Bonnheim, Germany January, 1996
Perseus, Kurt, and Shelley left the castle in a hurry. Shelley was impatient, anxious to at last be included in some of the secrets both men seemed to be wrapped in. Perseus was concerned about Ivan Rerschenko, the Immortal who he had just seen inside the castle. Kurt, as usual, just went with the flow.
The car drive back to the hotel was quiet, though Kurt tried several times to engage both of his companions in discourse. Neither of them were very talkative at the moment, though. As the exited the car, Perseus' visage was cloudy and preoccupied.
Kurt elbowed him in the ribs. "Lighten up, Perce. Things are going pretty well, as far as I can tell."
Perseus glanced at Shelley, who was quickly hopping up the stairs to the back door. "Things are more complicated than they seem, Kurt." The taller man raised an eyebrow at this, but Perseus didn't elaborate. He followed Shelley into the inn.
Kurt cursed under his breath, suddenly having more sympathy for Shelley's predicament. Perseus was an obstinate son of a bitch, certainly. Kurt shrugged and headed inside. <He means well, though,> he told himself.
New York City is a city of contrasts. It is a city of incredible wealth, where people live in abject property, a city of towering skyscrapers that reach like tendrils into the cerulean sky, and where manmade structures delve into the deepest abysses of the Earth, carrying trains, sewage, and people.
In the winter, when it becomes too cold for the homeless to lie in the street and the shelters are packed beyond capacity, the resourceful vagrant seeks warmth within the bowels of the city. The sewers, pipes, maintenance walkways, and subway tunnels provide at least some protection from the winds and snow, and, occasionally, some genuine warmth. In the winter, the homeless go underground. Vampires stalk this underworld, feeding on the dregs of humanity, picking off those members of society who will be least missed. But they are not the only supernatural predators to stalk the unsuspecting homeless.
Ed and Martha huddled over a small flame, hunching to gain as much warmth as possible from it. Ed had made the fire with some rags and wads of paper, while Martha was able to produce a precious Zippo lighter, one of her most treasured possessions. Ed added another chunk of newspaper to the growing flame. Around them, bizarre shadows danced amid the pipes and concrete walls that enclosed them.
Martha heard footsteps and looked up, expecting to see Carolina Joe returning from a foray to the surface in search of food. Martha was surprised to see, not Carolina, but a tall, long limbed man in dark clothing. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and, though his eyes were hidden in shadow, Martha could have sworn she saw a red glow come from them.
She stood up. "You get outta here. This is our spot!" she groused in a voice marred by long years of alcohol and tobacco use. Ed looked up, his heavy black beard bristling in indignation.
The stranger spread his hands wide and spoke amiably, his voice honeyed and persuasive. "I'm not here to throw you out, child. But I saw the flame, and was hoping you might share your warmth with me."
Martha felt her limbs go weak, like jelly, and she slumped to her knees. The stranger seemed nice enough, she thought. It might not be all that bad to invite him to stay. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ed try to struggle against something, but suddenly the stranger was on top of him.
Martha saw a flash of teeth, and then the stranger was fastened to Ed's throat. Martha couldn't believe it. The pervert was trying to give Ed a hickey! On weak knees, Martha stood, and dropped on hand on the strangers shoulder, trying to shake him off of Ed. But the stranger wouldn't budge.
Martha leaned against him, trying to push him away. The stranger looked up, into Martha's eyes. She registered a pale white face, gleaming crimson eyes, and a red lipped mouth splashed with carmine fluid. Then she froze in place, unable to move a muscle. The stranger -- the Vampire -- returned to its meal. And Martha could do nothing. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving streaks in the grime. And then she heard it; a shuffling step, coming from below.
The Vampire, too engrossed in its meal, made no sign that it was aware of the sound. But Martha silently cheered. A rescuer was coming. She was certain of it.
As the Vampire pulled away from Ed, and the last bits of Ed's life flowed out of the jagged wound in his throat, a figure stepped out of the darkened archway of an access tunnel. The Vampire froze, one claw extended towards Martha.
