked like parts for a microscope. I was frankly baffled by its purpose.

As he rolled the machine up to me, he asked me to disrobe for a better fitting and had me step beneath the contraption. Immediately a fine mist enveloped me as laser-light played over my body and in seconds he had all my bodily measurements. Nodding to himself, he wrote all the numbers down in a little book and turned off the machine.

"I will take your sizes to a haberdasher and acquire men's apparel for you. I might be gone for a hour or so. Vaerti will guide you to and from the workmen's lavatory where you can shower. Vaerti will also arrange any toiletries that you might need while washing. No, please do not thank me again."

And with that he departed through the wooden door. A minute later, Vaerti returned with a terrycloth robe and slippers. It said nothing, but waited patiently for me to cloth myself. Then I followed it out of the room.

The Laboratory & the Matter Transfer Gateway

My spartan accommodations turned out to be a utility room in the Palais de l`Électrique (Palace of Electricity). Vaerti led me out of the utility room, into a larger control room. Old fashioned electrical wiring hung everywhere from the rafters bound together in series, sometimes twenty together and looking like nothing so much as lasagnette pasta strips draped for drying. One entire side of the room was occupied by a massive wooden cabinet, fronted in glass and holding countless electric gages, capacitors and vacuum-ray tubes. This then was the central control unit for a vast power station.

The robot opened another door for me and gestured for me to pass through into yet another, larger room. I politely nodded and moved forward, and as the Automata stopped to close and lock the door behind us, my gaze swept the laboratory from one end to the other. And that was precisely the purpose this room served. Everywhere I looked were wooden tables, topped with dark marble, as might be found in any biology or chemistry classroom, minus the sinks and faucets. These last missing details were not an oversight for upon every available surface sat mechanical and electrical devices. Some seemed strangely familiar, while the purpose of others remained entirely a mystery. The center of the room was dominated by a single large device, that upon inspection, revealed itself to be two distinct machines. The two devices squatted upon a three tiered porcelain base; presumably to insulate them and prevent them from grounding out on the glass-smooth concrete floor.

The leftmost device looked something like a 1930s television screen mounted to cylinder covered in gages, knobs, rubber hoses and upon every available surface, countless pocket-watches. While it's main screen was dark, the infernal contraption emitted a constant and maddeningly synchronous ticking. The sound was disturbingly familiar and as I glanced upward, I immediately recognized the rows of perfectly aligned light-bulbs through which I had observed the gods the previous evening. This then must be the room from which I was carried last night. Lowering my gaze once again to the gadget. I felt a distinct but indescribably sensation emanated from it and as with puzzles and crime-scenes, I felt a need to step back and un-focus my attention.

Out of nowhere, I could hear a familiar reptilian hissing and the rubbing together of scales, as if a giant serpent were coiling nearby. Then it came to me, like lightening from the blue. At close range, the device seemed an almost random assortment of mechanical and electrical parts. But when I let my intuition lead my intellect, I came to understand that the numerous pocket-watches revealed its underlying purpose, it was a time machine. In that instant, all assumptions were aborted and in the absence of thought there was the emptiness of white noise.

Sharpening my focus, I turned to the second mechanism. In form, it was a silvery hoop two meters in radius and perfectly round, but clearly attached to a blocky analytical engine three meters square and sheathed in a glass housing. Only one thing protruded from the great glass case, a typewriter-like calculating rig. Apparently the combined device used a great deal of electricity, for half the power-cables in the room plugged directly into it. Curiosity drew me back to the metallic hoop, the sheen of which bore a faint resemblance to titanium, but with unusual refractory properties. Leaning forward, I ran my index finger down the arc of the silver gyre and received a shock. Contact with the silver ring conveyed an information bearing impulse along the nerve endings of my arm to my spine and then to my brain. Whatever the material composition of the gyre, it bore unique physical properties and I doubted its element or amalgam could be found on the periodic table.

Apparently in touching the hoop I had violated a taboo for the robot Vaerti, for it suddenly surged forward, placing itself between the the contraption and I. Then moving forward slowly and steadily, it compelled me backwards and off the porcelain dais. It then pointed towards another door on the other side of the room and began nudging me in that direction. This was my first conflict with a robot and I was uncertain how I should respond. In the end, I chose to save face and pretended that leaving was my own idea. Once my course was set, Vaerti moved ahead to unlock and open the next door for me, like any good domestic servant would. It suddenly occurred to me that the robot could very well have armaments and might have directives to use them were it or the contents of the laboratory disturbed. An unsettling thought that hurried my steps.

Amnesia

Imagine for a moment if you will, suffering from amnesia, so completely and totally that you know nothing of your past. For someone so afflicted, the most recent hours or days would make up the whole of their existence. And such a person would be wiped clean of all previous preconceptions, whether they be positive or negative. A person in these set of circumstances would essentially be reborn, a new person with a fresh perspective, not unlike that of a child. And yet, just because said person had forgotten their previous deeds does not mean those actions never happened, its really just a radical change in perspective that cannot last.

Even if a case of amnesia were so total as to wipe all previous memories away, the habits of a lifetime would remain. Reflex actions, muscle or bone deep would still kick-in, in moments of stress or extreme emotion. If those habits and subconscious behaviors were formed over the course of consecutive centuries, could anything of significance really change in that individual? Of course, amnesia is rarely so total as to erase one's past so completely and just because the amnesia victim has forgotten his or her actions, neither the gods above nor below would have been so affected, nor would one's enemies. It would be a perilous time, ripe for exploitation, and equally dangerous for the exploiter when the victim is in fact a true monster. If you find yourself doubting this, you need look no farther than the pages of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, for the creature resurrected by the mad doctor initially seemed as innocent as a toddler, but innocence real or false is a fleeting condition.

After leaving the laboratory of Vargo Zamtredia, the robot Vaerti led me down a hundred foot red-brick hallway. Above us, secured to the ceiling were numerous pipes, through some I heard the gurgle of water and others the hiss of steam. The passage was hot and sticky with humidity that dripped from above and pooled upon the cool concrete floor. I should have felt nervous at walking through rivulets of water when only a few inches away there was enough electricity to power a small city. Yet my discovery of a actual and literal time machine in Vargo's laboratory left me numb to more mundane dangers.

Vaerti opened the door at the end of the hall and ushered me into a giant machine shop. The robot did not bother to lock this door, likely because this chamber held no secrets or no threats. The room took up only one floor and the ceiling was only inches above my head. Electric bulbs of the standard household size hung from electrical wiring every five feet or so and illuminated the shop proficiently. There were no windows that I could see anywhere, but such a room would need regular and strong ventilation, so extensive duct work was a likely possibility. Not that it mattered, consciously I paid little attention to the details of the room. But I moved forward woodenly at the gentle prodding of Vargo's mechanical butler, until we arrived at the entrance to yet another chamber.

Vaerti opened the door and gestured for me to enter. I looked through the open doorway into a simple shower room similar to those found in high-schools the world over. The chamber was warm, very warm, its heat a byproduct of the boilers that turned the great electrical turbines powering the entire exposition. Without looking back to my guide, I explored the room which on this end, held metal lockers for holding men's clothing and on the far end the sinks and showers of a communal washroom. I quickly found an empty locker and stowed Vargo's robe and towel, and then walked naked into the showering area. I found round cakes of shaving soap in porcelain containers on a shelf projecting from twenty foot long mirror, but no straight-razor. Returning to the locker room, I rummaged other men's lockers until I found what I was looking for. The razor was quite sharp and folded neatly into an ivory handle. The blade was stamped with the maker's name (Zwilling J. A. Henckels) and the city of its origin (Solingen, Germany).

I took the razor and the shaving kit it had come from with me when I returned to the shaving area. The bright electrical light reflected off the mirror harshly, but gave me a perfect view of the entire room behind me. As I gazed into the mirror it revealed the great serpent Python slowly crawling across the floor towards me. Startled, I quickly turned to face the creature, but the room was empty of any other life besides myself. As my gaze returned to the mirror, the zombie snake coiled around my lower body and spiraled its way up onto my shoulders. In this position, its head lightly rested upon my left shoulder and its florescent green eyes gazed back at me from the mirror's surface.

All mundane thoughts, shaving included, vanished in an instant. More than anything, I wanted to offer some kind of dismissive quip to minimize the creature's intimate intimidation. As before, the serpent's body was too light for its size, as if it were hollow. But I could still see its skeleton through open gaps in its scaled hide; it was more skeleton than zombie, but it weighed upon me nonetheless. Determined not to be the first to speak and thus accept a inferior position with my tutelary spirit, I remained silent. Ignoring the presence of my ophidian eudaemon, I instead rummaged around in the shaving kit looking for shears, it was time to tame my unruly white beard. I was starting to resemble Santa Claus and I don't like resembling saints, even those made immortal by Coca-Cola.

As I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I mean, really looked. I came to understand that being an amnesiac was not the worst thing that I had to deal with. By equal measure, delusions of supernatural power and hallucinations of spiritual serpents were survivable. But there was something that hammered hard at me, the man looking back at me was old, nearly seventy. I would need to start my life over at seventy years old, and that was a very hard thing. What was harder was knowing even if I lived another ten years, I might not ever know what I had accomplished in the seven decades that preceded my amnesia. Had I been a good man or evil? Did I leave people I cared about behind in that old life? Did the face looking back at me belong to father or grandfather? Had anyone loved me? Did I even have a country? Or was I just a homeless bum with a good physique?

Python must have been able to read my mind for its serpentine laughter seemed to echo through the showers.

{"Hsssksss."}

I smiled with exultation for the spirit had broken our mutual silence and thus conceded to speak first. But somehow, Python found this even more amusing for its laughter continued for some time. Then it began to constrict itself around me as though to crush me, but either it was not strong enough or skeletal serpent demons are not very good at that sort of thing.

{"Ostanes...I...have...told...you...before...that...you...are...one...of...history's...most...powerful...and...ancient...magicians. Self...pity...does...not...suit...you...and...you...are...not...alone,...for...I...will...always...be...with...you...even...in...the...worst...of...times."}

I had expected sarcasm and derision from my deity, not the warm and soothing tones of compassion that I now heard. I had been a fool. The great snake was not trying to crush me, it was comforting me by hugging my body. I was at a loss for words. I had been prepared for an attack and it had been trying to reassure me. More over, it had succeeded, for I no longer felt the yawning pit of despair opening beneath me. It was then that I understood the nature of our relationship. I had thought of it as a demon in the monotheistic sense of the word, that it would offer me power and temptation in equal measure. But a tutelary spirit was a friend and ally that would never desert one, a teacher and advisor that always had your best interests at heart. I had thought that I might be going mad, but in reality it was quite the opposite; if it was possible, I was becoming more than sane. Or if it was madness, then it was a divine madness that no one would wish healed.

In the ancient world a term had been coined for just such a instance, epiphany. In the modern age, it meant a sudden insight into the nature or truth of a given subject or event. While for the people of the ancient world it meant the manifestation of a deity. As an ancient magician stranded in the modern world my epiphanies were applicable to both definitions of the word. For most people, the experience of consciousness is singular at first glance, but in reality the human mind possesses a number of different aspects which are sometimes cohesive and at other times in strife. For one such as I, the experience of sentience was a bit different, as my higher self took on its own personality, even its own name and interacted with me as a separate entity. Python as my tutelary deity would manifest whenever I needed help, but in order for me to remain true to myself, I would need to be true to its vision of the world and its message. For if I violated that sacred relationship, I would be a man completely divided against himself and most certainly, that way lay irredeemable madness.

After my realization, I looked once again into the mirror, but it held only my reflection. Thoughtful and introspective, I went about the business of trimming my beard and shortening my hair to the fashionable length I had observed upon Vargo. The heat of the shower was soothing after my day-long illness and washed away the smell of sickness along with my sweat. There is nothing quite like standing under a powerful jet of nearly scalding water, breathing in steam and watching the soap sluice away the grime and animal stink of the human body. Rather than dwell upon the plethora of personal crises that littered the landscape of my nebulous life, I turned my thoughts to the discovery of Vargo's time-machine.

Vargo Zamtredia had in his possession a real working time-machine. I had no recollection of seeing the machine before this morning, and yet, there was something indescribably familiar about it. Could I have entered this time and place through the strange mechanism? Under any other circumstances such a question would seem ludicrous. Did time travel have side-effects? If so, my intense physical illness and retro-grade amnesia would be explainable phenomena. Had Vargo plucked me from some other time-period into this, the last year of the nineteenth century? If so, why? It would explain his willingness to care for me so charitably. Or was that simply the nature of the man? At some point soon, I would have to broach the topic with my new friend and benefactor, but not yet.

First I would need to resolve a far more pressing issue, that of conflicting world views. On the one hand, Python had told me not only who I was, but what I had been. Since our most recent encounter, I had decided to accept the daemon's explanation as the literal truth. But if that were so, then I was Ostanes, a master sorcerer twenty-four centuries old. I had been plucked from another time and or place by a 19th century scientific genius with a working time machine. The two opposing paradigms of high-magick versus advanced technology left me dizzy.

By definition, if one of these two world views was true, then the other must be false. On the one hand, seeing all the technical wonders of Vargo's laboratory in the Palace of Electricity and being able to touch them as well as observe them work, directly implied that Python and his explanation were the delusions of a unstable mind. And yet, the revelations of my dream and all its arcane minutia felt like the absolute truth. Thus I was confronted by a paradox. Could both actually be true? According to linear logic, no. But according to lateral logic, possibly. Simply put, I was missing a key piece of information that could change the context of my confusion and realign my point of view, thus resolving the paradox. What key piece of information was I missing and how did explain the madness of my situation?

A wise man once said: "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." So, for today and today only, I would trust to the implacable logic of Sherlock Holmes. For obvious reasons that thought made me smile. That quote had been taken from Conan Doyle's story "The Sign of the Four", his second novel featuring the great detective which he had written in 1890, just ten years ago. In 1900, Arthur Conan Doyle would still be alive and working hard on various novels. I decided there and then that I would like to meet the man behind the myth. But from March to June of 1900, the good doctor would be volunteering his services as a physician in the Boer War of South Africa.

Standing there hot water washing over me and stream rising around me until the air was thick with moisture. There was one question yet to ask, perhaps the question I should have asked first of all. If I came from the past, how did I know so much about 1900s light fixtures and Sherlock Holmes? Had I been snatched from the future? A sudden tightening constricted my breath and my body shook. Retrograde amnesia blocks personal memories, not learned skills or even memorized facts. As I contemplated what I knew of history, I understood. 1900 had been a watershed year. Practically every single cultural and scientific development had bloomed in that year. And Paris was not some random destination, for uncounted men and women who would influence the twentieth century were right here in the City of Lights, now. In theory, time travel could be the result of random, if epic events. It would be possible for some freak instance of magick or science to place me in a important year or place. However when two or more critical details line-up, its a pattern, and patterns are always a function of intelligence and forethought.

No matter how much I might want to believe that Vargo Zamtredia was responsible for my presence in this time and place, it just did not add up. It was not that I could not figure out what had happened to bring me to this time and place, it was rather that I did not wish to believe what I already knew to be true. I was Ostanes the magician and the gods were using me as a playing piece in their grand game and apparently time-travel was one of that game's key stratagems. That meant Vargo was also a pawn in their game, but unlike myself, he will ill prepared to understand what was happening to him. As a rational man of the late nineteenth century, his logic would not permit him to see the dangerous circumstances into which he had unwittingly stumbled. Whatever his reasons for using the time machine, he could not have realized how completely he was being played by deities he and most of the western world had relegated to the irrelevance of superstition and ignorance. The twentieth century might well be sacrificed upon the altar of the gods and never come to pass in any recognizable fashion.

Then Vaerti returned. Hours had passed since it left me here. It was as if I could hear sand pouring through a hourglass. Rather than spend any further time navel gazing, I toweled myself dry and dressed. It was time to see the World Exposition of 1900 Paris.

"I am ready, take me to your master."

The Bromance

When Vaerti and I returned to my little utility room, a short while later, Vargo was waiting for us. Folded neatly across the end of the bed were two new suits of clothing. Casual men's clothing of 1900 consisted of a lounge coat (jacket), a single breasted waistcoat (vest), and trousers (pants). The male fashions of the time dictated that day coat and trousers matched in color, while the vest was contrasted (usually darker) for effect. It was spring time in Paris, and brighter colors were favored, so my colors were khaki and seal brown. A quintet of boxes were resting on the bare concrete floor next to the bed. Two of the boxes contained brand new brown boots of good leather, they were the lace up variety with a toe cap and extended above the ankle. The second set of boxes contained other male accessories including: striped shirts (one each of red and blue) with wings, matching silk neckties of the narrow four-in-hand variety, men's underwear, socks and a straw boater hat. Upon seeing the new clothes, I was ecstatic, it was like being a kid again and ready for school.

"Vargo my friend, you should not have gone to such trouble, I could have worn any old hand-me-downs. I owe you, literally for the clothes upon my back. I will blend right into Paris society. I cannot thank you enough."

