I sharpen my cavalry saber nervously, nearly cutting myself on its razor-sharp edge when the car shudders from driving over a root or a rock. I curse under my breath as I steady the whetstone in my hands and resume my rhythm, sliding the stone up and down each side at a perfect thirty degree angle, letting the edge reveal itself rather than grinding it down to nothing. The motion is therapeutic — or at least it would be if the car didn't shudder again from driving over yet another rock. I'd hate to arrive at the Gathering smelling of blood and missing a few fingers. Only the strongest and most violent beings will be there: any who are weak will be "eliminated as nature intended," as my Father is fond of saying.
Satisfied with the blade's wicked sharp edge, I carefully wipe it down with sandpaper to collect all of the metal filings before snapping it back into its scabbard. Then I peer out the window. At some point, we got off the highway and slipped onto one of the back roads leading into the nearby state park which stretches on for hundreds of miles. There's nothing but trees outside, illuminated only by the car's headlights. Their branches reach out like skeletal fingers, unwilling to let us leave now that we've entered, an uncomfortable feeling that I'm exceedingly familiar with. Other than the headlights, only the stars and moonlight penetrate the darkness around us, not that it matters to me — I can see nearly as well in the dark as in the daytime.
I catch the eye of the driver, old man Richard Kohli, my family's butler, in the rearview mirror. He smirks playfully at me as he intentionally drives over a particularly large rock. I scowl at him and silently vow to get revenge later tonight. The last thing I need is more of his impromptu training. I swear, he always has awful timing. The worst was when he intentionally alerted the target of one of my assassination missions without telling me. I'd think he was trying to kill me if he wasn't so sincere about preparing me to survive any situation, to become the ultimate assassin for my Father. I would just appreciate it if he stopped trying to intentionally create those situations for the sake of "practical experience," as he puts it.
After some time, Kohli pulls the car up over a hill and into a massive clearing. There's already a host of vehicles parked haphazardly on the long grass. Flickering in the distance are the lights of old fashioned torches. Not flashlights, mind you, but legitimate, fire-lit torch sconces firmly nailed into nine stone pillars which surround an elevated altar made of stone bricks.
Hundreds of beings are gathered around the altar, and I say beings because not all of them are human, or even something resembling human. The vampire families form the majority of the crowd. As is customary, all of them are present, from the most respected Alistairs to the monstrous Nos. As far as I can tell, only two ghoul clans showed out of nearly a dozen, which most will interpret as a sign of disrespect — the more militant leaders, particularly those from the Brujah family, will be demanding blood for that. The few remaining werewolf tribes showed up, some of their members already transformed. I can't blame them for being cautious, considering vampires are one of the main reasons why there are so few of their kind remaining: if they were left unchecked, the families reasoned, they could dominate the world, which is rather ironic coming from vampires who are basically trying to do just that. Finally, there are the freaks, those who forced their way into the Gathering by might, magic, wealth, or influence: witches and warlocks, enchanters and enchantresses, alchemists, necromancers, goblins and ogres, a handful of cannibalistic blood elves, and some other nasty creatures I'd never want to meet up close unless if it was for work.
Honestly, the scene looks like a Satanic ritual at Stonehenge.
And at the very center of it is my Father, in all of his glory. He towers over all others of his kind, and even most of the werewolves, at seven feet and five inches tall. His hair is as black as the night, his fangs sharp as knives and eyes red as blood. A long black cloak shrouds most of his body, but underneath I can catch glimpses of his marble-white skin and athletic physique. He stands before the altar and looks down upon all of the lesser beings, surveying the Gathering as if he owned each and every creature below him. In a world where power rules over everything, in a way, he does own everyone here.
Including me.
Just below him are the other family heads, five of them in total. Closest to him is the proud, aristocratic Cassandra Alistair, the newest head of the Alistair family after the last one met an "unfortunate accident." Cassandra is dressed in a snappy, custom-made purple suit which complements her dark skin, a proud display of the wealth which the Alistair family is so famous for. She stands with her hands clasped behind her back, her expression one of perfect tranquility. Next to her is Atlas Brujah, the enormously muscled head of the warmongering Brujah family and one of the strongest vampires within the Gathering, not that he ever lets anyone forget it. Whenever the Gathering calls for an extermination of an outside group, the Brujahs are the first to fight and the last to leave. Atlas' sight is trained on the werewolves, and he licks his lips at some private thought, though it doesn't take a genius to sense his bloodthirst.