The new being was of medium build, swathed in a heavy canvas cloak that swooped about its stick-like frame. A weather-beaten straw hat obscured most of its face, although it was evident the creature wore some kind of leather mask. It was clothed in patched, homespun wool clothing, and both Martha and the Vampire could make out bits of straw poking through holes in the outfit, and between gloves and wrist and boots and knees.
The Vampire laughed, a dry, twittery sound that reminded Martha of scuttling insects. "On your way, straw man. These are mine."
The strange being shuffled forward, further into the light. It spoke in a voice that recalled old harvests and the scent of dried corn. "These are my tunnels, Childe of the Blood. You are trespassing here."
The Vampire laughed again, but Martha thought it sounded strained. The Vampire stepped towards the other, but, faster than Martha could see, the other moved, leaping at the undead creature and wrapping its cloak around him. Martha heard bones shattering beneath the cloak, and saw a spray of blood arc through a gap in the fabric.
A moment later, the Vampire tumbled to the ground as the other opened his cloak. The undead creature had been ripped open from crotch to sternum, and exposed was a gaping, empty cavity. Martha stared in horror, unable to scream.
Then the Scarecrow reached for her, and she learned why the Vampire didn't scream.
They sat in Perseus' room, ringed around a card table. Kurt had called room service, and was devouring a huge bratwurst sandwich, unconcerned that the mustard was leaking out the sides, while drinking a large tankard of the local beverage. Shelley tried to ignore the fact that Perseus had laid his sword across the table, while the older Immortal drank coffee and smoked cigarette after cigarette.
"How much do you know about the Immortals?" Perseus asked Shelley.
She shrugged. "Only what Quin told me."
Perseus let out a cloud of smoke with an exasperated sigh. "And what did he tell you?"
"He told me about the Game, and its rules. Told me about the Prize and the Gathering, about Holy Ground and the Quickening. He told me some of the myths, too."
"Such as?" Perseus asked, taking a long drag on his cancer-stick.
"A few about Holy Ground, and the penalties for fighting on it. He mentioned some of the older Immortals -- Ramiriz, Darius, Mitra, and the oldest, Methos. And he told me about Connor MacLeod's showdown with the Kurgan."
Perseus nodded and tipped some ash onto the carpet. "Pierce told you the truth, as far as he knew it. Few Immortals do know the truths of our existence." He took another long drag and blew the smoke out.
"What I am about to tell you goes no further than this room. If you mention it again, anywhere, to me or anyone else, I may just kill you. If you have a decent reason, I won't make it permanent. Understand?"
Shelley nodded slowly. She felt like bolting from the room, running for her life, or reaching for her sword and attacking Perseus. But she did none of these things, and remained glued to her seat, intensely curious and frightened.
Kurt finished his sandwich and took a swig of his brew. Shelley noticed this only peripherally. To her, he seemed to not be there, almost like a phantom. Perseus held all of her attention.
"First of all, Methos is not the oldest Immortal. He's five thousand years old supposedly, but that isn't the world record. That distinction goes to a man named Viracocha, who was born in what would once be Peru, nearly seven thousand years ago.
"Viracocha was a warrior-king, a founder of the Incan society that flourished in Peru not too long ago. He was touched by the gods, as are we. Ever young, invincible in combat, wise beyond his years, he was a much loved and respected ruler. But, after a time, he grew bored with war and government. He sought solace in the mystic arts. Sorcery. Astronomy."
"As the years went by, and Viracocha's mystical knowledge grew, he began to actively seek for the source of his immortality. And, after two centuries of almost constant meditation and communion with the Astral Plane, he was rewarded with the knowledge he sought."
"Before I go any further, I should tell you, even when Viracocha lived the Game was in full swing. And he was well aware of what would happen if an Immortal killed another Immortal. Most painfully for the old king, his son -- almost certainly a student, though to this day Viracocha swears he was his biological son -- rose up against him in the early years of his reign. To protect his people, Viracocha slew his child and took his Quickening."