I immediately stuck out my hand to my new friend. His face was all alight as if it were Christmas morning and I was his brother or cousin. In that first second, as our hands met, I felt a strange sensation and the air around us seemed to stir in a unnatural breeze. I could see the recognition of this in his intelligent brown eyes. Then we were just shaking hands in amicable camaraderie. Then he was striding away towards the door.

"Ostanes, I will give you some privacy in which to dress. Do you need assistance? Vaerti could aid you if you are not familiar with this type of clothing. No? Very well. I shall be waiting in the laboratory when you feel presentable."

Then with a nod and smile he was gone and the door closed behind him. Vaerti remained behind. The robot's usual hum was subdued, perhaps it was in sleep mode or merely quiescent as it waited for it's next set of instructions. I kept it in my peripheral vision at all times. While I did not expect the machine to do anything to me, it gave off a disturbing vibe that I could not pinpoint. I ran my fingers over the new suits, Egyptian cotton and hand sewn, it was good quality cloth. But it was everyday casual clothing and in wearing it, I would indeed blend in with the everyday man on the streets of Paris. This made me frown and I made another important piece of self-discovery; I was a fashion snob. I dressed quickly, finding everything familiar and quite comfortable. As I stood before the full length mirror, I could not help but smile, I cut a dashing figure for such a old man. Not so much a fashion snob as clothes whore, I loved the little details of the haberdasher's art.

Without further adieu I shrugged into my day-coat and strode towards the door to the laboratory. The robot hummed to life and somehow beat me to the door which it opened with surprising grace. I found myself thanking it, but it made no sign that it cared or appreciated such gestures. I found Vargo tinkering with one of the earliest automobiles, the Renault Voiturette Type B, it was in fact the world's first two door sedan. I smiled as I approached. The Voiturette was pretty simple compared to it's more evolved cousins, but that did not make it any less of a car. In 1898, Louis Renault had a De Dion-Bouton engine modified with fixed drive shaft and ring and pinion gear, making "perhaps the first hot rod in history".

Vargo had removed the wheels of the Voiturette and had the car up on wooden blocks, while he lay beneath it on a rollaway. Vaerti who had been trailing me, let out a series of beeps and whistles alerting Vargo of my approach. As he rolled from under the car, I could see he was wearing a heavy pair of canvas overalls and a strange pair of goggles.

"How is your is your little girl doing?" The translation in French was not as smooth as I had hoped or Vargo just did not get it, for he shook his head and stood up.

"Girl, what girl?"

I laughed.

"The application of a feminine gender to inanimate objects, specifically mechanical transportation devices is an ancient habit. I think it began with ships, but I have heard locomotive engineers and automobile drivers speak that way of their machines as well. I am sorry if I confused you."

He smiled good-naturedly

"Of course, French is not my first language and I struggle with some idioms and linguistic peculiarities associated with western European languages."

"That is right, you are from Georgia, between the Black and Caspian seas. Sadly, I do not know very much about your homeland. If my history is correct, over two thousand years ago it belonged to the Persian Empire. And I know it played a significant part in the medieval crusades, but of modern Georgia, I know nothing. Perhaps you could tell me more of your nation while we work on your car?"

"You want to work on my automobile? Are you familiar with these devices? Surely you do not wish to get dirty after spending so much time getting clean?"

In answer I walked over to a coat-rack and pulled down another set of overalls and stepped into them.

Over the next couple of hours I mostly listened to Vargo talk about his home. I occasionally asked questions, but mostly I let him talk about himself. It was not deliberate on my part, but I learned a great deal about Vargo over that time. In turn, I offered observations about his vehicle and the many modifications he had made to the original Voiturette. There was never a question that I could keep up with Vargo in terms of mechanical aptitude, but then my intention had never been to compete with my new friend. And yet, I surprised us both with what I did know about automobiles and I even managed to offer a couple of helpful tips to the master mechanic on improving his vehicles performance.

After Vargo and I finished tinkering with his car, we replaced the wheels and with Vaerti's help we removed the wooden blocks and lowered the modified Voiturette to the laboratory floor.

"Monsieur Ostanes, enough work for today. Let us wash our hands and divest ourselves of these coveralls, its nearly three o'clock and time for a late lunch. Besides, we must test out the improvements we have wrought on the Voiturette. Yes?"

"Yes Vargo, a ride in your modified Voiturette sounds lovely, followed by lunch. Although, after all the changes you have made to this automobile, it cannot in all fairness be called a Voiturette any longer. You should name it something more appropriate. Yes?"

His smile and sharp nod told me I had found the wellspring of his pride and that my compliment greatly pleased him. Thereafter he showed me to a janitorial closet down the hall where we washed most of the grease from our hands in companionable silence. Then we returned to the laboratory, and while I was struggling out of my pair of coveralls, Vargo came over to me with a paperboard box. His body-language spoke volumes to me as he approached, he was uncharacteristically serious and I sensed that he had something important to show me.

"Ostanes, the night that you arrived here, you came through the matter-transfer gateway fully dressed in the strangest attire. You were unconscious and in order to determine the extent of your injuries, I removed your clothes. Everything that was upon your person at the time of your arrival is in this box."

He then sat the box down on the table between us. For a moment, I just looked at the box. It was so ordinary. A plain brown paperboard box, the kind used to ship virtually everything throughout the twentieth century. There was something reassuringly normal about something so commonplace. But what it contained was anything but commonplace and whatever those items might be, they were the only clues as to who I might be. I started to open the box immediately, but something Vargo had said stopped me.

"Why did you think I was injured? Because I was unconscious or for something else?"

Vargo's brow furrowed for a moment and his eyes lost focus for just a second as he thought about my question.

"My friend when you arrived, not only were you unconscious, but your shirt was soaked in blood both front and back. Furthermore, both sides of your vestments were heavily burned. Your clothing showed evidence of some sort of struggle as there were numerous slash marks in various places and holes that appeared to have been caused by gunfire. What concerned me most was the puckered scar in the center of your chest, just below your breastbone, it was covered in caked on blood and ashes. Initially, I thought you had been stabbed by a large blade, but once I cleaned the wound, I discovered that it was already healthy scar-tissue and I found no other injuries on your person. In fact, except for you being unconscious, I could find nothing wrong with you. As you had yet to manifest the fever and illness that was to follow. I assumed that you had lost consciousness due to the stresses of matter de-materialization and re-materialization on a man so old. But now I am not so sure. And that was not the strangest thing about your arrival."

As we both stood by contemplating what had been said, I opened the box. The first thing I found inside was a blood soaked and heavily burned set of clothing. Nothing about the outfit seemed so unusual to me, not that I recognized it. It was a combat suit. The company name and logo had been burned off, but careful inspection revealed the unit was designed with built in armor, not that it had helped me. The suit was fire retardant with several defensive countermeasures and a complicated communications up-link. I mentioned as much to Vargo as I pulled it from the box. The suit began to tear under its own weight and where I gripped it, the material began to disintegrate. It was like handling the centuries old wrappings of a Egyptian mummy.

I laid what pieces I could down on the lab table next to us and hoped I remembered which pieces fit together and where. I reached into the box again and pulled forth 10mm semiautomatic pistol with laser sighting, it was heavily rusted. When I popped the clip out, I half expected the grip to crumble in my hand or the clip to jam due to corrosion. Strangely, neither happened. The grip looked badly worn, but the clip dropped free without difficulty. The twenty round clip was empty. It must have been a hell of a firefight. Next I cleared the chamber and a single round landed in the palm of my hand. I looked at the bullet briefly, a single armor piercing round made of some dark silvery metal, it could have been lead, but my instincts suggested otherwise - depleted uranium. Lastly, I checked to see if the laser sight was still functional and for about a second it painted a nearby wall with a crimson dot and then died. The gun's power cell was dead and the whole unit looked like it had lain on some distant battlefield for years.

I put the bullet down on the table next to the combat suit and handed the gun over to Vargo to see what he could make of it. No sooner had I delivered the gun to him than Vargo had figured out how to strip the gun down to its assembled parts and was using a magnifying glass to inspect the firing mechanism, disconnector, and magazine. I began to remove each of the remaining items and set the box on the floor so I could look at them as a whole before inspecting them individually. It was a strange collection of items: a gold pocket-watch, a sacrificial knife, a bunch of game tokens, a masonic ring, a Mardi Gras parade doubloon and a crumbling leather bag filled with a odd assortment of knickknacks. What kind of wizard needed such a random assortment of miscellanea? For just a moment, my sense of humor got the best of me and I muttered the following.

“Please let me introduce myself, I am Ostanes, master sorcerer of alchemical hash, miscellaneous divinations and hodgepodge nigrimancies.”

At the sound of my voice, Vargo turned from his examination of my gun's laser sight, to look at me.

"What did you just say my friend Ostanes?"

"Nevermind, I was thinking aloud."

Completely absorbed in his mechanical measurements, Vargo simply nodded and made a noncommittal noise before returning to his investigations.

Glancing down into the box at my feet, I noticed again that at its bottom lay a layer of dust mixed with ashes. Ashes and Dust? The items I had been wearing or carrying through the matter transfer gateway and through time were breaking down. Why? Temporal paradox? Or perhaps the curse of Saturn? Was there a difference?

Contemplatively, I reached down and scooped up a handful of the fine mixture and poured it back and forth from one hand to the other. Nine times I did this, instinctively, obsessively and with some unconscious intent. At the end of this compulsive act, the admixture ended up in my left hand which I extended outwards and above the strange collection of my former possessions. And moving my hand counter clockwise I let a fine stream of the material form a circle along the line of the six items. When this was done, I continued to pour out the ashes and dust forming a hexagram between the items and pronounced the following phrases.

"Favilla et cinere autem pulvis pariter. Et rubigo erit, si non usus est."

Within the hexagram, each of the items began to glow with a unearthly light. At the same time, Vargo's time-machine began to ring shrilly. The mystery of my possessions forgotten, Vargo rushed past me to inspect the time-machine. In addition to the sound of a hundred pocket-watch alarms going off at once, the room was filled with throbbing vibration that was not so much heard as felt in one's bones.

As I watched Vargo tinker with the time-machine, I realized the source of the vibration to be the matter-transfer gateway. What was happening? Within the adamantine ring there were electrical discharges and the beginnings of St. Elmo's fire. With mounting concern, I shouted to Vargo.

"What is happening? Can I help you in some way?"

He was so focused on what he was doing, he never turned to look back at me and yelled.

"An unforeseen charge has built up in the matter-transfer gateway! It has created a feedback loop in the temporal matrix! If I cannot get it stopped, it could destroy the whole building!"

I glanced back at the hexagram which glowed with ever greater phosphorescence, a kind of aurora that revealed each of the items burning a different color. Thinking fast. There had to be a correlation between my mumbo-jumbo spell and the cascading disaster overtaking the time-machine and the matter-transfer gateway, because both the light show and sudden eruption of the alarms had occurred simultaneously. Ergo, if I disrupted the hexagram, it should stop the technological disaster happening before me eyes. If I was wrong, I would not live long enough to regain my lost memories…

Such an assumption was a act of 'magical thinking'. The term holds a place of scorn in the modern world, but since at least the dawn of the written word, it has been a time tested tool for survival and success. I will not lie, my hunger for life and all its attendant opportunities burned brightly within my being, thus making the decision simple enough. But to simplify it in that fashion was a half-truth and while other are fit to be given prevarications, I will not and must not lie to myself. The other half of the equation was that I trusted my solution over Vargo's expertise. Its possible that in the next few seconds he might find a technological solution and end the crisis, but then that would be trusting to another's power and worse giving too much credit to this upstart new religion - science. As Ostanes the ancient sorcerer, it was incumbent upon me to safeguard the primeval mysteries and ensure their transmission to generations yet unborn. For when the light of reason must most assuredly fail, mankind must not be left bereft of those arts no matter how dark, that might allow future generation to survive and prosper to reclaim the right of supremacy on this planet.

Above the deafening din of the time-machine's alarms, I could just barely hear the sound of Vargo's panic as he shouted to me.

"Nothing is working! The safeguards are failing! I will go to the main power relay room and pull the breakers! Get out of the building now!"

Jumping off the time-machine's tiered platform, he turned to me long enough to point towards the nearest exit and then ran like a madman through another door.

As I stood there, poised in mid motion, I looked up once more towards the ring of the matter-transfer gateway and noted with dispassionate objectivity that metallic ring was now ablaze with a electrical nimbus so bright it hurt the eyes. As I looked away and blinked, the after image remained. In that moment, as my gaze settled once more on my circular glyph upon the table, the palinopsia and the glyph overlapped precisely. The two patterns were identical! If I needed further incontrovertible proof, here it was. With a clockwise circular motion of my left hand over the glyph and the utterance of a single Latin phrase, I broke the pattern carefully with my right hand.

"Sicut superius et inferius!" (As above, so below!)

Then there was darkness and a ringing silence like tinnitus.

Not death or fire or a cataclysmic explosion. Just the hissing tick of the matter-transfer gateway's metallic ring as it began to cool. In that sound, I could hear the voice of my daemon confirming my unspoken suspicions, Vargo's technology was magic. I had sensed it when we shook hands earlier this morning and even before that in the early morning hours of my awakening as a imperceptible something that impregnated this place. So this was the new face of magic at the dawn of the twentieth century. It masqueraded itself behind the facade of rationality, using complicated new terms and the infallibility of logic to win the hearts and minds of the masses.

As I reached towards the floor, for the paperboard box, I saw that it was clean of dust. Not just empty of the items I had removed, clean, as if it had been vacuumed out. And then I recalled that a single handful of ash and dust had formed the entire circle and the six sided star within. It was as if my hand had sucked every particle of dust and ash from the box to pour it upon the laboratory table. Teleportation? Apparently just one of my sorcerous abilities, if I could learn to summon that power at will. But something about the pattern of ashes and dust, the circle and six sided star, bothered me. And then I realized why it would matter and more importantly why my spell had set off the time-machine and matter-transfer gateway. The six sided star within a circle is called a hexagram. Used since antiquity for both summoning and dispelling certain powers, it was a powerful talisman. Historically, it was called the talisman of Saturn.

The talisman of Saturn's effects on both the time-machine and matter-transfer gateway combined with Python's revelations to create a distinct and chilling pattern. Metaphysically, it made sense as Saturn was the Roman god of time, the devourer of years and all of earth's brood. So the hexagram, so anciently tied to Saturn had somehow interfered with Vargo's technomantic devices and inadvertently, nearly led to disaster. We had both been lucky, but I learned a valuable lesson in this near miss, always trust my own instincts rather than the expertise of others.

Vargo returned a few minutes later, his breath coming hard, sweaty and flushed. By then, I had ritually cleaned the talisman of Saturn from the table top and stowed my few possessions in my utility room.

"We were lucky my friend Ostanes! I had barely reached the breaker room and I thought all might be lost. As I started the shutdown procedure, one of the key fuses blew and turned off the electricity to the laboratory. I ran the shutdown procedure anyway, replaced the fuse and then reactivated the power-grid. I did not see you anywhere in the Hall of Electricity. Tell me you did not remain behind here in the lab?"

"Vargo, does it really matter? Your infernal devices did not explode and no one was injured. As you said, we got lucky. And now, since all that life and death business is past, I recall you mentioning lunch?"

Vargo veritably exploded into his native tongue with great emotion and great volume. I did not need to speak the Georgian language to understand I was hearing vulgarity. It seemed I had finally upset my friend, perhaps he truly cared what happened to me after all.

"Peace! Friend Vargo. I simply trusted that you were correct and would figure out what to do to stop the temperal-power-thing-overload. So, why don't you go get cleaned up and I will buy us lunch, yes?"

I could tell he was getting control of his temper when his hands stopped waving around in my face. He started to say something and then I heard him clench his teeth together, then he gave me a curt nod and walked towards different door altogether. The opening of the door was followed by Vargo slamming it shut and even through the masonry, I could hear his hoarse cursing. Georgians were a hot blooded people it seemed. I could not help but smile, Vargo Zamtredia was quite the character.

The Sum Total of my Estate

During the half-hour that Vargo took to refresh himself, I had gone through the six remaining items that made up all my worldly goods. I began with the largest, the crumbling leather duffel bag. It was essentially a leather briefcase, but the interior was subdivided into twenty different pockets. Each of the pockets contained some odd item, a stone, a candle, powders in glass vials, ad-infinitum. The ancient leather duffel was a spell component carrying case, it made perfect sense. I would need to replace it quickly and likewise many of the components. So I made a lengthy list on a cheap pad of foolscap.

The next item to draw my interest was a sacrificial knife. It was in surprisingly good condition, the single edged and slightly curved Damascus steel blade bore only a light layer of rust. The blade was mounted in a custom carved ivory handle with three red sapphires mounted in gold rivets. It still had a good edge considering what it had been through. The leather sheath was crumbling just like the duffel. I made a temporary sheath from stapled cardboard and stowed it in my jacket. I would need to replace that sheath try to save the blade if possible.