The drop-dead gorgeous seductress Vitria LaCretia stands next to Atlas with her arms crossed, her foot tapping impatiently. As scary as the Brujahs are, the LaCretias are worse. They're experts in mind manipulation arts and they all have plots within plots within plots. I've heard that Vitria is thought to be one of the most talented of their kind in a century, meaning that she can easily dominate the minds of lesser beings, which includes the younger vampires.
I had a mission once to assassinate a rogue LaCretia, a treasonous elder who sought to amass an army of non-vampires to overthrow Vitria and, eventually, my Father. I can't even say how many times I thought I killed her only for her image to dissolve into that of a random creature. Frankly, it was embarrassing. Worse, I made a ton of enemies doing so, as if I didn't have enough already. It was incredibly satisfying when I finally pinned down the right vampire and chopped off her head once and for all. Her mental domination was the only thing keeping her motley army from tearing itself to shreds, so it soon devolved into a bloodbath afterward. By the end, I learned my lesson: illusion magic might sound weak, but with a cunning mind, it can be disastrously powerful and quite insidious.
Standing apart from the other family heads is Lucas Windcrest, a tall, mysterious figure dressed in blood red robes inscribed with intricate swirls of golden runes. His face is hidden by the shadows within his hood, save for his glowing orange-red eyes. He's the leader of the widely distrusted Windcrest family. Every Windcrest was, at one point, a witch, warlock, wizard, or other form of magic-user before receiving the Embrace. Though they lost their ability to perform magic in exchange for eternal life, they developed the ability to manipulate blood with their minds, a horrifying power that makes them a nightmare to fight if they're prepared. They're also seriously gross — when they're around, blood gets everywhere, and I do mean everywhere.
I'd be willing to bet that most of the magic users in the crowd, particularly the witches, warlocks, and necromancers, are aiming to become a Windcrest. Eternal life is a powerful attraction.
The last family head also stands apart from the others. Trevair Nosferatu is an unsightly creature, though some may argue that he's majestic. He's even more heavily muscled than Atlas Brujah, but unlike Atlas, he's stuck in his vampiric form, a seven foot tall, blue-skinned brute with large bat-like wings, sharp pointy ears, and enormous clawed hands and feet that could easily rip through rock. He is the head of the Nosferatu, the only family of vampires to be stuck in a vampire's true appearance.
Other than the Nosferatu, every vampire has two appearances: their human one and their vampiric one. While one's human appearance might change slightly after receiving the Embrace, it's still possible to blend in with a crowd. That's clearly not the case with one's vampiric appearance. As a result, the Nosferatu are forced to live in sewers, in abandoned buildings, or in the wilderness out of humanity's sight, yet within reach. Though they're looked down on for that, they're not to be underestimated. Of all of the vampire families, the Nosferatu are by far the most physically dangerous as their vampiric forms are much stronger than any other vampire family's, with one exception. They're the perfect killing machines: they're nearly a match for werewolves on strength alone and they're capable of performing Blood Arts, pseudo-magical abilities fueled by ingested blood such as the LaCretia's mind manipulation abilities or the Windcrest's blood magic. Because of that, they're usually far more dangerous than werewolves.
And yet I'm sure that my Father has never once feared them. As monstrous as the Nosferatu are, as mysterious and knowledgeable as the Windcrests are, as manipulative as the LaCretias are, as tough and warlike as the Brujah are, and as capable and well-connected as the Alistairs are, my Father stands alone above them all despite being the only full vampire within his family. He's that powerful.
And I'm his son, the person who will succeed him eventually, if I live long enough. Truthfully, I'm not optimistic.
Kohli pulls the car up alongside a luxurious Rolls Royce. I don't know who it belongs to, but probably someone higher up in the ranks. As is the case everywhere, even in vampire society, the higher-ups live in luxury while everyone else fights for their scraps, living amongst the dirt. As the son of one of the most powerful vampires in the United States, I've never had to worry about food or shelter, but I've never received anything from him for free — everything comes with a price. Especially his love.
Kohli stops me before I exit the car, his eyes locked onto my Father.