"Now, on the Astral Plane, Viracocha came face to face with our maker. And he understood." Perseus paused, and lit another cigarette.
Both Kurt and Shelley were rapt, taken up by the tale.
Perseus continued. "I won't tell you everything he learned. You aren't ready yet. But I will tell you this much: the Gathering is a lie. There is no Prize."
Shelley opened her mouth to object, but Perseus stopped her with a raised hand. "The point of the Gathering, as the stories go, is that 'the few who remain will battle to the last, to see who will gain the Prize.' How can there be few, and how can they battle to the last, when new Immortals continue to be made?"
Shelley's mouth dropped open. "If the Gathering were truly upon us, Shelley, you would not be. You would have died two years ago in Kenya. The same goes for the other yearlings -- Richie Ryan, Ahmal Ali, Lawrence Bendix, and dozens of others. All 'born' during the supposed Gathering. The Gathering is about an ending, Shelley. Not beginnings."
"What is the Prize? All the Quickening that ever existed, supposedly. Yet new sources of Quickening, new Immortals, continue to be made. How is that possible if the amount of Quickening is finite? Or contained? No, the Gathering is a lie, a myth perpetuated by generations of Immortals."
"Yet, strangely enough, the Gathering is important. Immortals have a hidden destiny, Shelley. Something Viracocha unearthed, all those millennia ago. The end of the world is coming, Shelley. But it won't be like the Judgment Day you're familiar with. It won't be like the Ragnarok of the Norse barbarians. Its going to be a lot messier than either of those.
"The Immortals are going to prevent it. But in order for us to do that, we need a lot of Quickening concentrated in a small area. Hence the Game, the myth about the Prize. Immortals need to take heads, need to grow strong. At the same time, our battle skills are honed so that only the best warriors will make it to the End."
Perseus breathed out smoke while Shelley struggled to comprehend everything she had just heard. "But that's... that's impossible. Quin never mentioned anything..."
"That's because Pierce never knew, Perseus said sharply. His voice softened. "Most of the old ones know, though. Methos. Mitra. Bran Mac Lyr. The Kurgan knew, though he was a prick about it. Darius was privy to the secret too, but the Hunters took his head." Perseus smiled weakly. "I just hope we won't notice the lack of Darius' strength when the End comes."
Shelley raised a shaky hand to her forehead. "I think I need a drink."
Perseus stood up. "I'll go get a bottle of scotch. Or vodka, maybe." He grinned around his cigarette. "We aren't done yet."
When he returned, he cradled a bottle of whiskey under one arm, and a carton of cigarettes in the other. He handed the bottle to Shelley, and took his seat. He lit a cigarette while Shelley measured out a healthy dose of amber liquid and tossed it down.
Two more followed in quick succession before she said, "Okay. Drop the other shoe."
Perseus sucked on a cigarette and gestured at Kurt. Kurt sat back in his chair and began to talk.
"First, you need to understand just how widespread and hidden the presence of the supernatural is. You know about Immortals, and the Gathering. You're aware of a secret culture that has existed side by side with humanity for untold ages. Now, know this: the Immortals are only the third of the races of Earth. The third out of nine.
"The races are counted like this: the first are baseline humans; mortals. The second are the Lycanthropes, the Were. Then you Immortals. The Nightspawn, Vampires, the Faerie. The Gargoyles, and then the Kherubim, who are variously known as Demons and Angels. And, finally, the Wraiths. Some would hesitate to call the Wraiths a true race, but we will for the purposes of this discussion.
"The mortals you are familiar with. After all, you lived as one for over twenty years. But what you do not know is that thousands of mortals know about us. They are organized into 'secret' societies. Some view us supernaturals as evils to be fought. Others wish to curry our favor, and entice us into alliances. And then there are those who simply observe. Of the three types, the best examples are the Order of Fafnir, an offshoot of the Knights Templar, the Illuminati, whom you may have heard of, and the Talamasca, respectively."