Almost of its own accord, my hand seemed to pluck the gold pocket-watch from where it rested next to me on the cot where twenty-four hours ago I had struggled with such mad visions. The gold case was cool in my hand and felt far heavier than it should have felt. I turned it over from front to back. In style it was a hunter-case watch, popularized by 19th century English fox hunters. Its distinguishing feature is a case with a spring-hinged circular metal lid or cover, that closes over the watch-dial and crystal, protecting them from dust, scratches and other damage accrued through wear and tear. The outer case's surface bore a stylized medieval heraldic shield broken into four quadrants, each bearing a unique symbol in clockwise order: an Egyptian ankh, a teardrop, an apple, and an ax standard. In the exact center of the shield and touching each of the quadrants was a perfect square surrounded by a circle that was itself part of the predominant symbol of Mars. Individually the symbols held a variety of meaning, but together they told the story of a male dominated, western secret society, whose sole focus was the occult. Surrounding the heraldic shield was a engraved ribbon bearing the late Latin motto: Arbitrium Vincit Omnia. It was quite a motto, loosely translated, “The Will Conquers All”.

Turning the watch over, the rear case bore a completely different scene altogether. Carefully inscribed within a Ouroboros was the reversed procession of the equinoxes and in the center was the impression of a armillary sphere with an inscription below it in Old Persian cuneiform (𐎷𐎰𐎼), Miça, better known as Mithra. Curiouser and curiouser.

Depressing a slightly raised pin in the center of the watch-stem, I clicked the cover open. The crystal casing was cracked almost through the center and would need to be replaced, but the dial's Roman numerals were easy to read against a radium face that would stand out at night. The watch hands and sub-seconds dial were frozen at three minutes to midnight.

Looking at the covers inner face revealed a beautiful engraving of a woman that seemed to smile as I altered the angle of my view. Around the outer edge was another Latin inscription: Gratam tertius circulus – Natasha – MMXXXV. The translation was pretty simple and easy to understand: “Welcome to the third circle.” The inscription was a obvious reference to the degree of initiation so often found in mystery cults. Depending on which school of occult knowledge, the third degree could be an apprentice to an adept or even a low ranking master, no help there. But, I had to wonder, who was Natasha to me? Might she have been my friend, a lover or something else again? There was not the slightest of emotions stired by her image save for curiosity. But then, I had something more profound and ominous to think about before I could ponder her identity for long. Because, as I gazed at Natasha's image, the watch mechanism began to tick and the hands began to move again...backwards.

I stood as if petrified, muscles frozen with shock and my eye riveted to the watch face. As I watched the sub-seconds dial tick in reverse, the threat posed by Saturn suddenly seemed far more real. The ticking was accompanied by a sensation both electrical and visceral, that of being watched and of being in someone's cross-hairs. Slowly I shook off the fear and adrenaline reclaiming some small amount of detachment. If one of the titans wanted me dead, I would already be dead and that clearly was not the case. Obviously, I was very much alive and while my circumstances were far from ideal, they were also far from desperate or miserable. Like a child in a storm darkened house, I reveled in the flash of lightning and suffered trepidation at the sound of thunder. It was the lightening that should provoke fear and the rumble of thunder relief, but human beings are animals first and instinct often rules us; I was no exception.

With deliberate effort, I clicked the lid of the watch closed and put it in my other pocket. As soon as Vargo was once more in a companionable mood, I would present the watch and its enigma to him. Perhaps he could understand the strange physics that forced a clock to turn backwards and more importantly, he just might know what was making me so nervous about holding it. I knew there was something significant behind the pocket watch's strange behavior and more importantly how it related to me. The mechanism had been quiescent when I first opened it and for almost a minute afterward, then for reasons I could not yet fathom, it began to behave rather ominously. Deep down, I had more than an inkling of what it might portent, but sometimes its easier to pretend that something dreadful is not true and gain some small bliss in the interim.

From the coverlet I gathered up eight game tokens, but not just any game tokens, those curious little markers from the game of Monopoly (TM). The eight tokens made a jumble in my hand and I recognized each of them in turn: airplane, cannon, car, cat, hat, horse and rider, ship and thimble. Each of the die-cast metallic markers bore a faint crimson color and strong iron smell. But the ruddy color was not rust, as I examined each piece carefully, I felt something emanating from the little playing pieces...power.

To verify my intuition I closed my eyes and held each item, the sensation of power grew and with each came impressions of dark tableaux and strange sensations like pooling blood, the sound of a beating heart and the heat of life.

Once again I gazed upon the collection of tokens and understood the purpose behind them, if not the manner or rationale behind their creation. The eight tokens were sources of mystic power, somehow mystical energy had been condensed down into each through the medium of blood. It was dark magic, the sorcery of squeezing mystical energy out of living beings, as if they were batteries. Of course, one need not kill human beings to achieve this end, but the life energy potential of other animals would necessitate the need for a full time slaughter house. There was a hidden danger in this method, for while the magician who used this method could dispense with naturally pooling sources like nodes, they in turn would be on the constant hunt for more powerful life-force and the best sources would be awakened beings and those from whom they arose, humanity. I could well imagine how slippery the slope of ethics versus necessity would become for a blood magician in need of ever larger supplies of magical energy. Down that road lay the life of a magical serial killer and it left me chilled, still one had to admire the ingenuity of its efficiency. I wrapped the eight tokens in a silk handkerchief and stored them in my inner jacket pocket. The irony smell of blood clung to my hands afterward and could not be totally expunged with soap and water.

With only two items left, I selected the masonic ring. After holding it for a few minutes, I could tell that it like the pocket watch was 24 carat gold. The ring and the watch had something else in common, each had borne the stylistic symbol of Mars. On the watch, the symbol was more like a circle with an arrow projecting from it towards the two o'clock position. But on the ring, the symbol was more of a sigil, a solid square surrounded by and touched on four points by a perfect circle, which in turn was touched by a obtuse Isosceles triangle and pointing towards the two o'clock position. But, I had been wrong when I described it as a masonic ring. A craft lodge ring would bear the square and compasses of a stone mason and there was no letter G in the center which symbolized the word GAOTU, an acronym for great architect of the universe.

No this ring was a signet ring, but not masonic. Impressed inside the solid square of the sigil was a Gothic capital T. In all other ways it was a man's gold signet ring, probably made for the third finger. The inside of the ring was more interesting, but no more enlightening. The following Turkish inscription was engraved in neat Roman script with diacriticals on the underside of the signet: “İkinci yörüngeye hoşgeldin.” – üstâd – MMXVII. The translation would be something like: “Welcome to the second orbit.” – The Master – 2017. So the ring and the pocket-watch were linked. I had definitely been a member of a secret lodge, definitely occult and with possible masonic influences. It seemed both Natasha and the Master had felt the need to congratulate me on successive graduations through the mysteries. That one inscription had been in Latin and the other Turkish, could mean a variety of things including something as mundane as linguistic specialties. Still these items were real links to my past or rather my future. While the ring and the watch were obviously clues to where and when I came from, those clues were very nebulous, netting my investigation little. Without further thought on the matter, I slid the ring onto my left middle finger where it fit perfectly.

The final object linking me to the world's future and my past was a Mardi Gras parade doubloon. As I held it in my hand, I could tell that it was a fairly typically alloy of modern bronze, consisting of 88% copper and 12% tin. From the first handling I could feel that strange vibration I associated with magic, so it was enchanted. I could not yet ascertain the purpose of its enchantment, it was as if I could feel only a partial pattern to its powers. Annoyed, I opened my eyes and inspected it. The head side of the doubloon bore a beautiful representation of the sea god, Proteus. The tail side of the coin had been marred by a spell diagram. The original image, whatever it had been, had been removed leaving a blank bronze surface, save for an original inscription that ran around the outer edge in English. The spell diagram was complicated in its references to light and darkness, but at its center lay a symbol well known to me, the Monas Hierogyphica.

In addition to being the title of a book published in 1564 by none other than John Dee, the symbol also served as Dee's personal glyph. Whatever the enchantment was, it had likely been crafted by the good doctor whose penchant for alchemy, divination and necromancy mirrored my own. For the most part, Dee's theories of magic had been brilliant save for the fatal flaw of being continually interpreted through the lens of cabalistic Christian hermeticism.

Time would tell how the coin worked, but as I was about to stow it in a jacket pocket I noticed once again the inscription around the outer edge: “The Life of the Party, Krew of Proteus, New Orleans 1901.” Like a number of items that I had brought with me from the future, the doubloon showed considerable corrosion and wear, but unlike the other items, the parade coin's envelope of temporal displacement was fast closing. For all I knew, this very coin had already been struck in New Orleans by the Krew of Proteus in anticipation of the next Mardi Gras. What would it be like to hold both versions of the same coin in my hands? Would the fabric of reality accept such a thing or would the coins annihilate each other like matter and antimatter? It was a question worthy of contemplation, but it was unlikely I would attend the Mardi Gras of 1901 in New Orleans.

I was deep in thought upon the matter when I heard Vargo exiting his rooms off the laboratory. Placing the doubloon in my pants pocket, I emerged from my room and greeted him like a brother.

Jeanne

An hour later, we found ourselves in Montmartre, upon the Rue de Faubourg. I could still feel the wind in my face, and to my surprise, a smile on my face. Vargo had insisted on taking the recently modified Voiturette for a test drive and it had been well worth the time I spent on my back and the smell of petroleum grease which still clung to me. As we pulled up to the curb, Vargo set the hand brake. No, the original Voiturette nor any of the early automobiles had possessed such a gizmo, but then during our tinkering earlier that afternoon, I had suggested it. Vargo had been most pleased with the idea and had within an hour installed a almost perfect facsimile of the modern hand brake in his experimental car. It never occurred to me until later, after lunch, that I might have altered history right then and there. But as I had told Python in the dream, I wasn't quite myself and I would later excuse my actions under that pretext. Besides the addition made the car safer for Vargo and I to ride in and my original self would never have found fault with that, temporal orthodoxy be damned.

Vargo parked the car at the curbside in front of a brasserie called Bouillon Chartier. As we exited the car, Vargo informed me that this type of restaurant served working men's food, simple dishes that one might find in the countryside, in other words, French home-style cooking. My stomach's noisy growl saved me from mentioning that I was already familiar with the term and its likely clientèle. We both laughed and then I noticed that Vargo's car was the only one on the street and that people were staring. The Rue de Faubourg was a busy artery of traffic for single horse drawn fiacres and the more expensive double horse drawn carriages of the wealthy. With the sun blazing up above and beginning its westerly descent, the street was mostly dry and a bit dusty.

Momentarily I was overwhelmed by the sun itself, a bright gold disc in the smoke filled air, its warmth and light gave me a sense of hope and possibility, but I could not shake a inexorable sense of wrongness associated with it. Before I could further examine my thoughts on the matter, the loud crack of a coachman's whip upon the flanks of a dark gelding snapped my from my reverie.

As I looked up and around, I realized that the sidewalks were overflowing with the masses of the working classes. Shopkeeper's boys stood outside in the heat advertising their employer's wares while the drivers of numerous fiacres were lined up across the street in front of an old hôtel particulier. When a prospective client stepped outside, whether looking for transportation or not, the coachmen would jockey with one another and shout competitively lower bids until their target accepted their bid or walked away. The fiacre drivers were not the only competitors for a stranger's attention, women both on the street and hanging from the windows of the hotel would barrage a potential john with coy cat calls and flirtatious behavior. Everywhere I looked the act of capitalism was being performed, from flower-girls to the actor's advertising the very next show at the Folies Bergère. But where there is money, there are thieves and while my attention was focused elsewhere a small hand had crept into my right jacket pocket. I reacted on pure instinct, and as the small form pulled away from me to flee, my hand seemed to lash out of its own accord and snared a dirty little wrist. As the pickpocket was still in motion and far smaller in mass, I simply held on and twisted. The immediate and pain filled scream belonged to a child which almost convinced me to let go, almost.

As I looked down into the dirty face of the child-thief, I heard something metallic hit the sidewalk and without thought or effort I scooped it up in my left hand, my sacrificial blade. The cardboard sheath had fallen off as the child snared the knife handle and pulled it free of my jacket. In the dusty afternoon light, the Damascus steel blade shown bright and the child's blue eyes widened with fear. I heard Vargo saying something as a Parisian policeman stepped from the passing throng. There was only a second's impression of a bright blue jacket, white pants and dusty black shoes; the man's face was dark from working the daytime streets with hard eyes like smoked quartz.

"Good afternoon Messieurs. You have caught yourself a pickpocket haven't you? She is a bit too young for prison I think, but there is always plenty of room in the workhouses. A bit of Christian charity might even reform her at such a tender age, but I cannot allow you to cut her with that knife..."

As the officer stepped towards me, I could see he held a long wooden cudgel in his right hand which he tapped against his leg in a anticipatory way. I caught myself quietly chanting in Greek as I heard the shifting of great serpentine scales. The three red sapphires mounted into the ivory handle glittered fiercely and their glow was reflected in the man's eyes. The spell had come upon me instinctively causing the policeman to stutter as his mind tried to push through my mental influence.

"Certainly officer. You know I had no such intention. You must see that I am a virtuous man and obviously I took this blade from the little thief. As you suggest I will show her charity and you may go about your business with satisfaction."

I held my breath as I waited to see the outcome of my hastily cast enchantment. For a moment only, there was doubt in his eyes, when it vanished he nodded his acquiescence and turned away to rejoin the flow of pedestrians. Shifting my attention to the thief, I realized the policeman had been right. The pickpocket was a little girl, probably about ten years old and skinny as well as dirty from sleeping in the streets of Montmartre. As she cried and struggled, I showed her the ivory hilt of the sacrificial knife with its three blazing red sapphires and I half chanted and half sang an old lullaby, calming her mind with the need for sleep. As I put away the knife, I easily scooped her up in my arms and turned towards Vargo who had gone silent during my exchange with the Parisian policeman.

"My friend, shall we dine?"

As I looked into my friend's eyes, I caught hints of disbelief, then fear and something like horror. His fear and frustration with the situation turned his queries into accusations as he confronted me.

"What did you do to that policeman? I could have handled the situation without...doing...what you did. And what are you going to do with that little girl?"

My sense of confidence in my own abilities was slowly building and it must have shown for his tirade came to an end. Perhaps Vargo was beginning to see who and what Ostanes truly was and in his uncertainty, he sought reassurances that I meant no malice to the little girl and that he had not just witnessed me using mental compulsion on a duly invested officer of the law. In addition to his other uncertainties, Vargo was looking around us, clearly trying to gauge who might have seen or overheard my exchange with officer. So I was still missing something that I needed to know. My first concern was to give Vargo what he most needed, reassurance then I returned us to our original mission of finding fine dining to dissolve his suspicions.

I quickly stowed the dagger into my left jacket pocket and shifted the sleeping girl to left arm. She could not have weighed more than fifty pounds and felt as light as a feather. Gripping Vargo's shoulder lightly with my right, I looked my friend in the eyes and offer consolation through reasoning.

“You wound me my friend. You saw and heard all that transpired. It was this young girl who plucked my blade from my pocket. Of course I grabbed her, she is a thief, but I never intended to hurt her. The items I carry on me are the only clues that I have to who I was and my life before I came to Paris yesterday. I did not see her initially, I only felt the blade slip free and made a grab in her direction. Perhaps I grabbed her a little too hard, but how was I to know the thief would be a little girl? The policeman's arrival complicated things it is true, but I could not let the situation get any further out of hand could I? All I did was dispel the policeman's suspicions and pacify this malnourished and terrified child before she caused a further scene.”

I took a casual stance and gently rocked the little girl in my arms as I watch Vargo replaying the situation in his mind. The one thing I had thus far learned about Vargo was that like so many men and women of the Victorian age, he deeply desired to believe that other people were just as decent and reasonable as he.

It was not that I lied, rather I used the truth or a significant portion of such to make plausible my recitation of events. Vargo's reactions were entirely reasonable, not as a result of what had actually happened, but rather what his instincts told him I might be capable of. In his heart, Vargo knew darkness when he saw it, as most men do. Having cared for me while I was sick, he had unintentionally become emotionally invested in me and as a potential new friend he wanted me to be innocent. His wishful thinking was a fatal flaw in an otherwise brilliant individual and a blind-spot that needed to be illuminated. However this was neither the time nor the place to disillusion Vargo Zamtredia.

Although not entirely convinced, Vargo nodded and looked uncomfortable. Before he could reiterate his questions, I filled in the pieces and let the scientist do the math.

“I am sure we could all use a good meal and we can figure out how best to help her thereafter. What do you say?”

The doubt and suspicion lifted from Vargo's face like the passing of a shadow. And patting me on the back, he turned back towards the restaurant with something like his original boyish enthusiasm.

Le Bouillon Chartier

Le Bouillon Chartier lay ninety paces down a covered passageway between two businesses, a bakery and seamstress' shop. The covered walkway opened up into a small marble lined courtyard with tables arranged around the periphery. The entrance to the establishment was a wall of nineteenth century mullioned glass held in polished dark mahogany. The door lay on the right-hand side of the entrance and this afternoon it lay open to create a cross-breeze through the crowded dinning-room. The journey from the shaded courtyard with its dusty view of the crowded and bustling Rue de Faubourg to the dim elegance of the brasserie's interior was more than an entrance into a restaurant, it was a passage to paradise.