"Wait a moment, lad." He provides no explanation. I frown and turn around to watch the Gathering, straining my ears so I can hear them properly despite the distance.
"We should just slaughter them all," Atlas growls. "Those Rotbloods are disrespectful and undisciplined. Even the werewolves wouldn't hunt so much of the kine so quickly."
I shake my head at that. The Rotbloods are by far the largest ghoul clan, most well known for their reproductive abilities. Where there's one, there's five more lurking about. Though they may not be as physically powerful as other ghouls, their teeth have a venom that can even bring a werewolf to its knees. In short, exterminating them is a nightmare: I speak from experience. Their diet consists mainly of kine, a derogatory term for normal humans that the older vampires like to use.
Garrick, a tall, white-furred hulking brute representing the werewolf tribes, snorts in response.
"Even so," Cassandra counters. "The Rotbloods are on my land and are my problem to deal with."
Atlas smirks derisively, but it's Vitria who responds.
"Then do take care of it, Cassandra," she sneers haughtily, "before you make the rest of us look like fools as well."
Cassandra sniffs delicately in response, expressing her distaste for Vitria. Lucas and Trevair watch the rest of them, their thoughts an enigma save for the calculative look on Lucas's face and casual disinterest on Trevair's.
Atlas opens his mouth, presumably to continue pestering Cassandra, but then my Father steps forward, prompting even the heads of the vampire families to fall silent. Then he speaks, ignoring Cassandra's attempt to interject.
"The Rotbloods will be dealt with, in time. However, there is something more pressing I would like to announce," he pauses.
Kohli nudges me from the front seat.
"It's time, lad. Go."
I open the car door and step outside, clipping my sword to my belt. Then I open up the trunk to pull out a heavy black duffle bag, doing my best to breathe in through my mouth as I do. A dark liquid leaks from one corner, and I smirk as I make sure that it stains the trunk of Kohli's car — I'm not above getting revenge for past grievances. I straighten my spine, square my shoulders, and walk toward the Gathering.
"Morgana Bloodeye, the witch responsible for the deaths of numerous vampires, werewolves, and other members of our community, has been killed," he announces. His eyes meet mine, silently evaluating my worth like he might a longsword, gun, or mace.
And then the weight of the stares of hundreds of supernatural beings land on me, most of them filled with varying mixtures of hate, anxiety, and fear. For good reason, too. Despite only being active for the last five years, I've completed many, many missions, most of them assassinations. Even though my targets have always been those deemed traitors to the Gathering, the union of vampires, werewolves, ghouls, and other supernatural powerhouses, the fact remains that I've killed many of the associates, friends, family, and clan members of the beings gathered here.
I walk forward without flinching, without even the slightest hesitation. To show weakness here would mean death, whether by a ravenous blood elf or at the hands of my Father for disgracing his name. I stop at the edge of the Gathering, the black bag dangling from my hand. A rotten odor emanates from inside, and a strange dark liquid leaks from one corner down onto my pants and into my black combat boots, covering my foot in slime. Despite my disgust, my face remains impassive.
The crowd parts for me as I draw near, allowing me to ascend the altar. The heat and stench of the breath and bodies of werewolves, goblins, ogres, and blood elves mix with that of the bag. Each step brings me deeper into hell.
Then I break through the crowd and emerge on the steps just before the vampiric leaders of the Gathering. I dip my head to show my respect for their authority. I don't want to make any of them my enemies unnecessarily.
Cassandra Alistair dips her head politely in response while Atlas Brujah and Vitria LaCretia study me with interest. Lucas Windcrest takes one glance before staring off into the distance, and Trevair Nosferatu ignores my existence entirely.
Atlas opens his mouth to speak, but Vitria elbows him before he can utter a single syllable.
They part for me, allowing me to approach my Father, Lord Dra'kuul Avrem, Father of Multitudes and King of the Night, direct blood-descendent of the world's most powerful vampire, Vlad Dracula, and the one and only leader of the Gathering. His deep red eyes rest on me, his face as expressionless as ever. For the life of me, I can't even begin to guess what he's thinking.
I kneel before him, showing him not just great respect, but also my submission to his power and authority both as my Father and my Lord.
I present the black bag to him, and he speaks to me for the first time in months.