Perseus interrupted. "The Watchers are a subgroup of the Talamasca. They observe only Immortals." Kurt gave him a puzzled look, but Shelley understood.
"May I continue?" Kurt asked contritely.
Perseus smiled. "Please do."
"The second race is the Lycanthropes. You would probably better know them as werewolves, but wolves are not the only strain of lycanthropy. Bears, tigers, jaguars, and panthers are all common, as are other large predators. Werewolves happen to be the most common."
"Lycanthropes are one of the oldest races, and very close to humans in the scheme of things. They are mortal, yet possess a link to the natural world lacking even in human hunter-gatherer societies. For centuries, the Lycanthropes protected the Green. But the explosion of technology during the Industrial Revolution and their small numbers have hindered their efforts.
"You know about the Immortals, called the Ageless by some.
"The Nightspawn are a curious species. Like the Were, they can change shape. But like the Immortals, Nightspawn are extremely long lived. They possess two forms: a human form, called the Facade, and a Morphus form. The Morphus is believed to be a reflection of the Nightspawn's soul or inner being, and can be very beautiful or very terrible to behold. Sometimes both. Like snowflakes, no two Morphus are ever the same.
"You are no doubt familiar with the Blood, the Vampires. The Vampires are undead, yet still linked to humanity. They drink blood to survive, culling the human herd like a natural predator. Very old Vampires can possess inestimable might. Young ones are powerful too, though not as powerful as legends would have you believe. A Vampire fears only two things: fire and the sun. Only those can destroy a Vampire; wood, silver, and crosses have no effect."
"The Faerie, too, may be familiar. No doubt you have heard of elves, leprechauns, and the like. But again, legends can be deceiving. The Sidhe are not cobblers, nor do they keep pots of gold at the end of rainbows. They are, however, powerful in the ways of magik, and they dislike humanity and iron. It was humans armed with iron who drive the Sidhe into the barrows, into hiding. The Faerie are scarce, and few alive have ever seen them."
Kurt took a sip from his mug to wet his throat. "The Gargoyles are a peculiar case. They were created by a band of mages during the Dark Ages, who bound the essences of demons to stone. The experiment worked so well that the creatures were able to breed and the race expanded. The Gargoyles were freed from slavery by the Immortal Mitra and the Nightspawn known as Fafnir and the Revenant."
"Gargoyles are few. During daylight hours, the exist in suspended animation as stone statues. But come night, the awaken and protect their chosen homes with tooth and claw. There isn't a quiz or anything, but you should know there are twelve Gargoyle tribes: the Askanii, the Belforin, the Dragora, the Gorgotha, the Humari, the Kalekal, the Maelstrom, the Muktresk, the Polanni, the Quorek, the Ruritain and the Xotan." Kurt sipped from his beer again. Shelley downed another shot."
"And then there are the Kherubim. Called Angels and Demons, they have been locked in a bitter war for ages untold. Though they seem human enough, they are completely alien, and inscrutable."
"Lastly are the Wraiths. Wraiths are mortals who die, yet are compelled to return to life, having unfinished business left on the mortal plane. Commonly, though not always, the Wraith identifies with some kind of animal, usually a psychopomp of some kind."
"Psychopomp?" Shelley asked, her mind awhirl with concepts and images.
Kurt smiled. "A psychopomp is a guide to the realm of the dead. Most cultures see birds, particularly ravens or crows, as psychopomps, but others include cats or even snakes."
"Those are the nine races, in brief." He smiled. "Extremely brief. But I think you have the general idea. These beings have been affecting human history at least as long as humans have been around. Some of them are unbelievably powerful. Some are extraordinarily weak."
"I won't even get into mages, alchemists, golems, or anything else. They just blur the picture. But I'm around, and so is Perseus, if you have any questions."
Shelley shook her head. "I have nothing but questions," she said.
Kurt smiled. Perseus lit a cigarette.
"Ask away," the Immortal said.
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