The vestibule was enclosed on two sides by glass and illuminated by diffuse afternoon light, and therein stood a man in his late forties with graying hair and dressed in a starched white shirt, black tie, black pants and vest with a white apron. He introduced himself as Félix and offered to take our coats, to which we both declined. Upon seeing the dirty urchin girl in my arms, the man merely quirked an eyebrow and led us to a table for four.

As we strode deeper into Bouillon Chartier, the frenetic energy of Paris was left behind for a microscopic universe of polite elegance and cultured service. Everywhere we looked, irrespective of class, Parisians dined in comfort while conversing quietly with both the staff and their companions. Momentarily our server slowed to allow both Vargo and I to take in the full enormity of the restaurant's ambiance. We passed darkly polished walls mounted with coat racks of burnished brass into a cavernous room lined from floor to waist in white veined brown marble. Upwards from that point, the walls were formed of fine creme stucco the shade of wheat or perhaps Navajo white with plaster of Paris moldings in dark goldenrod and embellished with gilding. This combination of light and airy above and dark and lustrous below gave the room a sense of immensity while still allowing the guests the comforting closeness of the darker wood colors. Transfixed at carefully chosen but regular intervals, mirrors bound into matrices of mahogany cast back the flickering illumination of gaslight from frosted glass fixtures to create an effect not unlike the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles.

As we were seated by Félix, an auburn haired youth set a woven basket of fresh baked bread on the table between us. The warm smell of buttery bread made our collective stomach's growl, but before we could partake of the appetizer, Félix took our orders for wine or beer. I let Vargo select our choice of beverage while I quietly dispelled the enchantment I laid on the little girl.

I brushed the hood of her filthy cloak back and her white-blond locks fell across her equally dirty face. As her eyes fluttered open, I was rewarded with her confused aquamarine gaze. To one not accustomed to such spells, it would be as if I had physically administered to her laudanum (opium dissolved in alcohol and highly addictive). At first she was aware of Vargo and I only peripherally, she was sluggish and still half asleep. Given our recent encounter, I preferred to abort a histrionic scene and the slices of warm bread were an ideal distraction.

Upon the simple white porcelain brought to us, I took a slice for each of us and slathered them with the creamy stuff the French called butter. I place the girl's slice right in her hands and even though I was expecting it, the bread vanished as if by magic. Vargo and I both laughed and joined her. While we hastily dined, Félix returned with a pitcher of cold water and a bottle of Cru Beaujolais from the Côte de Brouilly; the latter was a light bodied red, low in tannins and fairly acidic with an aroma of blueberries, cherries, and raspberries. It was an excellent choice. He opened the bottle and passed the cork to me, as the elder, to savior before handing it to Vargo. He left for a short time, but returned to pour us each a glass and take our orders.

Once again I let Vargo order for both of us as I watched the little girl eat. I took her glass, dipping my finger lightly in the ruby wine and rubbed the rim lightly and it produced a bright tone which caught her attention. Vargo joined in when he asked a passing server for several empty wine glasses, the young man blinked but returned shortly with a tray of glasses which Vargo partially filled with water and then there was a symphony to my single note. Everyone nearby turned to watch and listen as Vargo performed for us all. He was truly multi-talented and soon there was general applause, but he only had eyes for our dirty little angel. This little distraction allowed me to quietly chant a three part invocation to Dionysus for the ecstasy of inebriation, the freedom from inhibitions and the loosening of the tongue. After all the applause died down, Félix engaged Vargo in an epicurean interrogation that proved to our server's satisfaction that Vargo was also a gourmand worthy of respect. Our angel reached up for the glass and I handed it to her as I paternally stroked her fine hair. When she was done, half the glass was left and I could see her pupils were already dilated.

"What is your name little bird?"

Her self-satisfied smile and flush cheeks preceded her reply.

"I'm Jeanne."

"Of course you are, but what is your whole name my sweet?" I replied.

"I am Jeanne Corinna Victor!"

"Ah. Jeanne. Can I call you Jeanette? Yes? My name is Ostanes and the attractive, well dressed young man across the table is Vargo. Say our names names back to us please."

O-stains and Var-go." I nodded, but corrected her pronunciation.

Already she was slurring her words and struggling to keep track of the conversation. I ruefully reflected that I might have overdone the spell a touch. And as we spoke I realized that she was younger than I had originally thought, which she confirmed for me when I began asking more detailed questions. In between bouts of gentle interrogation I handed her additional pieces of buttered bread to eat, as alcohol and an empty stomach can be a messy combination, especially with children.

The little girl and I were seated against the back wall with a view of the entrance and most of the dining room, while Vargo naively sat facing us. It was clear to me in that moment that someone in Vargo's past had failed to teach him the little habits of necessity that might keep him alive when circumstances tended towards misfortune.

A shadow fell over our table, followed by a polite cough. The source of both of these manifestations turned out to be a middle-aged man with curly dark hair shot through with silver. He was dressed in the black vest and white apron that served as the uniform of all Bouillon Chartier staff. He nodded politely to both of us, but turned and introduced himself to me, rather than Vargo.

"My name is Camille Chartier. I and my brother Frédéric opened this establishment almost five years ago. May I ask the names of the gentlemen who are so honoring my place of business?"

Vargo and I looked at each other across the table as Jeanette continued to nibble on her latest piece of bread. Thus far he had been the one to speak for our little coterie, but more than once this afternoon the staff had deferred to me. It was my age, the Victorian world revolved around elderly patriarchs and matriarchs like Queen Victoria of England.

In this, the last year of the nineteenth century, the elderly still held onto the reins of power that would in the coming decades be ripped away by western society as it began to idolize youth and beauty over experience. A reaction ultimately brought about by cataclysmic warfare, human suffering and a belief that since the aging oligarchs of Europe and the West had led the world into World War I, it was the young who must have the necessary freedom and idealism to save the western world.

Of course, at the heart of this transition of power, the true heart of it – lay the revelation behind the horrors of World War I, that health and youth were gifts ill spent on the battlefields of Europe where an entire generation rotted in the mud.

The roaring 1920s were the Lost Generation's last ditch effort to preserve their youth before the gray twilight of the 1930s and the bleak horrors of World War II. And yet, despite their best efforts and intentions, this generation of idealists ushered in a century of conflict, commercialism and hedonism. The irony of their situation would not escape them as the next few generations abandoned any pretense at respect for the elderly and heaped scorn upon those who had broken the mold for the crime of growing old.

But the ugliness of the Great War and the bleak world of the twentieth century were still distant shadows upon the wall of history. I had some time to work with, just thirteen years, two months and twenty-seven days, not that I was counting. Today it was Tuesday, the first of May and while events of import were occurring around the globe, it was a pleasantly warm afternoon in Paris and I had my work cut out for me in living up to the fictitious role of grandfather to a child I did not know and fitting into a society I did not belong to, but then no one can escape fate.

"Monsieur Chartier, it is our distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Professor Ostanes Nero. My friend across the table is Professor Zamtredia and this young lady next to me is my petite fille (grand daughter) Jeanette."

Camille Chartier smiled and nodded to each of us, but as he gazed upon Jeanette a slight frown marred his face and furrowed his broad brow.

"Les professeurs, I and my brother who is currently laboring in the kitchen as we speak, are both honored to have two such illustrious men of letters patronizing our modest establishment. But...our restaurant must adhere to certain social expectations as I am sure you will understand. Professor Nero, your granddaughter is a lovely child and I am sure normally well behaved, but without a lady of the family to look after her, she seems to have soiled her afternoon dress."

Across the table Vargo began to frown and then to look somewhat sheepish as it dawned upon him what Monsieur Chartier was actually saying. The proprietor had no intention of accusing either of us as academics or gentlemen of anything inappropriate, but the little girl was dirty and ill mannered and something had to be done because the other customers were beginning to complain.

As I looked around, I noticed a number of matronly women and not a few elderly men staring at Jeanette and as my irritation with Victorian values began to manifest, I could distinctly hear the hiss of Python as he coiled to strike. None who met my gaze did so for more than a second or two and the sudden return of forced conversation bore more than a faint hint of fear.

I forced myself to smile pleasantly and be contrite in my reply, for wizards must be subtle and not quick to rage.

"My apologies Monsieur Chartier. My daughter, may god rest her soul has left this little girl for me to raise and my beloved wife has been gone now for these past seven years. As you might imagine, a man my age sometimes struggles to properly look after a child her age without a wife to provide the girl with a respectable example. Are you a father father sir ? Of course you are. Then you can understand that sometimes an old man tends to spare the rod and spoil the child, yes?"

His energetic and repeated nods told me that he did indeed understand and that he was acutely prepared to forgive an indulgent grandfather his errors in child rearing. But then, most of this was for show, Victorian middle class society demanded certain penalties for acting outside the norms of proper behavior and Monsieur Chartier was simply the messenger of their displeasure. Any overt display other than to rectify the situation would simply make it worse and create more of a scene. I could see Vargo watching me closely trying to determine what my next action would be and if he could mitigate the damage to our respective images.

Pitching my voice in such a way that it would carry about the room.

"Monsieur Chartier, you have been most gracious to remind me of my grandfatherly duties. Please let your other guests know that I will immediately attend to the problem at hand. I hope you will not penalize the good Professor Zamtredia for my social failures, as I know he was very much looking forward to the excellent cuisine of your fine establishment. If you will excuse me ? Vargo, I need to see to my granddaughter, you understand ? No, stay and enjoy the wine, we won't be long."

Camille Chartier was quick to step back and even offered an old man his arm to aid in standing. I had forgotten what was expected of the elderly, their rights and responsibilities and the assumption of their innate infirmity.

Jeanette, more than a little inebriated and well on her way to polishing off the second bowl of fresh buttered bread the garçon had brought during our discussion, barely noticed when I called to her. Forcing me to scoop her up like a sack of potatoes and as I carried her away, I could well imagine her looking with continued longing over my shoulder in anticipation of dinner.

"Monsieur Ostanes, where are we going? I'm hungry!"

As I carried Jeanette, a young girl who had only an hour before tried to steal from me, outside into the warm spring afternoon, a lengthy line of would be patrons had materialized in the courtyard. Apparently Vargo's suggestion of a late luncheon was far from a novel idea. The courtyard was crowded with couples and families waiting their turn to dine, single men and small clusters of women drank wine or beer supplied by young garçons who also accepted the occasional generous tip to shorten the patron's long wait. I passed a couple of old men playing chess at one of the small tables lining the yard; as I passed them, it occurred to me that both of them looked younger than I did. And yet, despite that I felt the reverse of old and tired, in opposition to rationality, a tireless strength and growing resilience seemed to have taken root and to be growing within me.

Mont de Piété

While the courtyard before le Bouillon Chartier had seemed bright after the dimly lit restaurant, the Rue de Faubourg was almost blinding at first. The sun had fallen farther towards the west and was no longer visible to me from where we emerged onto the sidewalk. The sun's light slanted from behind and above us to illuminate the facade of the old hôtel particulier across the street, wreathing its upper stories in a fiery golden brilliance that was imperfectly reflected back towards this side of the crowded street by the hotel's numerous windows.

In my haste to obey the socially supported moral mandate, I had forgotten my hat. My long silver-white locks billowed momentarily in an afternoon breeze that smelled of horses, human sweat and smoke which poured from uncounted chimneys. Jeanette had wrapped her little arms around my neck and hung on for dear life. To the growing masses that poured out onto the sidewalk as they exited places of business, some were clearly headed home already, while the remainder went about their business with studious intent. To these, the people of Montmartre, Jeanette and I appeared to be exactly what my earlier fabrication painted us as, a bearded old man carrying his granddaughter on their way from here to there.

As I exited the covered alley onto the street, I turned left and headed north. As I walked, I gently stroked Jeanette's back to sooth her confusion and spoke to her not a child, but as an adult.

"Little bird, I am not sure which is dirtier, you or those soiled rags you are wearing. We need to find a place to wash you up and to find you something clean and appropriate to wear for lunch. But first, we will need coin to procure you a bath and better clothing. If you are well behaved, I will not only let you eat lunch with uncle Vargo and I, but I will arrange for a dessert. Can you behave for me while we shop? Yes? Good. Then I promise you that you can eat until you are sick if you want, but you must listen and do as I tell you. I will accept nothing less. Nod if you understand. Excellent!"

The intersection of the Rue de Faubourg and the Rue de Bergère lay about three hundred feet down the sidewalk. The two streets came together to form a tee, the Rue de Faubourg ran north-south and the Rue de Bergère ran east-west. On the south-east corner lay another 17th century hôtel particulier, the building showed signs of disrepair, yet it had clearly survived the renovations of Baron Haussmann during the Second Republic and the chaos of the Paris Commune. I doubted it would survive another bout of gentrification on the part of the industrious Parisians. On the north-east corner was located a busy cafe called 'À La Comète' and situated above it were the offices of a political publication called 'Le Evenement'. The place where the Rue de Faubourg intersected the Rue de Bergère was a particularly perilous crossing due to the heavy traffic of workmen's wagons and hastily driven fiacres and I was grateful that I would have no need to cross with a child in my arms.

As luck would have it, our destination lay on this side of the street. At number 17 Rue de Faubourg lay an archway that opened onto one of the old passages left over from medieval times. Above the square archway and lintel lay a brass plaque bearing the name of the institution, Mont de Piété. The institution of pawnbroking had a slow start in France, beginning in late fourteenth century. Over time the idea gained traction but struggled with the strong Catholic distaste for usury. In 1777 the first state sponsored pawnbroker was a monopoly established by royal decree and was called the Mount of Piety.

The monopoly spread quickly and as it was regulated by the crown, it quickly became a beloved institution. The system was simple and considerably more equitable than similar institutions found in the other nations of Europe. A citizen might pawn an item which would be held for one year and the owner would be paid a loan of four-fifths of the value of the item. The owner could return and pay back the loan with interest and reacquire the item before the twelve month expiration date. Of course some could not afford to do so and after a year the item would be sold off at public auction. Following the Revolution, the National Assembly dissolved the monopoly and the people rioted over the extortions of private money-lenders and despite the revolutionaries distaste for institutions created by the king, they were forced to allow private capitalists to reopen the Mont de Piété and its monopoly. Over the following century and a half, Napoleon and his nephew Napoleon III, further regulated the pledge-shop and ultimately made it a department of the administration.

Jeanette despite everything was beginning to squirm and thus I set her down, but held her hand tightly. It was then that I felt the prickle at the base of my neck and using my peripheral vision I looked in both directions up and down the street. The sidewalk and streets were quite crowded, but as most people were in motion, those who stood still also stood out. A young boy, probably a year or two older than Jeanette stood in the shadow of an awning watching us. He wore a pair of faded brown trousers and a tweed jacket with old hand-me-down shoes and like my ward, he was dirty. This then was another urchin, likely a friend or companion of Jeanette and given his dark hair and eyes, not related to her by blood. I squatted down and pretended to neaten Jeanette's hair, as I did so, I pointed out the boy and asked if she knew him. Her simple nod conveyed considerable information. She did know him, but wasn't thrilled to see him, but not because she did not like him, but likely because of someone he or something he represented. I did not further press her on the matter, but led her forward into the vieux passage between buildings and towards government pawnbrokers.

The old passage way led between two tenement houses and was crowded with children playing and women washing clothes from the communal water-pump. The light was brighter here, as the court was narrowly angled east-west and the bright gold sun shown indirectly through the countless lines of drying clothes hung between the two buildings. An old dog napped in the sun on the warm bricks of the passage and the smell of lye soap was strong in the air from so many laundry buckets. No one challenged us and indeed no one even really looked at either of us at first. As we made our way forward, I noticed the a large crowd gathered at the other end of the passage, this then would be the government pledge-shop, Mont de Piété. Upon reaching the crowded forecourt before the Mount of Piety office the press of bodies was quite thick and I liked neither the idea of rubbing up against these poor folk or of losing anymore of my few precious items. Thus I reached into my jacket pocket and gripped the hilt of my sacrificial dagger and chanted under my breath in Greek. This time the spell was harder because I had chosen to include Jeanette. Upon the spell's conclusion, we walked forward and the crowd unconsciously parted for us. No one looked at us and no grubby hands plucked at my clothing, we were completely ignored. Despite Jeanette's impairment, the girl was clearly intelligent and perceptive enough to notice the people stepping away from us and her question was both logical and expected.

"Monsieur Ostanes, why are all the people letting us through?"

"Because child, I have convinced them that we are sick and ugly and that they do not want to see or touch us, so great is their revulsion that they would rather not even remember us."

I could not help smile as I heard her gasp. Too often adults hide the truth of the world from their children and in that way, they make of their progeny potential victims to the less savory forces of this world and beyond.

"Jeanette, it is an illusion. Neither you nor I is sick and the illusion cannot make us sick, but the people around us are weak of will and accept the illusion I have shown them. Now hush, lest you break them from my enchantment."

Jeanette's reply came out without pause.

"What is a enchantment?"