"Rise, Caliban," he takes the bag from my hand. While I move to stand just behind his right side, he unzips the bag and pulls out the wrinkled head of an old human female, her bloodshot eyes and facial expression full of hate.
"Behold the head of the witch," he roars as he thrusts it into the sky. Everyone's eyes are drawn to it, unable to look away. More than a few, I'm sure, are wondering if they'll be next. But those loyal to the Gathering know they have nothing to fear… as long as they don't get in my way.
"Let her death be a warning to our enemies. If you stand in our way…" With pinpoint precision, he throws the head to a particularly hungry looking ogre towards the back of the crowd. It snatches the head out of the air with its massive, three-fingered hand and eats it in one bite.
"We'll consume you and become all the stronger for it." The crowd goes wild, cheering ecstatically over the strength of our combined power.
I scan the crowd quickly, memorizing any upset, nervous, or queasy faces. There are a few. All of them will be targets for investigation later, one of Kohli's many jobs before my Father approves targets for assassination.
My Father lowers his hands to settle the crowd. Just as he starts to speak, it happens. An event spoken of only in hushed whispers, one that has signalled the start and end of countless eras throughout history.
A thick fog of black ash streams down from the sky, exploding next to my Father and I with a deafening crack of thunder. The resulting wave of immense pressure from the ash's suffocating presence froze the entire Gathering in place. Instantly, I could sense it. If I drew the ash's ire, I would be erased from this world instantaneously. Unwilling to give into my fear, I move to draw my sword with the speed of someone fighting against quicksand, but my Father motions for me to stand down, his brows and face drawn tight with an emotion I've never sensed in him before: anxiety. The rest of the vampiric leaders are also frozen in place, either unwilling or unable to move a muscle in the face of a true predator of the night. The ripe scent of fear intensifies throughout the crowd of supernatural monsters, becoming almost palpable.
Only my Father is able to stand against the sheer weight of its presence.
"Tell me," Dra'kuul Avrem states proudly to the pooling black ash, hiding his inner turbulence. "Why does one of the Fallen interrupt our most sacred Gathering?"
This is one of the Fallen? It's my first time seeing one, though I've heard about them before. Most have. They're fallen angels, beings who were granted immense power by God or some other cosmic entity, depending on what you believe. Supposedly, they became corrupted and betrayed the rest of their kind, and as punishment, they were sealed within the Abyss.
There were rumors that the ancient seals were loosening, but I never really believed in their existence… There are some things that are too fantastic to believe, despite the existence of vampires, werewolves, and all the other monsters that go bump in the night.
The ash gathers itself together and forms itself into an enormous, shadowy humanoid figure. "Beasts of the Blood Gathering," its deep voice rumbles, causing the stone to tremble beneath my feet. "I have a task for you." It was as if the very world itself was speaking, penetrating through my eardrums and into the very core of my being. If it spoke any louder, it felt as if my very soul would shatter.
From the corner of my eyes, I could sense the wounded pride and anger of the vampires from being equated to beasts, particularly Atlas Brujah, though you could make the argument that he's the most brute-like of us all. Only the werewolves seem undisturbed by the Fallen's casual insult, perhaps because they're used to being equated with beasts. Still, offended or not, none but Draku'ul Avrem dared to respond to the Fallen.
"And since when did the Gathering answer to the Fallen?" My Father's voice lashes like a whip. Rallying against its presence, I do my best to ready myself for combat, my body buzzing sluggishly with destructive energy.
But rather than responding, the Fallen does the worst thing it could have done to my Father: it ignores his existence entirely.
"Complete the task and you will be well-rewarded. Fail or refuse, and this one will personally see to it that everything you value is destroyed without a trace."
My Father's eyes calm and become still as an icy rage takes over him. He opens his mouth to speak, but, unthinkably, the Fallen interrupts him before he can let out a single word.
"Go to Arcanum, the wizard's school of magic. Find and kill the nephilim hiding within by the winter solstice, and bring her eyes back here on that day as proof of the kill. The one who brings them to me will earn the opportunity to join the ranks of the Fallen."
And just like that, the Fallen melts into the shadows as if it were never here at all. Silence reigns, all eyes focused on Drak'uul. Waiting to see how he responds.
Waiting for a sign of weakness.