My immediate irritation dissolved in a heartbeat as bemusement took its place. And I stopped long enough to place my forefinger on her lips and repeat my instructions for her to be quiet. This time she obeyed.

"I will explain it all later. For now, you must be quiet."

As I stood up, I glanced over my shoulder towards the entrance of the passage and immediately noticed the dark-haired urchin boy had followed us. But now he was looking everywhere but in our direction, presumably looking for us, while unable to look at us. I briefly wondered if he had come on his own or if someone had sent him to look for Jeanette. The former was possible, but the latter was far more likely. It was probable that Jeanette belonged to a gang of young pickpockets and that their handler had not yet received his daily allotment of stolen goods. Despite the appearance of Fagin in Dicken's novel 'Oliver Twist', kidsman have existed as long as the written word, such individuals exchanged food and lodging for the items stolen by young pickpockets. Over the past two centuries, the governments of Europe sought to discourage crime with new laws and greater penalties, as if the human heart could be legislated into correct behavior. Later, as the 19th century gave way to the twentieth, successive politicians tried to treat criminal behavior as a matter of heredity and then as a form of mental illness. Perhaps it had never occurred to these successive generations of politicians and law-makers that the human heart was designed with the choice between good and evil inherently and no mere mortal measures would ever change that.

The more the world changed, the more it remained the same.

Once we had reached the front of the crowd, I could see we had come to the right place. The building that housed the Mount of Piety, was a three story brick affair, more than just resembling a fortified gatehouse it obviously served that purpose for the sorting yard that must lie behind it. Thick black iron bars crisscrossed each of the windows both on the ground floor and on the two above. Each window was no more than twenty-four inches across and twice as high as wide, the windows within shaped like old fashioned shutters and once closed would lock from within. The thick black bars covered everything but the bottom section of the windows, leaving a six inch gap for the purpose of transactions between the pawnbrokers and the clients. A single green painted steel door was set deep in the brick facade. All in all, the impression made was one of a well staffed fortification prepared for a siege, which it might well be.

Drawing Jeanette along with me, I stepped before a recently vacated window and released my enchantment with a few voces magica. The man within the window was momentarily startled by our sudden appearance and uttered an oath. Several of the masses of people behind us were equally surprised, but this gave way to uncertain anger because none could be sure whether the old man with the little girl had been there in line all along and they just had simple not noticed, or if somehow, he and his little girl had snuck to the head of the line.

After regaining his composure, the teller greeted us pleasantly enough and asked our business. I kept the pleasantries to a minimum and asked for a loan. When he asked what collateral I possessed, I pulled the golden ring from my right hand and dropped it with a thud on the marble counter between us.

"Its twenty-four carat gold and weighs more than an ounce."

The teller had pulled from a vest pocket, a jeweler's glass and inspected the ring carefully. Then he pulled a set of scales and weights from beneath the counter and weighed the ring.

"We don't use ounces in France, but you are right, it weighs a solid thirty grams."

Clearly he had reservations about the ring and called over his supervisor who also inspected the ring very carefully. For moment no one spoke, then the supervisor shooed away the clerk and spoke directly to me.

"Monsieur, are you sure you wish to pawn this ring? I can tell that it is excellent workmanship and likely a high quality gold as well."

I decided to stick to the story I had told the proprietor of le Bouillon Chartier, the key to lying is to keep it simple and keep it straight every time. The problem with being a skilled lier is that sometimes you came come to believe your own lies as truth. But, I did not have that problem.

"No my friend, I wish that it were not necessary, but it is. My only daughter is dead and her worthless husband has run off leaving me with this little girl. As you can see, I am not a young man, I will need more than my pension to feed and cloth her. But in the end, its only a ring and she is family, so you see, I must pawn the ring."

For a moment or two, I feared that I might have poured it on too thick, but my performance must have plucked more than one heart string because I could see the glimmer of a tear in his eye. To seal the deal, I hoisted Jeanette up where he could see her filthy clothes and thin face.

The supervisor's resistance crumbled under those beautiful blue eyes and it occurred to me that Jeanette might have a solid future in the theater. Undoubtedly, if well cared for, she would grow up to be a true beauty.

He locked gazes with me and said: "You are right, she is a beautiful little girl and you are going to need money to care for her properly. Sadly, I can only give you the market value, which is 110 Francs."

I took a moment and did a quick calculation. In Vargo's newspaper this morning, I read that an ounce of gold was worth about thirty dollars American. Thereafter, I looking up the trade in dollars to Second Republic francs, I would have plenty of money for the girl, dinner and perhaps a little pocket money.

Pouring as much humility and gratitude into my voice as I could, I thanked him. The next step was for me to sign a contract with the pledge-shop and I read the contract very carefully, for the ring was valuable to me and I intended to get it back in the not so distant future. He presented me with a ledger to sign as well and taking the ring, he placed it inside a paper box and labeled it. His subordinate returned and meticulously counted out my one hundred and ten francs, breaking the amount down into notes called Cinq (fives), Dix (tens) and single francs which were silver coins with some loose change. Nodding my head in thanks, I used my brand new wallet for the franc notes and stowed the coins in my pants pockets.

As we turned away from the clerks window and faced the crowd through which we would be forced to pass in order make our way back towards Rue de Faubourg, a pair of young men stepped into my path. The first man was slightly taller than me, perhaps twenty-five years old with ginger hair. The second man was closer to thirty-five, a few inches shorter than I, but with a heavier more muscular build and light brown hair. Both wore simple workmen's clothes and with bowler hats and hand-me-down jackets. As they stepped in close, I set Jeanette down and pushed her behind me.

I smiled pleasantly and said: "Messieurs, what can I do for you today?"

Clearly the ginger was the more vocal of the two and quick to voice his displeasure.

"Vieil homme (greybeard), you cut in line and for that you owe us some money! Alors, donnez-nous votre portefeuille! (So, give us your wallet!)"

Apparently, I had missed my window to diffuse the situation or more likely, these two ruffians had come here today with the intent of robbing a defenseless elderly person. I could feel my heart rate rising quickly as my body forced adrenaline into my bloodstream and my breath came quickly. Individuals within the crowd were yelling now, some showing support for my assailants and others calling for them not to attack an old man, and some I noticed were exchanging money as they wagered on the outcome of this conflict.

The two workmen came at me from both flanks. But it was the ginger youth who struck first when he grabbed my jacket with his right hand and pulled me close. I did not fight him, rather I let him drag me within the circle of his arms, thus neutralizing his long reach. When his left fist came around at the right side of my head, I blocked his attack by bringing up my right elbow. Then with a quick chopping motion, I brought my right fist down into the left side of his unprotected neck. Momentarily surprised by my resistance and then suddenly in pain, he never noticed my left hand come up and grab his thumb. But by then, his portion of the fight was already over. As I twisted his thumb down, his natural instinct was to extend the arm and pull away. While he was trying to tug his arm free, I brought my right arm up from below, and snapped his arm in half at the elbow. The sound of breaking bone combined with his hoarse scream reduced the crowd to silent spectators.

Perhaps six seconds had passed and my second opponent had used that time wisely to position himself. A two man mugging relies less on a fearful target and more on the application of overwhelming force. The brunette was an older and more experienced fighter and sought to end the conflict quickly by striking me on my unprotected right flank. The man's right-hook left me seeing stars, but I had begun the fight with a plan and was committed to its full execution. The muscular brunette had correctly observed that I was preoccupied with his friend and unable to protect myself while doing so. But my strategy from the beginning was to neutralize the first fighter and use him as a shield, that having failed, I used him as a battering ram. Planting my feet and flexing my hips, I pivoted with all my weight. The brunette was fast on his feet and already trying to sidestep my attack, but there was no place to go with the crowd on his right and the wall of the pledge-shop on his left. The ginger's body served as the hammer and the brick wall as the anvil with the brunette in between.

For a respectable gentleman, one who for example follows the Marquess of Queensberry rules, the fight would be over. But to be honest, I am not a gentleman and this was not a boxing match or even a fair fight, and most importantly I believe in sending a message.

The ginger's unmoving form was face down and perpendicular to his friend, upon whom he lay. His right arm was twisted behind him and being broken at the elbow, it was bent back upon itself in a sickening way with bloody bone fragments protruding from his jacket sleeve. Blood also ran from his face, which might have connected with the brick wall in the last bout of our struggle. Some canny fighters might fake unconsciousness, but the ginger was well and truly done and likely he would be a cripple for the remainder of his life. It had been his mistake and I felt not the least pity for him.

The brunette lay face up on his back with the unconscious ginger pinning him in place. He must have been semi-aware, for at my approach he began to struggle in the attempt to dislodge his friend and regain his feet. I did not give him that chance, as I stomped on his right kneecap with my right boot, his screaming stopped after I mashed his manhood with my other boot and he passed out. The crowd was utterly still and silent as I knelt over the two unconscious men and riffled their clothes for their wallets. Neither had much, but they had less than they had started with and that was the price of their presumption.

No one said a word to me as I picked up Jeanette and strode from the wide passage before the Mont de Piété and into the Rue de Faubourg. I expected someone to call for the police and to point me out, but no hue and cry came while I was within sight of the green doors that led into the old passage and the pledge-shop court. Most likely, the same motive that prevented the crowd from coming to my aid, had aided in my escaping any legal entanglements. As has been the case throughout history, those who observed the conflict had no desire to be caught up in someone else's affairs, either those of a defenseless old man, nor those of a thoroughly defeated pair of street toughs. It was the law of the jungle, no quarter asked and none given, and no mercy for the defeated.

Once we had merged with flow of the pedestrians, I let all my muscles relax and began to breath normally. It was then, as the adrenaline wore off, that I realized there was pain in my jaw and that I was dizzy. As I calmed my heart, mentally I abstracted myself to observe my condition. I could not see well from my right eye, probably from the second attacker's right-hand roundhouse, but my hand came away with blood on it.

Le dé à Coudre Rouge

As I approached the covered passage before the Bouillon Chartier, I noticed once again a seamstresses' shop. A simple wooden sign hung above the doorway naming the establishment: "Le dé à Coudre Rouge." The red thimble was an interesting name and strongly suggested that these dressmakers were fast, cheap and well staffed. And if one read between the lines so to speak, it also explained that this was a sweatshop.

The sweating system was configured for the garment industry of Victorian London and was loudly commented upon by Charles Kingsley a minister of the Anglican Church, social reformer, historian and novelist. But sweatshop work did not remain confined to Victorian England and spread both to the continent and the colonies of the European empires, including the United States of America. While the general brutalities of sweatshop labor have long been obvious, the specific horrors incurred by young women as seamstresses was rarely understood in the nineteenth century or even later.

Charles Kingsley's critical work "Cheap Clothes and Nasty" opened the eyes of many English people, but did not penetrate to the continent and there were few analogous authors in France at the time. Young women, often from poor rural settings often traveled to cosmopolitan cities like Paris and traded their skills in sewing for the equivalent of pennies. Working conditions were often cramped, with too many workers laboring in close confines with little light or ventilation. The hours such young women worked were often far longer than in the later twentieth century and eighteen hour days were not unheard of.

The wealthy upper and middle class women of Paris were expected to have a variety of socially acceptable clothing for several occasions in a day, this expectation created the need for more seamstresses and created a very competitive market where the purchaser often paid a fraction above the manufacturing cost and demanded these garments in very short periods of time.

Old women and young would often be confined to a single workroom with a single light source and the best workers were allowed to sit closest to the lamp, while other less valuable or skilled workers were often relegated to the outer circles of second and third hand light. Many women went blind or became arthritic and likely developed untreated repetitive injuries. The horrors of this circumstances did not even touch upon the possibility of abusive or sadistic employers. All in all, as has been described in several of Jane Austin's works, there were few forms of employment, short of prostitution, that were more hellish for nineteenth century women.

A quick glance through the two showcase windows revealed the quality dresses produced by Le dé à Coudre Rouge and the list of prices made this shop the next stop on our way back to la Bouillon Chartier. A chain of bells chimed as I entered the Red Thimble with Jeanette in my arms. The light from the street illuminated the display room nicely and I found myself in the heart of a forest of ladies clothing. The room was larger looking than it appeared from without, the floor was polished hardwood, plain and simple, but the walls were draped in pink and purple wallpaper and the ceiling was of pale molded plaster of Paris displaying a repetitive pattern of grapevines.

In the left rear corner of the room an old woman sat in an old wingback chair with a cat sleeping in her lap. The woman was at least ninety years old and clearly blind, but there she sat knitting by feel. At our entrance, the cat stirred on her lap and at our approach it became an angry ball of fur. Both the cat and the old woman hissed, the cat presumably sensed something otherworldly about me and the old woman's screeching came from the cat which dug its claws into her before it leaped away and vanished into the next room.

In the right rear corner was a sales counter upon which sat a brass cash register. Behind the counter, a woman in her middle forties sat on a high backed stool and worked at sums in a ledger. As she looked up, I could see she was still quite attractive with dark blue eyes and auburn hair, only just touched with hints of gray. Her face was free from lines save for just a few crows feet at the corners of her eyes. Given her line of work and the amount of time she must spend indoors, it was certain she rarely spent time in the sun. And yet, the faint olive tone of her skin suggested that she hailed from southern France, perhaps along the Mediterranean where the French people had grown darker through contact with the races of North Africa. Her complexion contrasted nicely against the black damask of her blouse and the prominent swell therein. Crossing the room in only a couple strides, we stood before the glass sales counter and its many boxes of ladies sundries.

"Bon après-midi madame (good afternoon madam). Let me introduce myself, I am professor Ostanes Nero."

The woman looked me over, balancing my middle-class clothing against my title and clearly doing sums. Then she nodded with professional approval and perhaps a hint of womanly interest glinted momentarily in the azure depths of her eyes.

"Good afternoon Professor Nero. I am Madame Noyer. Are you looking for something for your wife, daughter or granddaughter?"

Madame Noyer's eyes strayed ever so briefly towards Jeanette who I still held in my arms.

This time the lie came so smoothly to my lips that I barely registered its utterance. Suddenly Madame Noyer's gaze dropped and her voice became husky as spoke her condolences and when next she looked up I could see the sheen of unshed tears. Internally and reflexively, I cursed myself for not having seen it before, Madame Noyer was a recent widow. I kept my gaze level as I spoke of a granddaughter who had run wild in the streets before I could catch her and the need for a dress for dinner at the restaurant next door. From my peripheral vision, I observed the absence of a pale circle on her ring finger and that a simple gold band had been switched to the like finger of her other hand. So she was a recent widow, but not too recently, but the memories were still fresh enough to be painful. To my surprise, I found that I envied her grief for it was based upon a past she could recall, while my past remained a mystery.

But my emotions for Madame Noyer were not confined to just envy, she was an attractive widow without attachments and having only just left a fracas minutes ago, my blood was still hot.

"Professor Nero, I think I have just the thing for your lovely Jeanette."

Stepping from behind the counter, she led us to the southern wall where several mannequins displayed young girl's apparel. Madame Noyer pointed out an inexpensive chemise femme consisting of white damask blouse and a linen skirt of light brown decorated with five pale bands. There was no accompanying price tag, so I queried the lady on the price. Six francs for the chemise and a young woman's undergarments, an additional five francs for ready-made footwear plus hose and a complimentary bonnet for another franc, adding up to the sum total of twelve francs. I nodded my acceptance and we returned to the cash register and settled the bill. As I counted out the money, I added a rather large gratuity of five francs which drew a questioning glance from Madame Noyer.

"Madame your skill as a clothier is most appreciated, as is your willingness to work with an old man and a unwashed child. Might I impose upon you for one more small service? Little Jeanette is quite filthy and could use a quick bath before we dine. Really? You would not mind? Many thanks, I will be sure to mention your shop to those with whom I associate. Do you have a card?"

Before I set Jeanette down, I whispered in her ear, demanding good behavior. All in all, it was unlikely that the little girl would behave given a lack of manners, her insobriety and the circumstances; she was after all, a child, which was why I had added such a hefty tip. The lady proprietor was quick to call for help from a back room. And moments later, a velvet curtain in lilac parted to reveal a short hallway and beyond it an open door leading into a dim workroom. The murmur of women's voices came to me along with a mechanical clicking and whirring, the latter came from hand powered or rather foot driven sewing machines. It seemed the Red Thimble was more profitable that I had originally guessed. From out of the hallway came a rather dowdy woman, several inches shorter than Madame Noyer, with similar but much broader and less fine features. As the second woman came abreast of the lady merchant, I could see they were relatively close in age, so this must be her sister and given the second woman's dour express and rude features, a spinster.

"Professor Nero, let me introduce my sister Marielle."

As the ugly sister hefted a hand towards me, I took her mitt lightly and bend over it, but did not touch that callused hand with my lips. As I stood up straight, Madame Noyer explained to Marielle that she should bathe the girl properly and handed her the stack of clothing we had just bartered over. Marielle's face puckered as if she had just taken a swig of vinegar, but she nodded and taking the clothes in one hand, she grabbed Jeanette's arm brusquely and dragged her down the hall and from sight. As the conversation played itself out, the old blind woman in the corner let out a rasping laugh that ended in a deep phlegmy cough. If the old woman was mother to the two sisters, she clearly favored Madame Noyer over Marielle and took considerable delight in the spinster's misfortune. In response to this, Madame Noyer, who then introduced herself to me as Françoise, went over and knelt down beside the old woman's chair and rummaged about in a wicker hamper until she drew forth a simple clay pipe and packed it with tobacco. Lighting a taper from the gas, she lit the pipe and handed to to the toothless old woman, who sucked repeatedly upon the pipe as aromatic smoke drifted from her withered lips.

As we waited, Françoise explained that the old woman was her dead husband's mother and after twenty-five years of marriage, consider her son's wife to be her own daughter while Marielle had not offered the old woman a instant's affection and was the butt of the old woman's jokes. It was during this explanation, that Françoise mentioned the dried blood matting the right side of my head. It suddenly occurred to me that the pain from the brunette ruffian's blow had somewhere along the line, faded. Before I could come up with a response, Françoise disappeared down the hall and returned shortly with a porcelain pitcher and bowl, along with a white cotton towel. Her long fingers, elegant like sticks of tan wood probed the right side of my head, just behind my temple and produced no pain, but conjured an electric thrill that traveled from my face down through the core of my body to my groin. I stood stock still, overwhelmed by sensations I should have known how to handle, but with the loss of all memory it became the very first experience of its kind.

For seconds I was not aware of what she was doing, rather just her presence, the smell of her perfume a scent of lilacs combined with the smell of her body and how close she suddenly stood. Ever so gently she daubed at the blood crusted area, wiping away crimson and brown gore and ringing out the towel in the basin's steaming water. An energy seemed to emanate from her, a kind of heat that was spreading from her to me and to distract myself I peered into the blood tinted water within the bowel. In between each time she wrung out the cloth, the water in the bowel stilled and I silently voiced the voces magica that would form a bond between Françoise and myself with my blood to link our shared senses. With the completion of the spell, I was flooded with her desire shrouded as it was in Victorian propriety and the guilt of grief. But I had fashioned the link hastily and I could see as her motion arrested that it had worked in both directions. Then she stood only inches from me, her delicate fingers touching the side of my face and I could feel her breath as it tickled my beard. From without she was the picture of calm propriety, but within, her body ached to be touched and her heart beat faster spreading blood throughout her body staining her cheeks, her back, her breasts and the insides of her thighs.

Yet the spell was fragile and shattered like fine spun crystal as she moved a safe distance away. Her voice was husky and thick as she struggled to control unexpected and unanticipated emotions.

"The gore has all come away and there is no wound, it must have been the other man's blood upon you."

I merely nodded in affirmation as I tried to think my way through this new and complicated minefield of emotions. But the sudden whisper of dried-out scales as they slithered together so very close distracted me. Python's sibilant hiss came to me from someplace close. I saw not even a reflection of the great serpent, my oikouros ophis (sacred snake), as I looked about the room. The complicated noise that followed was ophidian laughter.

{Hsssssss,...you...cannot...think...your...way...through...this...particular...situation...Ostanes.}

{You...must...feel...your...way...through...it.}

{You...must...use...that...long...forgotten...organ,...covered...in...cobwebs...and...dry...as...dust,...your...heart.}

{For...the...power...of...magic...lies...in...the...passion...of...the...magician...and...he...who...is...without...passion...is...but...a...corpse...made...animate.}

In that moment, half-a-dozen aphorisms came to mind and were stillborn as I struggled with the difficulty concept of just feeling and acting on those feelings.

{"Oh great serpent! What would you know of love and the matters of the heart?"}

{Ah...Ostanes...you...forget...that...I...am...a...deity...of...oracles...and...I...can...see...into...every...human...heart,...most...especially...yours...}

I stood justly rebuked. Only hours before, the nature of my daemon had been made apparent and regardless of circumstance it had my best interests at heart. Within me frustration built up, for I was proud in the belief that I as a sorcerer was fundamentally different from mortal men, that I should be able to feel what I wanted to feel and when I wanted to feel it. This of course only provoked more ophidian laughter and the serpent's good humor was infectious, so much so that all the muscles in my body unclenched themselves and I found myself smiling like an idiot and softly laughing.

"Professeur? Did I say something amusing?"

In response, I slowly and deliberately closed the distance between us. She had turned away from me and stood before the glass case busying herself sorting a variety of costume jewelry, scarves, and lace mitts in a multitude of colors. When my motion arrested, I stood beside her, my right hand only inches from her left and I pretended to look at the array of feminine articles as she sorted them.

"How long have you been alone?"

For a man who had just met a woman, in this time and place, I was sidestepping the rules of proper conduct, but the lines of intimacy had already been crossed and she needed to share her pain in order to be free of it. I could hear her sudden intake of breath and as I turned to face her, I could see the first traceries of tears as they made their way down her cheeks. She did not reply immediately and when she did so her voice was thick with grief and guilt. Why guilt?

"He died a year ago this spring."

A year of grief and loneliness. As the mistress of a successful seamstress shop in Paris, there would have been little time to grieve with all the details of her business to attend to and no one to lean on for support or consolation. Obviously Marielle, as the spinster sister had not possessed much empathy to begin with and was likely jealous of Françoise successful marriage, she had not been capable of offering emotional support even had she been inclined to do so. Her dead husband's mother was another matter entirely, the old woman clearly loved her dead son's wife and they're bond would at least allow them to grieve together. But a woman so old and blind as well, would require constant care, both emotionally and physically. A difficult series of burdens for Françoise to bear alone. After so many years of marriage, the sudden loss of a spouse, whether the marriage had been a successful one or not, would be akin to the lose of a limb and all the worse if the relationship had been one based on love.

"How did it happen?"

As she started to speak, a convulsion passed through her body followed by the trembling of her shoulders and I reached down and took her elegant hand in my hairy old paw. I thought she might resist, pull away or worse, but that did not happen. Instead, she gripped my hand quite hard, she was stronger than she looked and turned to face me. Her next words were difficult to understand as she gasped for breath between quiet sobs and the shuddering of her body.

"It was a stupid, senseless death, he was doing a delivery for me just down the street. A young delivery-man, a boy really, who had not slept enough between jobs fell asleep as he took a corner too fast and rolled the wagon. Jules-Luc was crushed between the overturned wagon and the street. I heard the crash and wondered, but it wasn't until I heard him screaming that I understood. I ran the distance to find him half mashed like an insect! He was only partially aware when I knelt down beside him and he kept apologizing for messing up the delivery and I was at a complete loss for words, there was nothing I could do but hold his head in my lap as he died there..."

I pulled her to me, put my arms around her and held her until her body stopped shuddering and the sobs abated. Even as I held her, she gripped me tightly and the contact with her body, the swell of her breasts as they rose and fell with each sob was nearly too much for me. Her grief and pain only made her more desirable and these things filled a void I had not known existed. But what drove me over the edge was the smell of her hair and the way it tickled my face. A woman is so many things to a man, ever complicated, desirable, confusing, frustrating and utterly magical.

I am not sure when our lips first met. People often talk of such things as if they are unforgettable, picture perfect scenes from the performance of life captured in their perfection. I have never found it so, rather the experience is a collage of sensations and feelings, needs and desires that only come apart as I lay reflecting upon them later. Easier for me to recall are endings, like drab still-life paintings viewed by candle light or gas, the sense of loss and of regret is like that of an addict after the high.

It was the sound of a not-so-polite cough that brought me to my senses and made me aware of my surroundings again. As I opened my eyes, there before us stood Marielle, prudish with disapproval, her watery blue eyes taking in the scene before her and giving off jealously in waves. It was a shame really, born from the same elements as the union that produced Françoise, the admixture that formed Marielle must have lacked some key ingredient that produced a woman of average looks soured by an unhappy heart which made her less than desirable next to the beauty that was Françoise.

Marielle's anger was evident in the gasp it elicited from Jeanette as the ugly spinster unconsciously squeezed her arm like a bird of prey with a rabbit in its claws. I glanced back into Françoise's eyes that had somehow brightened from cobalt blue to a brilliant aquamarine. Thus far, she had not even spared her sister or the little girl a glance as she continued to look at me with such intensity. I understood then and there that I could have taken her hand and led her upstairs to whatever loft served as her bedroom and helped us both find the relief of release, but inside the confines of Victorian life it would have cost her as a woman of business the value of her reputation.

Beyond Marielle's tense form, the sounds of women laboring had gone still and the curious pale faces of the female workers of the Red Thimble peered from the dimness of the hall at the scene taking place in the shop's main room. With regret, I gently released Françoise from the circle of my arms and adjusted my jacket and tie. For Françoise's sake, I needed to appear as the cad who had taken advantage of a grieving widow in a moment of weakness.

Turning towards the collective ladies of the shop, I apologized for such ungentlemanly behavior and blamed it on too much wine that afternoon. Stepping towards Marielle whose gaze was furious with sibling rivalry, jealousy and unsatisfied frustration, I apologized again and explaining that I had in my insobriety taken advantage of her sister and begging her forgiveness. My performance must have been better than average as her face lost much of its color and she pushed Jeanette towards me. As I looked down, I could barely recognize the filthy street urchin in the golden haired mademoiselle standing between us.

Marielle was a spiteful creature and homely, but in the small time that she had been give, she had worked miracles with the mundane tools of soap and water, brushes and combs, and the feminine clothing I had just purchased. Jeanette in her bonnet and dress looked like a completely different girl, the apparent child of the bourgeois and quite lovely. Kneeling down to look Jeanette over, I noticed some blue ribbons in her gold hair that matched her eyes and that her hair had been curled. More time and effort had been taken in making Jeanette presentable than I had initially realized and I felt the sincere need to compliment Marielle on all her effort and the little touches that told me she was not quite the spiteful creature she seemed.

Standing up, I took Jeanette's hand in my own and profusely thanked Marielle for taking such good care of my granddaughter and the excellent effort she must have expended to transform a dirty little girl into a picture perfect child who could be taken anywhere in polite society. Marielle's sudden blushes and the tiny changes in her attitude and posture revealed so much. In thanking her, I parted with more of my dwindling supply of resources, but it was a necessary sacrifice to bring a difficult situation back under control.

Picking up Jeanette and carrying her in my arms, I stopped on my way to the door and spoke quietly with Françoise. My back to the collective ladies of the Red Thimble, I hoped that they took our brief conversation as the act of an older man apologizing for taking advantage of a widow's trust. But, in our brief conversation I confessed my feelings and that I understood the need for discretion. But I managed an invitation to lunch tomorrow at Le Bouillon Chartier and her rapid nod was all I needed as I exited the shop and returned to the restaurant and my dear friend Vargo.

Jovial as I was over Françoise acceptance of my invitation and the lingering bliss of our intimacy, I did not miss the dirty dark-hair urchin boy who lingered across the street watching for us or what that might mean. Sooner or later, someone unpleasant would make themselves known and demand the girl returned to them like so much property. Likely they would try to extort some form of payment, but eschewing violence as their young spy would have revealed what had become of the two ruffians at the Mont de Piété, rather they would try to establish a motive for continued profit through blackmail.

As I re-entered the brasserie with Jeanette in hand, I smiled for the afternoons events had given me quite an appetite and if a grubby kidsman made himself known during or after the meal that was fine, disposing of another human obstacle would be simple enough and then there would be dessert.

The Remainder of the Day

Our late lunch evolved into an early dinner. The relics of our repast littered the lace covered table, and while Jeanne dozed, Vargo and I spoke in a rambling way on a variety of topics while we sipped French cognac and smoked Cuban cigars. Around us, the last of the luncheon crowd departed and the wait staff worked to clear all the nearby tables first to give the foreign gentlemen a bit of privacy.

Eventually our conversation diminished into a comfortable silence as I read that afternoon's edition of Le Figaro and Vargo sketched some of my suggestions for his new car on a inexpensive note-pad that was always stowed in his great-coat pocket. In time, our waiter brought café noir for us and seemed in no hurry for us to pay our bill and leave.

As we sipped our coffee, I caught glimpses of Vargo watching Jeanne sleeping and while I could tell that my new friend liked children, I also sensed that he was troubled by her continued presence. Finally, having exhausted every excuse to preserve a perfect afternoon of tranquil companionship, I set aside the newspaper and locked gazes with Vargo. Once again, there was something electric that passed between us, I know of no word in any of the languages that I speak for this connection and I believe it to be thing of mages.

To my surprise, Vargo looked away first and to give himself time to compose his thoughts, he gently rearranged Jeanne's already knotted hair while she slept. For my part, I simply studied the fine porcelain of my coffee cup and the excellent brew within. I did not have long to wait, for Vargo was both a relatively young man - no more than thirty would be my guess, and as an individual he is possessed of a restless energy that makes sitting still for more than an hour or two impossible.

"Ostanes my friend, what do you intend to do with Jeanne?"

The bitter taste of the rapidly cooling coffee reflected a quixotic damping of my mood and I allowed several heartbeats to pass before I answered Vargo's question.

"Friend Vargo, what would you have me do with her?"

My young friend looked annoyed and then frustrated at this bit of verbal misdirection. Still I waited patiently like a serpent preparing to strike.

"Jeanne is not a pet Ostanes, she is a human being, and you cannot just pluck her from her mundane world to keep you company in your extraordinary life."

I simply gazed at him over my coffee cup for a count of ten seconds and then I replied in a low sibilant hiss.

"Vargo, there is nothing I cannot do."

I felt the misplaced pride in this statement at the same time that I saw the anger reflected in his eyes and the sudden charge that filled the air around us, like the smell of ozone before a lightning strike.

"Ostanes you misunderstand me. I do not mean that you cannot do this thing, I mean it is morally wrong for you to kidnap this girl and make her your pet. We mages are the guardians of mankind, for while they are mundane, they are our genetic predecessors and we count them as family, friends and sometimes as lovers."

My new found power was making it difficult for me to back down, but instinctively I recognized Vargo as the more powerful of our duo and of course it rankled my ego to let him win the argument due to fear. At the same time, I felt a niggling of recollection, I vaguely recalled someone I knew and respected saying something very similar. If only I could remember that individual and what they had said to me.

Vargo mistook my faraway look for avoidance and the gaslight flickered as his anger stirred the air in the room. Grudgingly, I resigned my position and took a more pliant disposition.

"Yes Vargo, you are correct, it would be wrong of me to snatch this mundane girl from her world for my pleasure or loneliness. But I think you misjudge me and my motives. Is living on the streets as a thief appropriate for any child? Should I return her to the tender mercies of her kidsman? Is that what you want? Because if you ask it of me, I will do so, for my only friend in all the world."

The words had barely left me lips when the electrical charge around us dissipated, the air stilled and the gaslight steadied. Vargo's frustration was no longer directed at me and he looked a bit aghast. Gesturing with his hands as if shooing away gnats, he dismissed the suggestion of such a thing.

"A young girl belongs in the care of a woman or a married couple. I have friends here in the city, a husband and wife who could look after Jeanne until we can arrange some other more permanent solution. Who are they you ask? Gaylor and Andrée Reynaud, like us they are gifted folk. Gaylor is my best friend in all the world and like myself a member of the Electrodyne Engineers. Andrée on the other hand is a member of the Lightkeepers and Jeanne could have no better exemplar of womanhood to learn from and emulate. They may even be able to help us find a mundane situation for the girl. Will you accept these people as temporary guardians for the girl?"

I simply nodded my ascent. After all, Vargo had saved my life and was both a good and honorable man. I did not know the Reynauds and I would not meet them for a few days yet. But Vargo's references to the Electrodyne Engineers and the Lightkeepers made me uneasy for reasons I could not yet name. In a way the names made sense. I could imagine a group of Victorian technomancers calling themselves engineers and I could easily see that Vargo would belong to such a group. But the term lightkeeper bothered me, for what kind of group of mages would call themselves that? What kind of light did they keep or was the reference less that literal? Time would tell. And then I heard scales rattling in the back of my mind.

"Friend Vargo there is naught left to do but pay the bill, no no, I insist as you have been in all ways so generous to me this last couple of days."

I waived the maitre d' to our table and settled up what we owed the establishment plus a generous gratuity.

While I paid the bill, Vargo retreated to a small alcove near the entrance to the restaurant and phoned the Reynauds. The telephone had been invented by Alexander Bell in 1876 and had arrived in Paris for the 1878 Universal Exposition. During that exposition, Alexander Bell was awarded the Grand Prix, together with his rival inventors Thomas Edison and Elisha Grey. To mark the occasion the 1878 Exposition had the very first telephone network installed at Paris. In the twelve years since that telephone network was expanded to include businesses like hotels and restaurants as well as the ten thousand private customers who could afford such a novel device. By 1890 the City of Lights had its very own phone-book the Pages Jaunes (yellow pages), had extended a submerged cable beneath the English Channel to connect Paris with London and then the French government had turned around and nationalized the entire industry. In the following years new editions of the Pages Jaunes were issued with an ever expanding list of numbers connecting Parisian society.

Alone I waited with Jeanne during Vargo's phone call, but I was not idle. If the girl woke while in transit to Reynaud's home she would be disoriented and likely frightened. Desiring to spare Jeanne such a traumatic experience, and Vargo also, I softly chanted a spell to deepen Jeanne's sleep and bound it to the sunset which would not occur for a few more hours. Injury and violence would of course awaken her, but nothing short of those things. The spell was complete by the time Vargo returned.

Watching Vargo use the hand-cranked magneto-generator to charge the wall mounted phone brought on faint glimmerings of memory which made me smile. There was nothing specific, no exact memory, more like a pleasant déjà vu. I had experienced the same thing earlier in the day when I had found Vargo working on his experimental car. The irony of the moment was not lost on me for the term déjà vu was first coined in 1900 and meant literally "already seen", but in truth I was seeing these things for the first time. It was just that my knowledge of the future was confusing me, making me feel nostalgic for that which had yet to take on a familiar form. But these early devices were very much the ancestors of devices I already knew how to use and I longed for something or anything familiar.

Vargo's conversation with the Reynauds was more frenetic that I would have expected and as he hung up the phone he emerged from the booth with a new energy and purpose which showed in the set of his shoulders and the length of his stride.

"Good news Ostanes, the Reynaud's have agreed to take on Jeanne as a house guest until I can arrange a more suitable and permanent arrangement for her. But, we must leave now if we am to meet with them by six o'clock. They have invited us to dinner and we will introduce Jeanne to them."

"Vargo my good man that sounds lovely, but I think it best if you introduced Jeanne to your friends, it has been a long and tiring day after my recent illness and I am not sure I feel up to meeting new people just yet. My memory has yet to return and they no doubt will have many questions that I cannot answer at this time. I think it best that you and Jeanne go on without me and I will walk back to the Exposition and meet you in the Hall of Electricity later tonight. Yes?"

I could tell right away from Vargo's fading smile that he had not thought of these things and in his exuberance he had simply wanted to include me. In many ways, Vargo was still an inexperienced young man, but given his genius and drive to create that was only to be expected. For brilliant individuals are like that, the social graces come later, if they come at all.

"Are you sure Ostanes? It is a very long walk from here to the Exposition grounds? And you are not yet familiar with Paris, for between here and there are neighborhoods where the Apaches are dominant and they can be formidable to those not used to fisticuffs or stick-fighting. Let me at least give you a ride back to the fairgrounds."

The Apaches of Paris were not native Americans, but rather young Parisian men who engaged in pretty crime and sometimes fought each other or the police. They usually lived in Belleville and Charonne, neighborhoods of the 19th and 20th arrondissements on the east side of the city. However with the opening of the Universal Exposition of 1900, which was primarily located in the 1st and 7th arrondissements respectively, the Apaches were migrating west in order to take advantage of all the new wealth carried by millions of unsuspecting visitors new to the City of Lights. Despite the lurid sensationalism advertised by the popular press, the Apaches were just gangs of unemployed young men who lived by violence or threat of violence, there was nothing special about them and I had seen their like throughout the ages.

I forced a pleasant smile and did my best to reassure him that no harm would befall me. Between that and pointing out the time, I was able to convince him to go on without me. But I could see the reluctance in his face and form as he gently picked up Jeanne and strode towards the door and the brick lined alley that led to the street and his car. To prevent further protestations, I accompanied him back out into the sun lit street, asking him to tell me something about these friends of his. I stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes after watching his departure in the strange little car with Jeanne asleep in the passenger seat. And then they were gone down the street and out of sight.

I had not lied to Vargo, but neither had I spoken all the truth, for I needed time to myself to think and to run some few private errands. The first of which would be a short visit to the Bibliothèque nationale de France, and at this time, the largest library in the world.

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A Week at the Universal Exposition

The Guardian and the Great Library

The walk to the National Library was neither long nor particularly eventful. It did give me the opportunity to observe the leisurely strolling of ladies in brightly colored long-dresses and wide hats, walking arm-in-arm with gentlemen friends, other ladies and occasionally with children. Men of this era wore a surprising variety of shirt, vest and coat combination mostly in grays and blacks, with the rare peacock dandy from time to time.

Children of the upper classes were relegated to the supervision of dark clothed nannies who took little foolishness from their charges and exercised them like the well bred dogs that accompanied them. The progeny of the middle class were left in the care of wrinkled grandmothers who dressed like nuns, but were willing to look the other way while children behaved as children. The spawn of the lower classes were clearly being left to their own devices and as I strolled by them I could see that more than a few were well on their way to a life of crime. I would have called it sad, but in truth, it was simply how things were and it was neither my place to judge these people or to thrust upon this society my own idea of what was right and wrong.

It was a warm spring afternoon, but outside the restaurant, twilight had already fallen. As I strode south along the Rue de Faubourg Montmartre, the sidewalks were crowded with shopkeepers, customers, people coming from and going to work and the home-bound exhausted after a days labor. The clattery jingle of horses harnesses came from wagons, hansom-cabs and the lone rider. The noisy hooting of the occasional automobile, usually a cargo truck, would sound sending horses and pedestrians lurching for safety.

The press of humanity carried me about a hundred and fifty feet to the intersection of the Rue de Faubourg Montmartre and the Boulevard Montmartre. Here I turned west along the Boulevard and sunlight once more warmed my face, forcing me to squint. By the height of the sun in the western sky, I had perhaps three or three-and-a-half hours before the fall of night. In that thought, I found cause for concern, but try as I might, I could not recall why such a thing would matter. But I quickened my stride and passed on my right the Musée Grévin. I stopped briefly to study the playbill which advertised the attractions within and opening times. It was open now, but as the families of the middle class paid the fee and entered in an orderly fashion, I felt a odd feeling of dread. And in that moment I heard once again the sound of dried out scales slithering over dusty tombs and because of this, I did not enter. If my translation was correct, the Musée Grévin was a waxworks, a museum of oddities and human replicas. I had but to breath in deeply of the cool wax scented air that drifted out the open double doors to know that the place was the abode of some mystical entity or force. As I stepped away, I made a mental note to myself to ask Vargo about it this evening.

Fifty feet beyond the Musée Grévin lay the Passage Joffroy and as I approach it, I turned right, stepping into the Boulevard Montmartre. The decision to cross the Boulevard here and now had not been random, for one thing I sought the beginning of the Passage des Panoramas, a centuries old alley which had been paved and enclose from above to ease the experience of shopping, a nineteenth century mall if you will. Secondly I wanted to expose and deter a pursuer, who I could feel in the prickling at my back, but upon whom I had yet to lay eyes. My crossing was carefully timed to pass between two oncoming wagons moving in opposite directions down the boulevard. I made the crossing by timing the the wagons, but my pursuer was not so lucky. As I had suspected all along, the pursuer was a dark haired urchin of no more than ten or eleven years and he barely dodged back towards the north side of the street and out of harms way. The west facing wagon driver almost did not see the boy and there followed much cursing and shouting.

As I stepped from the dusty street to the paving before the entrance of the Passage des Panoramas, I glanced towards the opposite side of the street and found the lad gazing at me. It was the same dark haired youth who had been watching Vargo and I as we entered Le Bouillon Chartier with Jeanne in-tow. So the boy was looking for Jeanne, but having seen Vargo leave with her in his automobile, he had been unable to follow. Instead he waited for me, to see where I was going and then report back to his kidsman. I tipped my hat briefly in his direction, and then turned towards the dimmer confines of the passage.

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Une soirée à l'Arena

I came awake with a seamless awareness.

Dappled sunlight illuminated Vargo's spare bedroom in hues of rose and gold. I stretched my whole body and felt better than I had the day before. The ritual to shorten my sleep period had worked perfectly as I felt utterly rested. But a niggling sensation at the back of my mind told me something wasn't quite right. I rose naked, I never could abide wearing clothes to bed, it had always felt foreign. Pulling a cashmere robe from the wardrobe, I stopped before a full length oval mirror. As I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, I immediately realized what had sent my instincts off. The man gazing back at me was younger, the gray was almost completely gone from my Van Dyke and new hair was growing back in across my formerly balding pate.

Damn. As I glanced down to my left forearm, I noticed that Vargo's PTDD (Portable Temporal Disruption Device) looked worse for wear, the crystal facing was cracked and the rest of the device looked corroded. And then as realization hit home, I make the connection between last night's ritual and the condition of the PTDD. I had somehow interfered with the device when I accessed the pillar of Kronos.

I cursed, loudly and vulgarly in the ten languages that I knew. I felt like a fool. How could I not have seen this coming? As vampiric sorcerer, I could walk through a ritual in my mind and see every permutation. But since my arrival in Paris of 1900, it was as if I were learning the rules of magick all over again. I felt a sinking sensation as I sat on the edge of the bed and before I knew it, tears of frustration were running down my face. I would once again have to turn to Vargo for aid in solving this problem. It wasn't that I held no gratitude to Vargo, and it wasn't that I felt he would berate me or even think less of me; no Vargo always saw the best in everyone, it was the helplessness of once again being the novice. How many lifetimes had I labored to acquire mastery of the mystical arts? In cumulative terms, four or five centuries of mystical study and practice and I couldn't even foresee that a simple ritual like "Hypnos Accelerated" would interfere with the temporal workings of Vargo's PTDD? I was born again and like a toddler, I was playing with everything, stumbling about wide-eyed, never seeing the next thing lying on the floor over which I might tumble. How the mighty had fallen. My self pity was abundant.

Then with a will to power, born from the centuries of my collective incarnations, I pulled myself together. I had been many a man and monster. But today, in this place and time, I was Ostanes and I had a legend to live up to and I made myself this promise. Before I left Paris, I would once again be the master of magick and I would make my mark on the City of Lights and history. And my oh-so-young and naive friend Vargo would come to truly understand what the word magic really meant, for he might be my friend, but I could never abide in anyone's shadow.

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The Dream (June 13th of 1900)

3am - 129 Rue de Reunion - Paris

Snow falls from a black sky without even the suggestion of stars. I stand within a thicket of stunted pines, the smell of their sap faint in the chill atmosphere and in the dark I hear the savage sound of a tree exploding from the cold.

In surprise I draw breath and shudder as icy air pours into my chest and my exhalation is a stream of slow moving smoke that hangs in the still arctic air.

I stand naked in an eternal winter. Distantly I can hear the sound of the sea and the crash of ice bearing waves upon a rocky shore. The only light is that gathered up and intensified by the snow around me. And I know by instinct that this frigid land is home to fearsome predators who will shortly detect my scent and begin the hunt.

As I look around in desperation, there is little in the way of materials from which I could fashion makeshift clothing or weapons. The stunted pines around me appear my only hope and I seize one and wrench it from the ground in a single motion. This seemingly superhuman feat of strength barely impinges on me, nor is there any pain until I see my bloody hands, then and only then does it occur to me that I am injured. As the steaming blood runs down the trunk, the tree blossoms into ruby flame. So stunned am I, that I simply hold onto the tree until the flame finishes burning the branches away to reveal a six foot staff of blackened wood.

Passage to London (June 14th of 1900)

Dawn - 129 Rue de Reunion - Paris

I stand facing the east, my eyes are closed, but I can feel the warmth of the rising sun on my face. Behind me the French balcony doors are open allowing into my new bedroom the light of dawn. I have only just risen from a long night's rest, an all too rare occurrence when one keeps company with Vargo Zamtredia, although it has become more common since Vargo began his courship of Kizzy Aalmers.

The young daughter of an attaché to the Russian embassy in Paris whom Vargo and I had met at a soirée hosted by mutual friends of Vargo. Less than a month ago, Vargo had fallen head-over-heels in love with Kizzy only to discover she and her father were slaves to a beautiful female vampire known as Katarzyna Bogdanov. Had Katarzyna been just a creature of the night, that would have been bad enough, but when Vargo and I peered deeper into Kizzy's Aunt Katarzyna we found suggestive, but circumstantial evidence of a link between Mademoiselle Bogdanov and the forces of Hell.

Purple prose perhaps, but no less terrifying. Vargo, ever the paladin, launched a quest to free his lady love from the clutches of an infernal phage (a term used by mages for vampires). Vargo's quest ultimately brought us to the Arènes de Lutèce, the ancient Roman coliseum of Paris where the collective of Paris' Awakened gathered to celebrate a recent supernatural armistice. Ultimately Vargo appealed to the Parisian Awakened to punish Katarzyna for perceived infractions of their mutual treaty. It is worth noting that the vampires and mages of Paris do not mix save for a few rare occasions, like this one, where they meet on neutral territory.

Katarzyna was led away in chains and burnt alive. For Vargo the matter ended there with good winning the day and evil vanquished. But, I had my doubts. There had been signs at the time that Katarzyna was too clever to be caught with her hand in the supernatural cookie-jar, but rather than quash my friend's hope of romantic bliss, I chose to keep my dark thoughts to myself. And I settled for watching the vivacious Kizzy for any sign of her former mistress influence. Despite my suspicions, the last month had been a giddy one for the young lovers and I wished them well.

My bare feet were cold from last night's chill upon the pale marble of my bedroom's second story balcony. I slowly lowered my head and opened my eyes, for even mages cannot look directly into the sun, not without the aid of magick. East, directly across the street from my house was an open field which bordered the southern edge of Père Lachaise, one of modern Paris' largest and most celebrated cemeteries. The cemetery was the resting ground of Paris' artistic elite and would in seventy years or so, become the last home of one of Rock-n-Roll's most celebrated sons, Jim Morrison.

This morning, in the last year of the nineteenth century, the field across the street from my house on the Rue de Reunion saw flower-girls gathering their bouquets to sell along the busiest of the boulevards or the more crowded magasins (shops). Many would return in the afternoon to payoff their flower suppliers for the blooms they bought on credit and to sell a flower of a different variety along the tree shaded and secluded avenues of Père Lachaise. For a place of death, it was a lively location if one sought pleasures other than the remembrance of the dead.

In my hand lay an envelope of cream stationary, it was address to one Dr. Ostanes Nero at 129 Rue de Reunion, Paris , in rose ink. The color combination was all the rage in Paris among the monde de célébrité and it was an invitation from Vargo Zamtredia to journey with him to London to see the opening of the British part of the Universal Exposition of 1900. The note had been delivered to me by express courier only an hour before. It instructed me to meet Monsieur Zamtredia at noon within the Palace of Electricity.

The Palace was enormous, 420 meters long and 60 meters wide, and its form suggested a giant peacock spreading its tail. The central tower was crowned by an enormous illuminated star and a chariot carrying a statue of the Spirit of Electricity 6.5 meters high, holding aloft a torch powered by 50,000 volts of electricity, provided by the steam engines and generators inside the Palace. The modern French are many things, but subtle was not one of them. Unknown to most, Vargo had a secret laboratory there where he carried out strange and fantastic experiments, I had visited it many times and the place held a certain odd vibration that made me think of the brilliant technomancer even when he was not physically present.

I turned and reenter the bedroom. Even from beyond the closed door to the upstairs hall, I could smell the aroma of fresh brewed coffee and that exquisite meal the French called petit déjeuner (breakfast) that had added more than a few pounds to my bulky frame.

I closed the balcony doors and locked them, and moved through the room organizing those items I would need for the trip and packing them in my newly purchased luggage.

Thereafter I shaved and showered in a brand new shower that I had custom installed. The plumbing project had consumed more than one night's proceeds from my most recent winnings from the previous week's gambling spree. The plumbers and carpenters had been bewildered by my diagrams detailing the shower system and why I would want to install such a thing in my home and I simply replied that it was in vogue in America and soon lots of people would want showers in their homes, this suggestion quieted them and may have given them ideas about getting a head-start in this novel business.

Later I stood before a full-length mirror and adjusted my tie and wondered at the nineteenth century obsession with complicated tie knots. The man who stood before me looked like a stern old academic which contrasted with my residual self-image, but then so much had changed in so small an amount of time and the adjustment had not been easy or without wrinkles. That last thought brought a smile to me old face.

After the final adjustments of donning a waistcoat, seating my paradoxical pocket-watch, pulling on my matching jacket and stowing my wallet, identification and the most necessary of casting components into hidden pockets sewn into the lining of my greatcoat, I descended the stairs to the newly refurbished dining room and broke my night's fast.

Later after all the dishes had been removed, I sent Fredric, a day-to-day manservant whose services I had recently retained, to get my luggage downstairs and call a carriage for my trip to the Exposition grounds. While he was taking care of that, I paid off the cook and maid for their time and locked the place up. I had only really lived here a couple weeks, so I had few sentimental feeling about my departure.

The fiacre idled before the house, a single horse dark as night - like one I had owned as a mortal boy, snorting steam like a young dragon might in the cold morning air. The driver was a large man, beefy, but with hard intelligent eyes. He wore a double-breasted jacket that reached to his shins with a stout club visible in the foot-well and likely a pistol or double-barrel sawed of shotgun out of sight, but within easy reach should he have need. The coach itself was a beauty of finely lacquered dark wood with brass trimmings, oil lamps and even glass windows. Fredric helped me into the carriage and from the open window I paid him two weeks severance for all his fine service. Good servants are after all hard to find.

After Fredric had gone, I opened a little sliding window that existed between the driver and the passenger's box, and gave the driver his instructions. He would take me to the Palace of Electricity via the embankment along the right side of the Seine. It was lengthy ride, and went miles out of our way, but I was feeling a kind of foreboding that I might not see Paris again and I wanted a special memory of the city if that were indeed the case. We turned south along the Boulevard de Charonne and then turned west along the Place de Nation.

The Place de Nation was a worthy stop, as I gazed upon the glory of Aimé-Jules Dalou - a large bronze sculpture, the Triumph of the Republic depicting Marianne in bronze and completed only last year - 1899. There stood Marianne, personification of the Republic, upon a globe in a chariot pulled by lions and surrounded by various symbolic figures, and staring towards the Place de la Bastille. This morning she shone like gold under the rising sun, but I knew that in the coming decades her glory would wane under the green of corrosion and the forgetfulness of her people. Still the Nazis would remind the French people of their beloved guardian spirit and though both would suffer, eventually her glory and theirs would be restored.

Moving on, the carriage driver drove us along the Boulevard Diderot until we intersected the Boulevard Morland and eventually the Quai de Tuileries. The Seine passed by on our left, a fellow traveler, ever moving westward. The sunlight glittered on the water's slow moving surface and boats, small and large, traveled both up and down the river on unknown business. Then the river gave birth to the Île Saint-Louis and its equally ancient, but far more famous brother the Île de la Cité. In that moment a strange fever seemed to overtake me, a kind of heightened nostalgia, to see so much of history already gone and so much passing as I watched. This day, like its countless siblings would never come again and yet. Here I was a man out of time, allowed to travel its streets, to sample its cuisine, dance with its women and to be a part of that which in theory had long been gone when I was first born. There are miracles yet in the world.

On our right we passed the Musée du Louvre, that former palace of the Bourbon kings, wherein I and my coterie of Tremere had faced off against a goddess and a Methuselah. Had it ever really happened? Would it happen now? The memories were as fresh as if they had happened yesterday, but they belonged to the possibility of tomorrow. Before the final turning west we passed the Jardin des Tuileries and Musée de l'Orangerie and while both were part and parcel of the grounds of the Louvre, I had not had the opportunity to see them yet. Rather than take my mind from those distant struggles, the artistically formed greenery and the elegant facade of the museum reminded me that I had very much wanted to see these things in the company of my beloved Natasha. Still as a single tear worked its way down my face, I reflected she was not really lost to me, for I had seen her genius express itself in the face and form of a Parisian Chakravanti called Bhaskar Aglaé. Could a man love more than one incarnation of a woman? Did I have the right? The Tremere apprentice Czere Ubireg had been far too timid to gain the love of Natasha Scheinberg an apprentice decades his senior, but Ostanes the Third Magian knew nothing of doubt and nothing in the world should be forbidden to one who walked in the company of gods.

The remainder of the journey was lost to me, as my thoughts were turned inward, that is until we came to the Jardins du Trocadéro. The gardens were a glory to behold and lightened my mood. We crossed the river at the Pont d'Iéna and took a tour around the Eiffel Tower along the Allée des Refuzniks. The Eiffel Tower, for the last eleven years had been the tallest structure in the world, but I did not jape like some country bumpkin. I had see it before and many buildings would come into existence that would dwarf it. Still I remembered my first sight of it and thinking it how amazing it was as I stood under it. Now however, I could see it for what it really was, a technocratic eyesore meant to show all will-workers the dominance of the Technocracy over all who lived in the City of Lights. I was no longer impressed.

The tree shaded and gravel lined Avenue Pierre Loti cut directly through the heart of the Champ de Mars park and brought us directly to the foot of the Water Castle. Although the Water Castle was beautiful in the golden light of morning, I barely spared it a glance. Nor did I really look at the Palace of Electricity, for all its brilliant glory, its 7,200 incandescent lamps and seventeen arc lamps were off during the day and I was too busy searching the nearby grounds for a porter to carry my luggage. How quickly we become jaded to what was one of the wonders of the modern world.

Once the porter saw the Franc notes in my hand as I paid the carriage driver, he was quick to unload my luggage and followed me dutifully into the Palace of Electricity. The Salle des Illusions glittered and teased the eyes, it was like standing inside an electric kaleidoscope. As yet there were few visitors to the Exposition and none within the Palace of Electricity, only the workmen of the night-shift getting off and heading home to some much needed rest. The massive generators of the palace ran twenty-four hours a day and required three shifts to keep them running smoothly.

The porter and I passed through a nearly unseen door located in the Salle des Illusions and into the work-spaces of the palace. Like the vampire I had once been, I was still cautious of revealing anything that might lead a mortal to even guess that the supernatural might exist and that included Vargo Zamtredia's secret laboratory. I paid the porter well and then fogged his memory of my arrival and our destination, he would come to full awareness as he exited the building. While I often portrayed the pretensions of the aristocratic classes, I was not actually a nobleman and I was perfectly capable of hoisting my own luggage to the entrance of Vargo's lab.

I rang the doorbell and waited. A moment later, a mechanical eye opened in the middle of the metal door and gazed at me for a few seconds and then the door vibrated and with a pneumatic whoosh the door slid back into the concrete wall. Before me and blocking my path was Vaerti, Vargo's chief valet and an artificially intelligent robot. I always felt a sense of unreality whenever I encountered the silvery humanoid mechanism. Perhaps it was a factor of our vastly different paradigms or perhaps I simply felt like an extra on the set of Lost in Space (circa 1965).

Vaerti's single crimson eye scanned me with ruby light before stepping aside. I had forgotten that the automaton also possessed defensive features and was quite protective of its master. The laboratory was not quite as I remembered it. The Matter-Transfer-gateway now sat on the far side of the room before Vargo's garage doors and the man himself was loading his heavily modified Voiturette automobile with luggage. Conspicuous in its absence, the Temporal Occulus was nowhere to be seen, and while I would make no reference to the time-machine's disappearance I did wonder what might have become of such a world-shattering gadget.

As we approached, Vaerti emitted a series of beeps and whistles, alerting Vargo to our presence. As he turned his face lit up and a boyish grin split his face; Vargo is in his thirties, but his youthful good looks and devil-may-care charm caused others to underrate his age. As I sat my luggage down, Vargo crossed the space between us and shook my hand warmly, and asking after my health and general well-being. While Vargo and I exchanged small talk, Vaerti had taken charge of my luggage and stowed it in it's master's car. With little more fanfare, Vargo gestured for me to take my place in the passenger seat of the vehicle. Once seated and secured into my safety harness, Vargo handed me a pair of tinted road goggles and tapped a button on the dashboard. The Voiturette roared to life and began rolling forward towards the Matter-Transfer-Gatway.

An unaccustomed nervousness spread down my spine and I found myself clutching the door-handle and armrest with a white-knuckled grip, and when Vargo noticed, he just smiled and pressed another button on the dashboard. Ahead of us the silvery ring of the gateway began to dance with static-electric discharges and then there was a bright white flash. Without the goggles I would have been blinded, as it was my sight danced with afterimages through which I perceived an entirely different vista. This was the first time I was conscious and aware as I passed through the gateway and the words of an old physician were with me in a powerful way, I did not want my atoms scattered halfway across the universe. But by the time I voiced my concern, the car had safely passed through the gateway onto a heavily rutted and muddy country road.

The sun stood directly overhead in a blue sky made misty by a thin veil of clouds. Before us the road continued into the English landscape bounded on either side by walls of native stones stacked up over generations to the height of a man's waist. Beyond those walls, in both directions, lay fields of native grasses that rippled in gentle breeze that carried the scent of oncoming rain. As I looked around us in amazement, I was breathless with the pastoral beauty of the English countryside, for I had never see this land by the light of day.

While I could see a few farmhouses in the distance and several flocks of sheep and a few cattle and horses, I saw not another member of the human race in sight. A piece of luck for Vargo or a well calculated and executed teleportation? I strongly suspected the latter, but this stretch of road would be empty more often than not. Turning back to Vargo, I inquired at our location? His reply was typical of the man. We were 45.66 kilometers east of London and 3.03 kilometers south-east of Basildon. I readily admitted my ignorance of the region, but I pointed out that I had been to England before in 211 A.D. with the 9th Legion of Rome accompanying Imperator Caesar Lucius Septimius on his final campaign - a failed campaign to conquer Caledonia (Scotland).

For the first time, but not for the last, Vargo looked at me in utter astonishment. I smiled to myself, the technomancer was not the only one with secrets.

In an attempt to return our conversation to a more casual tone, I asked where London was on the horizon, and Vargo without hesitation pointed almost directly west to a dark cloudy region on the horizon. Anticipating my thoughts, Vargo shook his head and confirmed that the discoloration of the sky was not a storm, but a rather shocking level of air pollution. During my last trip to London, I vaguely recalled our cabby saying that in the nineteenth century London was often called "The Old Smoke". It was one thing to understand something from a historical context and quite another to experience it in person. Once more Vargo engaged the throttle and we were off like a pair of wild hares towards what the English called "The City".

Ergo Sum

There followed a lull in our conversation, as quite naturally there should, for I had made seemingly improbable and self-aggrandizing statements that would be difficult for anyone to believe. In all honesty, there were times when I could scarcely believe such pronouncements myself, but strangely that did not prevent me from remembering other men's lives both ancient and modern. From the corner of my eye, I could see Vargo's wrinkled brow and I could almost hear his thoughts as he struggled to reconcile how old I appeared and how old I claimed to be.

I am not insane. These memories are all I have of other times and multiple lives that span from the beginning of the Third Century following Christ's death to the middle years of the Twenty-First century.

I did not make this up from imagination or mental illness, my name and my identity were revealed to me by a chthonic entity calling itself Python in a fever dream and whose voice often speaks to me in times of need. If I gave voice to these assertions in public now or anytime following this year of 1900 I would be classified as mentally ill, likely delusional, and locked away in a none-too-pleasant asylum for the mad. Despite this, my incarnations as I call them, have gifted me with more abilities than could be accounted for in ten lifetimes and the power to work magic, to alter reality at will.

Should they catch me, will they create a new definition for madness just for me? I am not insane.

As I dispense with the mortal verdict of insanity, I am forced to ask the more pertinent question, who is Ostanes?

Common Hermetic lore defines Ostanes as the Third Magian, or rather what the ancient Greeks thought he should be, a foreigner, a Persian and sorcerer. It all added up to alien wisdom, the same suspension of disbelief that allowed bored British aristocrats to believe in the quackery of the distant lands that their empire had conquered, because it simply was not possible for magic either light or dark to arise in God fearing England. Strangely, Ostanes is neither a Greek nor Persian name, and over the centuries the works attributed to him grew in depth and number, but of the man himself nothing is really known. Perhaps Ostanes is a legend for he was said to travel in the company of Xerxes in the 5th Century before Christ and two hundred years later to have tutored Alexander the Great. Can legends take physical form? Or can a sorcerer inherit the identity of Ostanes under the right circumstances?

What I do know is this, I was born in the middle of the 20th century, I died and rose again as a vampire among a clan of vampires called Tremere. In 2043 I became involved with the Masks of Dii Consentes, the twelve Olympian gods, and in December of that year I died at the hands of Cronus, the Titan god of time. But the Mask of Apollo saved me somehow and made me mortal and gave me tasks to complete in return for these gifts. When I awakened in 1900, I was gifted, capable of altering reality with incantations and gestures, a mage. The numerous lives I remember were inherited from other men with my face who I call doppelgangers. I have known seven, but I have begun to wonder if there have not been others.

Perhaps my earlier assumptions about being a doppelganger are not fully correct.

Following Footsteps in the Sand

The drive into London was a revelation and if I were to select a single word to describe the city at that time, it would be foul, amazingly foul. During the nineteenth century, London was the capital of the largest empire the world had ever seen and it was filthy almost beyond description. As we approached the city from the east with the Thames on our left, the sky grew steadily darker from countless smokestacks disgorging coal smoke into the air. Vargo astounded me with a bit of London lore, the city comprised one hundred square miles of dwellings each with its own fireplace.

It was perpetual twilight as Vargo's Voiturette coursed through the city's streets. I could not stop comparing London with Paris. Although Paris did have her share of industrial factories and slums, it also has the cleanest streets I had yet seen in the nineteenth century and the Parisians had taken the theories of Louis Pasteur to heart and applied them liberally. London on the other hand held industry to be paramount and its citizens were none too concerned with the filth it generated.

The location of the British Exposition was at Hyde Park in Westminster. The lodgings that Vargo had procured for us were just a few blocks north of the park. 3 Westbourne Terrace turned out to be a townhouse built in 1842. It now served as a private hotel for a select subset of clientele who possessed extraordinary gifts and who valued their privacy. The owner of the private boarding house was a friend of Vargo's who understood about the unusual people he served, but seemed mundane enough to me. Our check-in was most peculiar, the establishment required no registration and our host bypassed introductions and small-talk to show us to our rooms and get us settled, this accomplished he disappeared. The absence of formal behavior and casual secrecy rather appealed to me after having to suffer the overt curiosity of the Parisian hotel staff.

It took little enough time to unpack and we had agreed that afterward we would retire to the hotel dinning-room and there break our fast with English tea and crumpets. We were met there by Kizzy who looked resplendent in emerald green chiffon muslin, with her strawberry curls pinned up à la chignon beneath a wide brimmed hat decorated with ribbons and ostrich feathers, she looked the epitome of the Gibson Girl.

Over afternoon tea we discussed the itinerary at the British Exposition, there Vargo would display his Matter Conversion Engine to his English colleagues and other members of his faction of technologists. I was informed that this exhibition was open to the general public, but that certain areas and displays were only open to the “gifted.” This did not surprise me, for the matter-conversion engine and other wondrous items were quite simply beyond the order of the day. What would the mundane public make of such impossible machines?

As we exited into the weak afternoon light and walked along the tree lined streets of St.James towards the green of Kensington and Hyde parks, I observed that the streets here were newly paved with brick and that the general filth conjured from the constant horse traffic was being constantly removed by boys as young as seven or eight who would duck into and out of traffic on their custodial errands. This very topic had upset Vargo, who was as we walked, scratching away in his note book ways to automate this dangerous activity and perhaps save the lives and limbs of the next generation of the working class. Knowing my friend and his idealism, I forgo pointing out that entire families and perhaps neighborhoods would starve if Vargo created such a thing, for the truth is so often an unwelcome guest.

Bayswater Road proved a distinct barrier with its heavy traffic of coaches and cargo wagons, pedestrians trying to cross were required to dodge across at irregular intervals which regularly resulted in traffic accidents. The crosswalk would not become a serious thing until the automobile became more common, pedestrians were simply at the mercy of traffic, but with a little looking around we found a carriage to ferry us across without threat of injury. The carriage driver was a Yorkshire man with a strong opinion on everything and who had nothing good to say about the foreign machines being displayed in the pavilions of Hyde park. This did not stop the man from charging us all a shilling each for a kilometer and a half ride.

The pavilions were located in a semi-circle around a local landmark, a particularly large old oak tree, called the Reformer's Tree. Some thirty years before, the Reformer's League sought to give every man the right to vote (the women's vote would languish for a few decades more), during a particularly violent protest, someone lit the tree on fire and reducing it to a blackened stump. Although an interesting location for the exposition, the setting sent a mixed message about progress that upon reflection was likely the point.

Several pavilions had been erected in the area and the British Exposition almost had the feel of a carnival come to town. Strange pennants fluttered in the afternoon breezes above gaily striped tents equal to those of the world's greatest circuses. Everywhere men in somber suits strode with ladies in long dresses and parasols trailed by dark clad governesses and well dressed, but unruly children. Scientific curiosity provided fertile ground for petty merchants selling trinkets and memorabilia to the gathered crowd and for the space of an afternoon the lines between the aristocracy and the common people were erased as all were awed by spectacles of ingenuity and genius which might propel mankind as a whole into a more thrilling and lofty future.

Magi of London

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Sources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1900s_in_Western_fashion

https://listverse.com/2013/01/19/10-reasons-19th-century-paris-was-as-miserable-as-les-mis/ ("The Magister 12:10, 6 August 2018 (MDT)")

https://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com/tag/19th-century-seamstress/ ("The Magister 12:02, 6 August 2018 (MDT)")

https://tsort.info/music/yr1900.htm ("The Magister 14:11, 6 August 2018 (MDT)")

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Kingsley ("The Magister 14:24, 6 August 2018 (MDT)")

http://rpgbooks.wikia.com/wiki/Victorian_Age:_Mage_Rulebook/Outline ("The Magister 19:37, 12 August 2018 (MDT)")

https://libraryguides.missouri.edu/c.php?g=28284&p=174164 ("The Magister 22:04, 12 August 2018 (MDT)")

https://www.blancsourire.fr/chemise-femme-1900/ ("The Magister 22:04, 12 August 2018 (MDT)")

https://glamourdaze.com/history-of-womens-fashion/1900-to-1919 ("The Magister 00:11, 13 August 2018 (MDT)")

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